What I Thought Was True

His lips compressed and he flicked his gaze up to the ceiling, as if he could see Spence’s room from here. But all he said was: “Sure. We can save Jim here from himself on the way.”

Boys never need any time to get going. It’s Mom who has to hunt for her purse and then make sure she has her car keys and her freezer pack stocked with diet soda. It’s Vivie who has to run back for one last swipe of lip gloss, redo her hair, mirror check. Cass just pulled car keys out of his pocket, jingling them in his palm, grabbed his parka, Jimmy took a slug of water, and we were good to go.

I trailed after them to Cass’s car, which turned out to be a red BMW. Ancient, though—that boxy square shape of old cars—and the paint had lost its sheen and faded to Campbell’s tomato soup orange-red. Jimmy, groaning, forced himself into the backseat, even though I argued with him.

“No. No. Gwen Castle. I’m a gentleman. Please tell Alexis Kincaid the next time you see her. C’mon Cass, just one little drive by? What’s the harm in that?”

“It’s called stalking.” The back of Cass’s hand brushed by my bare calf as he shifted the car into reverse. And, God help me, I felt a tingle. A freaking shiver even though I was even now in the process of the walk—or drive—of shame. My second in the last month. After two separate guys. What in the name of God was wrong with me?

“It’s called love,” Jimmy argued.

“No way, Jimbo. He’s like a dog with a bone with this when he’s had a few,” Cass said to me, under his breath. “Totally normal under most circumstances.”

Cass’s profile faced forward, not the slightest bit bent in my direction, straight nose, strong chin, his hair silver-frosted by the moonlight and flashing bright in the reflection of the headlights. I curled my legs under myself, shifted uncomfortably on the seat, stared at the strip of duct tape on his coat, wondered why he didn’t just buy a new coat. Mom, Nic, Dad, Grandpa, me . . . we had to push things beyond their life spans, rejigger them to get as much wear as possible. But not the Hill guys. They could just use and toss, replace. Right? We got to Main Street, circled the roundabout, headed down the most historic part of town, past all the houses, orderly and tucked in upright little rows and clean-looking. All those houses that looked like they were full of careful tidy people who always made good choices. That coil of shame sharpened, tu

Cass pulled into a circular driveway and Jimmy started to climb out, mumbling, “I’m already regretting everything I did and most of what I said tonight. Do you maybe have amnesia sometimes, Gwen? Could you have amnesia about this? If I ask nicely?”

“I will if you will, Jim,” I said. In the light of the open door I saw Cass flash me a quick glance, frowning, but Jimmy didn’t look back, wedging himself out of the car.

The door crashed behind him and suddenly the air in the car seemed to evaporate, suffocated out the window. Gone. Cass felt too close, the whole space too crowded, like I couldn’t move my arm without nudging against his, or shift my leg without it sweeping past his, or have a thought without it being about him. But his profile was remote and distant, eyes on the road, hands set on the steering wheel, responsibly at ten and two. Then he pulled one off, fisted it, let it go. Clench. Unclench.

Silence settled around us like a hot wet blanket. But what was I supposed to say?

“Full moon on the water. Make a wish,” I muttered finally, just to say something. Mom always said that, pointing out the pretty. Suddenly I so much wanted my mom to put her arms around me and fix everything, the way she could when I was five.

“What?”

“Full moon on the water. Make a wish.”

He shook his head slightly, shrugged, jaw tight. I swallowed, pulled the hem of my dress down farther over my thighs. Then we were crunching up on the crushed clamshells of my driveway. The Castle Estate, I thought grimly.

He shifted into park, took a deep breath as if he was going to speak . . . I waited.

“Welcome home,” he said finally.

Silence. I wiped one of my eyes, rubbed my finger dry on my dress, leaving a black smudge against the scarlet fabric.

Cass reached over, flipped open the glove compartment, handed me a stack of rough brown napkins from Dunkin’ Donuts. Home away from home for the swim team with their early meets. Of course he would keep them neatly piled in the glove compartment, not shoved in haphazard, the way Nic or I would do in the Bronco. He put his hands back on the wheel, rubbed his thumbs back and forth on it, staring at them as if they were moving independently. “Are you okay? Did anything . . . bad happen to you?”

Nothing I didn’t bring on myself, I thought. Then I realized he was asking if I was . . . forced or something. I shook my head. “There was none of that. Nothing but my usual gift for doing stupid things with the wrong people.” I wiped my eyes, shoved a brown napkin into my coat pocket.

Cass winced. “Point taken. If you’re going to do stupid things, Spence is a great choice. You had to know that.”

“He’s your friend.”

“Well, yeah. Because I don’t have to date him.”

“This was not exactly a date.”

“Yeah, what was this? Another little kick in the heart?”

“What do you care about my heart, Cass?”

He opened his mouth, shut it again. Folded his arms and stared stonily out the window. Rigid. Faintly judgmental. Which brought a pull of anger out of my coil of shame. What right did he have, anyway?

“Big deal, anyway, Cass. It was just sex.” I snapped my fingers. “You’re certainly familiar with that concept. Thanks for bringing me home.” I searched around for the car handle and pushed it open, but before I knew it, Cass was standing outside it, reaching out his hand for me.

“What are you doing?”

He looked at me as though I was either crazy or not very bright. “Walking you to the door.”

“You don’t have to do that. I’m . . . really not the kind of girl who gets walked to the door.”

“Jesus Christ, Gwen!” he said, then shook his head and pulled on my hand. “Just let me get you safely in.”

“I can make it from here.”

“I’m walking you to the door,” he told me, leading me up the worn wooden steps. “Not taking the chance that you’re going to go throw yourself off the pier or something. Because, forgive me for noticing, you seem a little impulsive tonight.”

“That’s one word for it.”

“Gwen . . . I . . . Would you . . . I mean . . .” He stopped on our doormat, beside Nic’s sneakers and one discarded rubber fishing boot of Grandpa Ben’s, apparently ru

I waited, but after a second he just said, “Never mind. The hell with it.”

And turned, crunching back across the clamshells to the car.

Did I use Spence? Did he use me? I don’t know. In the end, did it even matter? We’d just been bodies. Arms, legs, faces, breath. Just sex. No big deal.

Still.

Explaining that night was never going to be easy. Not then, to Cass. Not tonight, to Nic. Not ever, to myself.

Chapter Sixteen

Cass is apparently fighting with a bush when I pass him the next day on my way home. He’s got hedge clippers and is whacking away, making a big dent in the side of one of Mrs. Cole’s arborvitaes. It’s completely lopsided now. As I watch, he stops, takes a few steps back, then starts making a dent on the other side. The bush, which used to resemble an O, now looks like the number 8. After a few more unfortunate trims it looks like a B.

I can’t help it. I stop, cup my hands around my mouth, and call, “You should quit while you’re ahead—it’s only getting worse.”