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“Way to make an entrance, Castle. Yeah, it stinks, my boy being all blue-collar.” Spence sounds completely sincere, oblivious to the irony of complaining about the evils of having a summer job to a person who obviously also has one. “I’d never do that. Weeding, mowing. Lousy way to spend three short golden months of no school. I’d tell the old man to shove it. But you know our Cass. He does what he’s told.”
Yeah, especially by you.
“He’s not ‘our’ Cass.” I look around the room. Nasty. Avocado-green appliances, heinous bright yellow walls, faux cherry-wood cabinets with the veneer peeling back to reveal the sticky plywood underneath, fake brick linoleum that’s cracking and curling up at all the corners. Seashell has its te
“As you wish, princess. Popcorn? I’m starving, and Sundance has nothing else to offer us.” He clangs open the microwave door, shoves the bag in, slams it shut. “This job is sucking the life out of him. Worse than damn school. Personally, I’ve got no intention of doing anything worthwhile this season. I’ve spent the past two at Middlebury language school or Choate te
I toy with the idea of making a cutting remark about his lack of ambition, but, honestly, that all sounds nice if you can swing it. Except the fat part. Which I can probably manage on my own.
“I’ve rarely been tan,” Spence continues over the whirring cycle of the microwave. “Hardly ever lazy. Never fat.” He pulls the bag out, sucks his fingers, cursing under his breath.
“You forgot happy.”
He shrugs, a dark look crossing his face.
Fabio is still entranced by the couch, which has a big pile of laundry tumbled on it. Many pink items. It occurs to me that this is the first time Spence and me have been alone since that party.
I need something to do with my hands, so I pick up a T-shirt and fold it, then another, match up a pair of socks, roll them into a ball.
I hear this exhalation of breath, like a snort, from Spence and look up to find him watching me. “How domestic. What a nice little wife you’ll make.”
I drop the second pair of socks. What am I doing, morphing into Mom? I flush, but when I check Spence’s face again, he’s just smiling at me, extending the bag of popcorn.
“Something cool to go with?” he offers. “A six of Heineken was my housewarming gift for Cass. You’re fun when you’re loaded.”
“The swim team tradition, yeah, I know, Spence,” I say. “Like you’ve said.”
“I apologized for that, Castle. Just being a dick. What I do best. Well, second best.” He waggles his eyebrows at me.
I resist the urge to stick out my tongue at him, settling for shaking my head.
“How’s your brother?”
That he would ask, which seems unlike him and also implies that Cass talked about Emory, throws me.
“He’s fine,” I say shortly. “That’s why I’m here. I want to take Cass up on his offer to teach him to swim. So you can just . . . pass that on, and I’ll get going and—”
“Cass nearly drowned when he was six,” Spence says. “Rip tide at the beach. We were there with my dad, who was . . . But whatever, I got the lifeguard and saved him.” He looks at his watch. “Hell, it’s nearly seven now and I’ve got to be at the club at eight. I’m go
He heads toward the closed door. I hurry after him. “No, don’t. I’ll come back.”
But Spence keeps going and I follow him right into the bedroom. Which is painted the same eyesore green-yellow as the main room, but has walls covered with hand-drawn maps, signed in a clear, careful hand: CRS.
Cass is lying on his stomach, arms wrapped around his pillow like he’s hugging someone close. His hair’s all rumpled and his mouth a little open. The sheet comes to his waist, his back is bare, and I hope to God he is wearing some pink boxers under there. I start backing to the door, just as Fabio charges into the room and lands on the bed, and Cass’s butt, with the kind of flying leap he hasn’t been able to manage at home for about four years.
Spence bursts out laughing and Cass jerks his head up, big-eyed. Then he sees me, and Spence, and they widen even more.
It is also the first time the three of us have been in any close proximity since that party.
“What’s going on?”
“Dude, definitely your color.” Spence points to the pillowcase, which is also pink.
“What’s going on?” Cass repeats, looking back and forth between us. He pulls the sheet more tightly around himself and there are no creases or folds and I don’t think there is anything under there besides Cass. Fabio licks his shoulder, that embarrassingly intent dog-licking thing.
“Nothing. I was just leaving.” I grab the end of the leash and pull, but Fabio plants his legs more firmly and slobbers on the back of Cass’s neck. Spence laughs, goes over, and gives my treacherous dog a gentle shove onto the floor.
“No need to rush outta here,” he says. “Chill, Castle. We could probably all use a beer. I know I’m getting one.”
He heads out of the room, leaving me alone with a probably naked Cass and Fabio, who chooses this moment to mark his territory.
On the bottom of the bedpost.
Like it’s a fire hydrant.
Or a lamppost. Outdoors. Far away. Where I wish I was.
I cover my eyes, groan, hear the sheet rustle and Cass say, “What the—oh!”
“I’ll get a sponge. Take care of that. No problem. He just likes to pee on things he finds, um, interesting. It’s a bad habit—he’s old and he has no ma
Cass’s laughter drowns out the last few words of my sentence.
“Don’t,” he says, after a moment. “A corpse on my floor would be way worse than this.”
My fingers are still shielding my face. “I’m sorry my dog has no . . . self-control,” I repeat.
“Well, it would be bad form if I did that. But it’s pretty normal for a dog,” Cass says. “You ever go
“I’ll have to if I’m going to clean that up.” I turn away, pulling at Fabio, who mercifully yields and follows me as I bump into the doorjamb, then pull the door shut behind me.
“Here,” Spence says, trying to hand me a beer.
“Last thing I need.” I push the frosted bottle away and look around for paper towels. But there are none, because Cass is seventeen and Nic would never think to buy any either. No dishtowels, of course not. What now? In one of Mom’s (or Mrs. E.’s) novels, the heroine would daintily raise her skirt and tear off a bit of her petticoat. But this would never happen to one of Mom’s heroines because this is the sort of thing that only happens to me.
Spence scratches his head, takes a pull of beer. “Aren’t you all supposed to be the wild island kids? Doesn’t anybody get hammered around here? Ol’ Nic Cruz is like a Boy Scout or something. And your friend Vivien—I’ve never even seen her at a party.”
“She and Nic pretty much like their parties private,” I say. “It’s not as if you and Cass are draining the kegs all the time either.”
In the end, I settle for toilet paper, knock firmly on the bedroom door. Spence, apparently losing interest in the whole drama, turns on some basketball on the small TV.
“C’mon in.”
Cass has his back to me, pulling on well-worn jeans, buttoning the fly. How well they hug should be the last thing on my mind right about now. And yet. God.
I mop up and then keep scrubbing the nearly dry floor because I am now so embarrassed I don’t know what to say. He’s also quiet and I can’t see his face and that makes me even more nervous, so I do that thing I do and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.