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The Bronco.
The boys and their knowing laughter.
The guilt in Cass’s eyes.
Jim Oberman, freshman year, dragging me against the locker to make his girlfriend jealous. Alex, just wanting to score an island girl. Spence. Just sex. Am I never going to be anything more than somebody’s strategy, a destination marked off on a road map and then passed through for someplace better?
“You pla
Cass sets down the bread, steeples his hands, and looks up at the skylight as though praying for patience. “Partly. Like I said. Not everything, because nothing ever goes quite the way you mean it to. Not for me, anyway. I wanted to take you out on the water. We both . . . relax there. By ourselves. So yeah, I pla
“And having towels all ready in the boathouse?”
His tone is getting rougher now. “Beach towels. I thought we might go for a swim, after the kayak. Then have something to eat. On the beach. I didn’t plan the storm, Gwen. Didn’t look at the weather. And they’re towels, not a sleeping bag and a jumbo box of condoms.” His voice, which has risen, actually cracks. “That’s not what this is about.”
“Not at all?” I ask. Great. Now I sound disappointed.
The storm seems to be moving away, so no lightning to display his face. “Gwen. I’d be lying if I said that. And I’m not going to lie to you. Ever. But if I don’t, are you going to kill me, freeze me out again? Or get up, walk out, leave us back where we were all spring? What’s it take with you?”
“With me? I’m not the one who flips hot and cold constantly!”
“You’re not, huh?” Cass says, getting to his feet. “From where I’m standing, that’s exactly what you do. I never know which Gwen I’m going to get. The one who acts like I’m something she stepped in or the one who—”
“Unzips your pants?” I ask.
He smacks his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Right. Because I couldn’t possibly want anything more than to get some.”
I stand. “It’s just a setup, Cass,” I say. “Like in March. A means to an end. That’s what I am, what—what this is.”
Fast reflexes. Before I know what’s happening, Cass bends over, grabs the bag, and throws it against the wall. Splintering crash, bottles breaking, soda foaming. I take a step back. He jams his hands into the pockets of his suit, turns away from me. “Fine, Gwen. Gotcha. And you’ve got me figured out. Clue me in on this, then. Why do I bother with you? Why not just ram my head against a brick wall? It would be easier and less painful. Why are you so freaking—burned, that, that nothing I do counts! I’m not fucking Alex Robinson. I’m not that asshole senior with the psycho girlfriend Vivien told me about. I’m not . . . I’m not Spence. Can you get that? Like, ever? How come it’s so clear to you when some made-up fictional characters are massively stupid and you can’t see it at all when it’s you and me?”
“Because you never tell me the truth! It’s all charm, and la-la-la, and I’m Cass, I’ll boil your lobsters, and I’ll charm your pants off, but it’s not what’s true.”
He takes a long, deep breath, pushing the heel of his hand against his forehead, as though taking his own temperature. “You seriously need to get past those lobsters,” he says, finally.
The storm is passing, darkness outside graying lighter, so I can see him slide his hand slowly down, cover his eyes, see the small shake of his head. He stands like that for a long time. When he drops his hand and opens his eyes, he keeps his head down.
“Gwen. I don’t lie. I’m not a liar. I’m not a—a user or whatever you think. I’m me. And I thought you finally cared who that was. I thought that was what this summer was starting to be about.” He raises his head.
“I don’t know what this summer is about,” I admit.
“Well, I do,” he says, the slightest edge of bitterness in his voice. Then he turns fully to me, looks directly at me.
No, not bitterness. Hurt.
And I can practically see every weapon, any defenses he’s had up, the distant look, the rich-boy poise, the shielding charm, slip from him, hear them all clatter to the floor.
He hangs his hands at his sides, lifts his eyes to mine again, and lets me read everything in his.
Hurt.
Honesty.
Hope.
The realization is quick, sharp, and shattering like that bag striking the wall.
I’m not the only one who can get hurt here.
Who was hurt here.
I can’t fathom his face in the dark. But right now, in this moment, I don’t need lightning to see.
He was right. I should come with a YouTube instructional video. Or a complete boxed set. How the hell can I expect him to figure me out when I don’t even get myself? And worse, I’m a total hypocrite—hurt and angry that he’d think about having sex with me, when I’ve gone there so many times in my own mind. I still don’t understand what happened after the Bronco that night. Or even in it. No. But maybe . . . maybe there is an explanation, other than the one I’ve been so sure was the only truth.
Because nothing about Cass is, or ever has been, “no big deal.”
It’s very still. The rain has passed far into the distance, the high winds quieted down. Nothing to drown out my thoughts or the words I might say. Have to say.
“Guess we should go,” Cass says, his voice remote again, as if he has decided this is just impossible.
I bend down, retrieve the rumpled bag full of broken glass, oozing root beer from a jagged tear in the soggy bottom. Wrap it up in a beach towel. Pick up the picnic pieces, cheese, bread, strawberries. Gather it all together. The cleaning woman’s daughter.
But not only that.
“Cass.” I swallow. “I—I can get past the lobsters.”
“That’s a start,” he says, his voice cool.
“C-can I walk you home?” I ask. “So you don’t have to turn the key in the lock?”
A long silence. “Is that the only reason?” he asks finally.
I take a deep breath. Another deep breath.
“Maybe not,” I say at last, “the only one.”
In the low tide, the waves are lapping lazily far down the beach. The only lingering signs of the storm are dimples in the sand from the pelting rain, and huge piles of kelp and rocks and boat shells littering the beach.
“Heavy lifting to come for the yard boy,” I say, scrambling for casual.
Cass tips his head in acknowledgment.
I trip on something and nearly fall and he reaches out a hand to catch me, then lets it drop before he can touch me.
Slowly, infinitesimally, as though if I moved quickly I might scare him off, I reach out for his hand, tangle mine in it, fingers slipping between fingers, then hand locking on hand.
Silence while I try to find what to say.
But then:
“Thank you,” Cass says simply. The way he did that night in the Bronco.
Good ma
Then, as if he knows what I’m thinking, is reinforcing it, he moves close enough to me that I can feel his heat, warm skin. He tightens his hand on mine. But still, the walk uphill is long and silent.
When we reach the top, I turn to face him
“If . . . if . . . it wasn’t about a jumbo pack of condoms. Or thinking I was easy. What was it, then?”
“We’re going to talk now? Finally.”
“Finally?” I breathe.
“Yes. We’re not having this discussion in the middle of the street, though. Come on.” He tows me toward the dark hulk looming against the stars, the Field House. I hurry up the worn wooden steps, follow him into the hideous, haggy, yellow-walled apartment. Which seems all too exposed and open without any buffer between us. No party with roomfuls of people. No open Seashell road with a dozen possible witnesses. No Fabio. No Spence. Nothing but air and us.