What I Thought Was True

“Flesh wound,” Spence tells her. And he smiles at her in a way I’ve never seen Spence smile at anyone. “Don’t. God, Viv. Don’t cry. Please. You know that kills me.”

Hooper and I are gaping at them, as is pretty much everyone else.

“Yeah,” Nic says. “This is just . . . Just . . . well . . . fuck this.” He turns around, scrubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, starts to walk away.

“Holy shit,” Hoop says.

“Go after him, Gwen,” calls Vivien, still wiping away blood. She’s crying. For Nic? For Spence? Not knowing which makes me flash white-hot furious.

“Me? What about you? And you, Spence? What was that? It’s not enough to take his captain shot, you had to go for his girlfriend too?”

“This isn’t like that, Gwen,” Cass says. Spence just stares at the ground.

“This? There’s a this? And you knew? When were you going to tell me? Ever? What happened to ‘I’m not going to lie to you, Gwen’?”

He’s ruffling his hand through his hair with that same expression he had the night after the Bronco.

Guilt.

Viv’s still crying. Spence is wiping away the blood still ru

And I can’t stop my mouth. “So what did you two do to get this?” I ask.

“What did we do?” Cass asks, low and furious. “We swam. I deserve this. Spence does. This has nothing to do with money. It’s about teamwork. And you know it. Maybe Nic used to be able to do that. But he can’t anymore. I don’t know why, but you know it’s true. He’s a cheater.”

“Nice, Cass. You’ve taken this away from him. And now you take his integrity too? Classy.”

“I didn’t take anything, Gwen.”

I back up, move away from all this, everything, everyone.

“I didn’t take anything,” he repeats, turning away.

I scramble up to the parking lot. But there is no longer any sign of Nic.

“Come fly, come fly come fly with me,” sings Frank Sinatra loudly, in his seductively snappy alto. Emory is swaying to the beat, doing his version of finger snapping, which involves flicking his pointer fingers against his thumbs. He’s got the happy head-bobbing down, though. Grandpa Ben is cooking di

Grandpa Ben shrugs.

“He didn’t come back here? Where the hell did he go? Where’s Mom?”

Ben clucks his tongue. “Language, Guinevere. He was not here when I got back from the farmer’s market. Your mother, she is on a date.”

A what?

Nic’s pulled a disappearing act. Viv’s consoling Spence. Cass knew. And I blew him off, even when I . . . I . . . And Mom’s on a date. Whose life is this???

Grandpa shrugs again, points to the note scrawled on the dry-erase board on the fridge. “Papi. On a walk around the island with a friend. If you see Nic, talk to him.”

“If you see him, keep him here,” I say. “I’m going to look for him.”

I grab Mom’s car keys, clatter down the stairs, and am throwing the Bronco into reverse before it occurs to me to wonder how Grandpa Ben managed to translate a “walk around the island with a friend” into a date.

Chapter Thirty-six

They’re walking side by side. Not holding hands or anything. But side by side is startling enough. Mom with any man but one on the cover of a book is a jolt. I jerk the truck to a halt. “Mom. Coach? Where’s Nic? Have you seen him?”

Mom’s frowning, worried. Coach’s face looks, if possible, even ruddier than usual. He’s out of his element, no whistle, wearing a baggy yellow windbreaker that somehow looks sadder, so much less official than his SBH jacket.

“We were hoping with you. He was headed to that bonfire,” Mom says. “Wouldn’t talk to me. He was wicked upset.”

Wicked. Dad’s word.

“I’ll say,” I snap, trying not to glare at Coach. Who’s just doing his job and not actually responsible for this whole mess.

“Look, Gwen,” Coach says, weary but resolute. “Inches from wi

“I should have insisted he talk to me,” Mom says. “I tried calling after he left, but I just got that damn voicemail. He never recharges his phone.” She pulls out her own, punches in a number, shakes her head. “Stupid voicemail again.” The creases in her forehead deepen. “Get Vivien,” she tells me. “She’ll know where he is.”

He’s not at Abenaki. I strain my eyes, looking way out beyond the pier, but there’s nothing in the water but a flock of seagulls, and a lone kayaker way far out. The bridge by the Green Woods is still and deserted. Standing there, I feel a pang. What used to be Nic’s and my place, years of memories, feels as if it belongs to me and Cass now. That thought leaves me feeling strangely disloyal. How did I not know about Viv? I’m so off balance, the way you are when you step off a rocking boat onto land, not sure how to find your footing.

I drive back to Sandy Claw, but the logs from the bonfire are just embers now, and no one’s still hanging around. Nobody at Plover Point, not even the plovers, who have raised their eggs and moved on. I pull into Hoop’s driveway to find him sitting on the steps smoking.

“Not here?”

“Nope.” Hoop drops the cigarette, grinds it out with the heel of his flip-flop. “I was hoping you were him when I saw the Bronc. Not answering texts either. Du

I shake my head, tell him to text me if Nic shows. He nods, lighting another cigarette, popping open another beer. As I drive away, I see him in the rearview, rumpled shirt, shoulders slumped. Will he still be sitting on those same steps, doing those same things, twenty years from now?

I find myself driving to Castle’s.

It’s ten thirty, a slow night, and it’s shutting down. All the other workers have long since gone home. There’s only Dad, tossing water on the grill, scraping off the last particles of grease and onions. Pulling out Saran Wrap to cover the tubs of ice cream in the freezer so they won’t get freezer burn before he jams the lips on. Chopping onions and peppers for tomorrow’s hash browns, knife flashing so fast it’s a blur. Those jobs are so familiar. I’ve done them all. Dad’s concentrating, never looks up to see me watching him.

This is the last place Nic would ever go.

I’m not even sure why I came. That “fix it, Dad” feeling? I can practically hear Cass saying, “You get pissed off when I rescue you.” I swallow the lump in my throat.

We were doing so well there for a second.

I drive back toward Seashell, hitting the gates just as Cass’s BMW roars up the other direction on Ocean Road, a little too fast over the speed bumps.

We both slow to a stop, our headlights picking out individual blades of grass on well-mown, carefully tended lawns on either side of the street, their brilliance turning the green into gray and white.

The passenger-side door of Cass’s car opens, and Viv climbs out, crossing over to me.

“You go

“You go

She walks around the front of the Bronco, opens the passenger-side door and slides in.

I expect Cass to zoom away immediately, but he doesn’t, idling the BMW by the side of the road, waiting . . . for what? Me to get out and talk to him? What am I supposed to say?

I stay where I am, and after a few seconds, he pulls forward and leaves us in the quiet of the night.