She's Up to No Good(60)

“You know how I was just trying to ask about you? Let’s go back to that.”

He shrugged. “I’m the boring one, I guess. I work. I go running. I read a lot.”

“No one that artistic is boring.” He looked at me like he was trying to figure out what I meant. “I couldn’t have gotten a picture like you did today. Or even the iPhone ones you took of me. I wish I could see the world the way you do.”

“It’s easier through a lens sometimes.”

Maybe I was feeling the drink—it was almost gone, and other than my grandmother’s concoctions the night before, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had more than a small glass of wine. But that statement sounded so incredibly profound. And wasn’t that how I was living before everything fell apart? Posting everything through a filter on Instagram to make my life look perfect when it wasn’t?

“That’s . . . deep.”

“I didn’t mean it to be, but I guess it is.” The waitress passed by, and he gestured for two more drinks.

“I shouldn’t.”

“I can walk you home. You can pick up your car in the morning.”

“It’s my grandmother’s car.”

“Explains the dents.”

I laughed. “You don’t know the half of it.”

He leaned in conspiratorially. “Should we check the glove compartment for prophylactics?”

I cracked up and he did too. “Oh man—if she had them, I’d die.”

We were still laughing when the waitress brought the drinks. I sipped mine, then returned to what he had said earlier. “Wait, did you walk here? Isn’t that far?”

“A little over a mile and a half along the beach. Not a bad walk.”

“After that hike today?”

“If we hadn’t Ubered back, maybe I would have driven.”

I looked toward the beach, the idea of walking back across it with him in the cool evening air dancing through my mind intoxicatingly. The moonlight reflected on the waves, except where a sandbar had appeared, leading toward the island offshore.

“Can you walk out there?” I asked, gesturing to the protruding land mass, trying to take my mind off what lay at the end of that imagined journey across the beach.

Joe turned and studied the sandbar briefly. “You can. You have to watch the tides carefully though. If you time it right, you can get about three hours out there. If you don’t . . . Well, you’re out there for twelve.”

“Does that happen?”

“Your mother never told you that story?” I shook my head. “She and my mother got stuck there once. Your grandmother and Tony rescued them.”

I wanted to know more. But I also didn’t. If Tony helped rescue my mom . . . Well, he and my grandmother were clearly still on extremely friendly terms when my grandfather was home working. And after the amount of detail my grandmother had used in describing their relationship, right down to the prophylactics—I didn’t see how you could go from that madly in love with someone to strictly platonic friends.

“What’s out there?”

He grinned, then checked his watch. “Do you want to see? If we left at about ten thirty tomorrow morning, we’d have time to explore.”

“Is it worth it?”

I wanted to go before he answered. The slow smile he gave me made me want to down the rest of my drink and tell him to take me home—and not to the cottage where my grandmother waited. “Yeah. It’s worth it.”

“Okay, then.” I smiled back flirtatiously. It was surreal. Who was I? Not the Jenna who had spent six months in her childhood bedroom, too afraid to resume her life. I thought about the picture of me in Greece that he had liked on Instagram—I felt like that girl again. Carefree and desirable and . . . well . . . not the kind of person you’d leave for someone else, that was for sure.

I remembered the feel of his hands positioning me on the wall that morning. The breathless wonder of what would happen with my eyes closed. And, feeling brave, I pulled my phone out of my pocket, unlocked it, and slid it across the table to him. “Take my picture again.”

He studied me for a moment, then picked up the phone, rose, and walked around the table. “Put your arm on the railing,” he directed. I did as he said. “No, like your elbow. I want you to lean the side of your forehead slightly on just your index finger.” When I didn’t get it right—admittedly, a little deliberately—he took my hand and positioned it for me, then touched my cheek to angle it just right. “There. Now cross your legs toward the railing.” I debated letting him do that too, but the direction was unmistakable. He took a few steps back and looked at me again, this time through the camera’s screen, adjusting the image with two fingers. “Good,” he said, more to himself than me. “Now smile.” I smiled. “No. The way you smiled at me before. When I said seeing the island was worth it.”

“I was smiling back at you then.” The same sultry grin spread across his face, and I reflexively returned the look. He snapped it and then handed the phone back to me, our hands touching as he did.

I looked down to see what he’d gotten, and I felt goose bumps rising along my arms. There was something so intimate in the picture. It was posed, but it looked like he had captured a spontaneous moment of flirtation.