The Lies They Tell(12)

Her thumb was still poised over the screen when a light went on by the base of the cliff. A flickering, unreliable light, like a bulb not fully screwed into a socket. It was far enough away from the party that she stared. A doorway was visible, seemingly in the middle of nothingness, the glow spilling onto the beach.

Pearl continued down the path, then took a fork in the direction of the light. It was a stone boathouse, big enough to accommodate a large sailboat, the floor stained with rust. Someone stood inside, casting a long shadow as he circled beneath the bulb.

Tristan Garrison. Exploring, reaching up to trace his fingers over an ancient, cracked buoy slung over a hook. He held that position, arm outstretched, then sank into a crouch, fanning his hand through the debris scattered across the floor, crushed shells and sand. Pearl stood motionless, not daring to draw breath. Nothing on the floor was of interest, so he folded his arms across his knees and lowered his chin onto them, rocking back on his heels. She’d never seen him look that way, pulled into himself. Backing away, she slipped off her flip-flops and escaped on bare, silent feet.

When she got back, she found Bridges and Akil sitting around a fire pit. Bridges got to his feet as she came up, brushing sand off his shorts. “Did you get lost?”

“No.” Sitting, she hugged her knees, willing her heartbeat to slow down.

Bridges sat beside her, holding her token beer. “Want me to open this for you?” She let him have his moment with the twist-off. As he handed her the bottle, his expression changed. She followed his gaze to Tristan emerging from the boathouse. Bridges said, “I thought he wasn’t coming.”

For once, Akil didn’t have an answer.

By the time Tristan reached them, many of the partyers had faded back, found other places to be, other people to turn to. His separateness was a physical force; even Pearl had to fight down the need to make room. He stood looking at the fire, his hands in the pockets of his shorts. In the charged silence, Akil leaned forward. “S’up, man. Want a beer?”

“How’d you get here?” Bridges said. “Where’s your boat?”

“On the other side of the cliff.” Same tone as in the dining room, low, distracted.

“You walked through the woods?”

Tristan sank down, removed the screen from the fire pit so he could use the poker to hook out a piece of flaming kindling. Pearl got the feeling he was in the habit of letting people believe he could see in the dark. “Do you have any Grey Goose?”

“I told you, my gramps won’t pony up for hard stuff.”

A slight lift of his brows as he turned the kindling over, then dropped it, wiping his hands and straightening. “I’m going for a ride.”

Bridges and Akil both rose. Pearl stood behind them, feeling as though she’d missed a cue. Tristan didn’t seem aware of her; he led the way down the beach, never glancing back to make sure they were keeping up. She watched Bridges, waiting for him to say something, like maybe explain why he was willing to desert his own party at the first word from Tristan.

They followed the path that led past the boathouse up into the trees. The blackness was total here, towering spruce and balsams blotting out the moonlight. A moment later, a glowing square appeared: Tristan’s phone, lighting the way.

They emerged on a steep ridge that switchbacked down to the water. The path was precarious, but not nearly as tricky as getting aboard Tristan’s boat was going to be. Pearl couldn’t see it, could only hear water lapping against the hull. No one spoke.

The ledge provided barely enough room for them to stand as Tristan unknotted a line tied around a tree trunk. He tugged, and finally the shape of the boat was discernible against the night, drifting closer. He made it all look easy, bracing his palms flat on the deck and boosting himself into the aft entry, going up the starboard walkway to the helm, where he started the motor, the running lights bursting on. The gauntlet had been thrown. Follow the leader, if you can.

Akil leaped first, then Bridges. His sandals slipped on the wet stern. Pearl’s shoulders jumped involuntarily, but he pulled himself into the walkway, safe.

Now the gap between the ledge and boat stretched out before her. No room for a running start, nothing to hold on to. Bridges held out his hands. “Come on. I’ll catch you.”

Another second of hesitation and all her credibility would be lost. Instead of looking at the gap, she focused on Bridges’s hands and lunged for them.

Her toes barely made the stern. Then he had her, pulling her into an embrace, rubbing her back. “Gotcha. You’re okay.” Akil was laughing.

Pearl extracted herself, cheeks burning. She wasn’t a hugger, except for Dad and Reese, and she sat down, jaw clenched, her skin tingling from the uninvited touch. Bridges sat beside her, stretching his arm across the top of the seat. She stayed clear of it, watching Tristan’s back, the wind tossing his hair around.

He was a better driver than Bridges, cutting across the water at a steady clip, his attention never wavering as he took them out into the blackness. The boat was a beauty, a StanCraft 290 Rivelle with a cream leather interior. His father’s boat, Pearl was almost certain. Dad had pointed it out in the harbor once, saying that in his next life, he’d own a wooden speedboat. Classiest things on the water.

After a couple of minutes, Bridges called, “Tristan.” No response. Bridges moved forward. “Dude.” He gestured to Pearl. “We have to take her back now. Right?”