The Rest of the Story(43)

“No, you wouldn’t have,” I said, thinking of her sticking up for me on the raft.

“And all those people were there!” She sighed, as if this was the worst part. “My dad always says if you want to really know someone, look at how they act when no one’s watching. That’s the true test of character.”

I had to think about this a moment. “But that doesn’t make sense. I mean, if you can see them, then someone’s watching: you. Right?”

“The point is,” she continued, missing this or choosing not to hear it, “he did me a favor. The last thing I wanted was for him to see me get so upset. It’s not who I am.”

It made my head hurt, trying to follow this logic. But to her, it made sense. It had to, because the only other option was that Colin didn’t care about her the way she did him, and that she wouldn’t even consider.

As a result, her feelings for him had only grown more intense. If not at Campus or planning how to get there, she was on the phone with him, texting him or—more often—waiting for him to respond. At all other times she was visibly distracted, with any question posed to her needing to be repeated, often more than once. I’d never seen anything like it.

It wasn’t like that with Blake. At least, not yet. But sometimes, you just need something to get you there. I was counting on Club Prom.

Around as old as the Club itself, it was held every year, just as the season was reaching full swing. The ballroom would be decorated according to a chosen theme, a band brought in, and everyone attending had to dress up in what was referred to as “resort finest.” At the beginning, this had meant bathing suits with corsages, the whole thing more of a joke than anything else. But in the last ten years or so, it had become more of a real formal dance. It was a big deal to go, and if you weren’t a Club member, you had to be asked.

I was well versed in all of this because lately, Bailey was obsessed, spending what free time she had looking for dresses at Bly County Thrift and the discount stores, as well as dog-earing pages with makeup looks in Trinity’s fashion magazines. Colin hadn’t yet formally asked her—nor Blake me—but she assured me repeatedly this didn’t mean anything, since it was over two weeks away. When he did extend the invitation, she’d have everything ready along with her yes, and thought that I should, too.

“But what if he doesn’t ask me?” I’d said the previous evening, after we’d ridden with Vincent, who I’d met that first night, out to the raft in late afternoon. “Then I have a dress and makeup and everything, and I’m pathetic.”

“You’re sharing custody of a stuffed animal,” she said, squinting in the direction of the yacht club. “He’s going to ask you.”

“Stuffed animal?” Vincent said. “What kind of weird stuff are you into, Saylor?”

“Leave her alone,” Bailey said. “It’s romantic.”

“Really weird stuff,” I told him at the same time. “Would put hair on your chest.”

“I could use that,” he said, then laughed, hard enough that his sunglasses, which he kept parked on his head, slid off and hit the dock with a bang. “Damn, my shades!”

“You need one of those things to hang them around your neck,” Bailey told him.

“You offering to buy me one?” he replied.

She rolled her eyes, but I saw her smiling. I thought back to that first night I’d been out to the raft, how Vincent’s face flushed when April alluded to a possible crush. Maybe she was onto something.

“I cannot wait to see the Club at Prom,” Bailey said to me.

“You’ve never been?” I asked.

“Nope. But this girl from the Station went last year, with a guy she was dating who was a valet over there.” She sighed happily. “She said it was beautiful.”

“Oh, please,” Vincent said with a snort. “Who wants to dress up at the lake?”

“I do,” she said, and he made a face. To me she added, “Just wait. You’ll see. It’s going to be great.”

She, at least, was sure of things. I supposed it was good that one of us was.

Now, back at birth class, Trinity turned around, looking up at me. “Hey. Saylor. Are you breathing?”

I blinked, surprised to find myself with her and not with Vincent and Bailey. “Yes,” I said quickly, blowing out some air as proof. “Of course I am.”

“Well, you’re the only one. So stop.” She turned back around, elbowing me sharply in the stomach again as she did so. “The movie’s about to start.”

“Movie?” I looked at the front of the room, where, sure enough, Kim had rolled in a cart with a TV and DVD player on it. On the screen, a title page: STAGES OF LABOR AND DELIVERY. “Oh, God. Is it okay if I wait—”

“Nope,” she said as the lights went dim overhead and the video began. The camera zeroed in on a woman in a hospital bed, hugely pregnant, her feet up in stirrups. She was smiling, as was her husband, sitting beside her.

I looked at the clock: there were twenty minutes left of class, and then I’d have to drive us home. When faced with two not-so-good options, there really isn’t even a point in choosing between them. Still, I did cover my eyes.





Eleven