What I Thought Was True(107)

“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 winning state this year. We need captains with nothing to prove. Gotta have that. Nic’s a solid kid . . . but these days, he’s no team player.”

“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 372

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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. Dunno where he is, but he’s on foot, since we hit the beach in my truck. Wanna beer?”

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 373

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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 individ-ual 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 gonna hear me out?” she asks.

“You gonna help me find Nic?” I return.

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?

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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.

“I didn’t mean to,” Viv says, quickly, like she’s accidently broken a plate or something.

I slow to Seashell’s only stop sign. Shift into park, because no one’s behind us. No one’s in any hurry this time of night.

Ever, really, on Seashell. That’s one of the promises that should be on the sign separating us from the causeway. All the time in the world.

Except that that’s a promise no one can really make.

Forever.

“You got together with Spence by accident?” I ask, then hate the harshness in my voice. If anyone can understand that, it should be me. But Viv isn’t supposed to have “crumble lines.”

Or not this kind. And if she did . . . why didn’t she tell me?

She leans her head back against the headrest, eyes shut.

“What do I say to you, Gwen? I hate that you know this. I’m glad you know this. I want to make excuses . . . I want to say they’re enough. But they’re not. I hurt Nic. You. If I didn’t lie to you, I sure didn’t tell you the truth, even when we said no secrets. Joke’s on me. Because, let’s face it, in my head I was all judgey about you and some of your choices. Alex, freaking Jim freshman year. Ugh. Cass, the first time around. Spence . . .