What I Thought Was True(113)

Pretty clear that ship had sailed while I wasn’t even looking.”

I wait, quiet. Dad said not to push.

“I . . . couldn’t face you guys, after . . . Aunt Luce, Grandpa . . . you . . . You’d be all sorry for me.” He rolls his shoulders as though shrugging off our imagined sympathy.

“Knew Uncle Mike wouldn’t be like that.”

“Did you get the What a Man Does lecture?”

“Hell yeah,” he says. “I knew you’d be freaking. Told him to call you. He said a man spoke for himself. If I wasn’t ready to talk to you, he sure as shit wasn’t going to do it for me.”

Again I open my mouth, but he shuts me down with the wave of a hand. Or in this case a fist, since he’s still holding the stone.

“Do you remember,” he asks, “when Old Mrs. Partridge had that skunk under her porch, cuz? When we were, like, seven?

And she called Dad to handle it? He threw a towel over it and tossed it to me and it bit me through the towel?”

I do. I remember Viv holding his hand in the clinic, crying the tears Nic would never let himself cry.

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Oh Nic.

“And Vivien—”

“This is not about Vivien. I had to get rabies shots, ’member? And the nurse was standing there with this wicked big needle. Aunt Luce and Vovó were crying, and Grandpa Ben was praying, and you were asking if it would work if you took it instead. I asked if it would hurt . . . Grandpa and Aunt Luce started to say no and Uncle Mike said it was gonna hurt like a motherf*cker. Do you remember that?”

I do, partly because I’d never heard that particular word before.

“Thing is, he was right. It did. But it helped. Knowing how I was going to feel. Can’t deal with the truth if no one tells it, right?”

I nod.

“I’ve loved that girl all my life,” Nic says.

“I know.”

He weighs the stone in his hand, angles his wrist, flips it across the water. A double skip, not one of his best.

“And I’m more bummed about not getting the captain spot.

Want to tell me what that means?”

That what you’ve always had doesn’t mean that’s what you’ll always get. That what you’ve always wanted isn’t what you’ll always want.

I don’t realize I’ve spoken out loud until Nic says. “Yeah.

Exactly, cuz.”

Mom’s just pulling on her sneakers as I get home, sitting on the steps. I hear the shrill of Disney coming from inside the house.

Mulan. “I’ll make a maaann out of you, ” Emory’s voice wobbles, sweet and high.

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“Nic okay?” Mom asks.

I nod. “He’ll be fine.”

She studies my face. “For sure,” she says finally, firmly. “But if he isn’t? For a little while? It’s not your problem to solve.”

Mom picks up one of her Nikes, with an inextricable knot, tries to untangle it with the fingernails she has to keep short because of cleaning houses.

“Here, let me,” I say, pulling at the shoe.

“Gwen. I can solve this.” A pull and a jerk here and there and the shoelaces untangle. She slips them on her feet, reaches for her can of Diet Coke. Shuts her eyes as she drinks it, closing out the world, the way she does with the things that take her away, her books, her sodas, her stories.

A rattle of gravel and a flash of silver. Mom and I both look up in time to see Spence’s Porsche flash by. His sunglasses pushed up into his hair, arm along the seat. He pulls into the Almeidas’ driveway, slanted, the way the car was that first summer day at Castle’s, taking up more space than it needs.

Viv runs down the short steps, climbs into the car, long hair loose and blowing.

“This is gonna take some getting used to,” Mom says. “That boy sure looks out of place.”

The paradox of Seashell. He does and he doesn’t. Precisely the sort of car that belongs on the island, pulled into exactly the driveway where it doesn’t. Not Viv in the place she’s always been, all she ever wanted, or Nic in the place he was afraid would be all he had.

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Chapter Thirty-seven


I stand on the steps of the Field House for a few minutes, work-ing up my courage, raise my hand to knock but, before I can, it flips inward, so that I basically fall into Cass, who’s opening it with a blue plastic recycling bin balanced on his shoulder.

“Hey,” I say.

He sets the bin down on the steps, straightens. He’s backlit from the indoor light, which picks out the bright of his hair, but leaves his expression in darkness.

Silence. Not even his ingrained politeness is going to get me in the door unless I talk fast. Which I do, so swiftly the words tumble over one another. “I have to tell you some things and ask you some things and you need to let me in.”

He takes a step backward and raises an eyebrow. “Is that an order? Am I Jose here?”

“I’m asking. Not ordering. Can I . . . come in? Because . . .

Cass, just let me in so we don’t have to have this conversa-tion on your steps. Old Mrs. Partridge probably has supersonic hearing.”

He opens the door wider but doesn’t move, so I have to brush past him going in, catching a faint whiff of chlorine, sun-warm skin.