What I Thought Was True(49)

“Hideout!” Emory bursts into even stormier tears. “My Hideout. He wanted to see the water. He drownded.”

Cass turns to me for clarification.

“Stuffed animal,” I say, combing my fingers over Em’s scalp, feeling for bumps. He keeps crying, shoving my hand away.

“What color?” Cass peers into the water. “Brown? Black?

Blue?”

“Red.”

“Perfect.” He dives back in, so cleanly there isn’t even a ripple.

Nic has reached the steps now and hurries up, eyes worried.

“Dude, you cool?”

“Hideout!” wails Emory. Vivien, Nic, and I debate taking him to the ER just to have him checked. Teary-eyed Vivien and I are in favor, Nic tells us we’re overreacting.

“Remember the time you fell off Uncle Mike’s boat when you were, like four? You were fine. Same thing.”

“But it’s Emory,” I say. Em was born so early, at twenty-eight weeks, a fragile two pounds. Then when he was four he 169

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had viral meningitis and a fever of 106. Whenever he gets a cold in winter it always, inevitably turns into bronchitis. Pretty much everything that could go wrong does go wrong. I’m clutching him so tightly that he stops sobbing to say, “Ow.

Be nice.”

“Here you go, buddy.” Cass has climbed up the ladder from the water to the pier thrusting out a bedraggled, waterlogged stuffed hermit crab.

Em’s tears turn off, his lips part, then wing into a smile. “Saved him. Superman saved Hideout.” He snatches the crab from Cass, hugs it, squeezing out a bucketload of water, fingers its head for bumps, kisses it, then scootches over and puts his hand on Cass’s cheek, petting him the way Mom does to Em himself.

Cass clears his throat, shuffles one foot on the wet wooden slats of the pier. “No problem, man. He might need a little CPR—and a dryer—but he’ll be fine.”

“Thanks, Somers. Quick thinking.” Nic nods at him, chin lifted, arms crossed.

“Not as quick as your footwork on the dive,” Cass says coolly. Nic’s jaw tightens.

“Badly played, man,” Cass continues. “Very un-CGA.”

Nic’s face shades stormy. He looks quickly at Viv, then me, then down at the pier.

“Three-second advantage,” he scoffs at last, like Whatever.

“Yeah. Exactly.” Cass shakes his hair out of his eyes, which seem a slightly more wintery sea blue than usual.

“Jeez, enough with the pissing contest,” I say. “Let’s get Em home.” Nic takes him out of my arms and looks at me, face impassive. I give his back a little nudge toward shore, almost 170

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a shove. He nods, a motion so small it’s almost undetectable, walks off. Vivien trails, wringing out Hideout, ocasionally glancing back over her shoulder at us, standing so close we’re each dripping water on each other. She cocks her head at me, then hurries after Nic and Em.

I touch Cass’s arm quickly. “Thank you.”

“No big deal.” Then he turns to me with a straight face.

“But, hey, was that a stuffed hermit crab?”

I laugh, and it feels so good, unknotting the tension that’s been snarled in my stomach for days. “I know—it’s like a bunch of toymakers were in a boardroom somewhere, snapping their fingers, and said, ‘I know! A crustacean line! Just what every kid wants.’ But Em loves him. So really . . . thanks.”

“You did the more important save, Gwen. Keep this up and I might have to forfeit my superhero cape. Or talk to Coach about that Life Guard of the Year award you earned back in March.”

The Polar Bear Plunge.

For a beat, it just lies there, like a glove thrown down. Smack.

Then I meet his eyes. I don’t know what mine are saying, but after a moment, he looks away, up to the sky, then down at me, lips parted. I follow his gaze to my chest, where of course my too-tight tank top is completely plastered. White. Practically transparent.

That’s what this is about?

I snap my fingers. “My face is up here.”

Cass reaches for his towel, now an interesting shade of mot-tled pink, wraps it tightly around his waist. “Um, sorry. Are you cold, by any chance, Gwen?”An infinitesimal smile, just 171

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enough to bring out one dimple, pulls at the corner of his mouth.

I groan. “You have no idea what a pain these are. Since I was twelve I’ve gotten this! Like I’m boobs attached to a faceless woman. Sometimes I just want to take ’em off and hand them to whoever can’t be bothered to see the rest of me and say, ‘Here. I think this is what you’re really after.’”

Cass flips his hair back. “And we were doing so well there for a second. I didn’t mean to objectify you or disrespect your personhood. You look”—he throws his hand toward me—“like you look. Sue me for noticing.” He meets my eyes.

“By the way—just let me give your little brother a few lessons.

Otherwise, you’re going to have a heart attack worrying, or an ulcer blaming yourself for not being on guard twenty-four/

seven. And let’s make tutoring happen. At this point you’re just making bullshit excuses. I need this, okay? I need to stay on the team.”