What I Thought Was True(61)

I held my wrist up, looked at the neat blocky boy handwrit-ing, the carefully drawn map. “Saturday. 8:00. Plover Point.”

And I headed in.

Unlike most parties I’d gone to, the music was not at top volume. There was some sort of hidden sound system, but it was muted, background music.

Everything was so clean, though. And white. Cream-colored couches, ivory walls, pale straw rugs . . . pristine. For Cass’s sake I hoped this wouldn’t turn into some drunken bacchanal, because those rugs would be almost impossible to get vomit out of, not to mention red wine if there was any and— And I was thinking like the daughter of a cleaning woman.

Just for tonight I wanted to put that aside. I wished I’d shopped for an outfit. I wished Viv and Nic had come, instead of laughing mysteriously and saying they had “other plans.”

Then I saw Cass, who was standing at the kitchen island, taking people’s car keys and putting them in a wicker basket.

He was wearing a buttery yellow oxford shirt untucked over his jeans. When he saw me, his face split into his most open, unpracticed smile, the one that grooved his dimples deep and crinkled the corners of those blue eyes. He leaned forward, elbows on the counter.

“You came. I didn’t think you would.”

I fan out my hands, presenting myself, game show-hostess style, suddenly more at ease.

He took me in, head to toe, then said in a mild tone at odds with the intensity of his glance:





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“You’re trustworthy, right? I don’t need to snag your keys?”

“Totally reliable,” I said, looking around. I knew most of the kids at the party—from the hallways and the cafeteria anyway. But in this elegant atmosphere they seemed alien creatures transported from some A-list universe. Boys I’d never seen in anything but jeans and T-shirts were wearing black or dark blue button-down shirts, and the girls were in all that was tight and clingy—and yet classy. A line I’d never managed to walk successfully.

I shivered, twisting my hair into a coil at the back of my neck.

“You okay, Gwen? Not still cold from your historic rescue, are you?”

“No. Completely recovered.” I tossed my hair over my shoulder, succeeding in whacking Tristan Ellis in the face with it.

“Hey, watch it,” he said, palms raised as though I’d chased him with a machete.

I gave myself a mental shake. “This is so . . . glamorous,” I murmured to Cass.

“Give it about twenty minutes to fall apart. Let me take your coat.”

I didn’t want to hand over my tired navy peacoat, which, I now noticed, had bristly golden fur all over it from Fabio. So I stepped away from his outstretched hand, clearing my throat.

“To be honest, I didn’t know this was going to be so dressy.

Maybe I should go.”

His voice, already deep, went huskier. “Gwen. Stay. You’re not intimidated by—” He glanced around the room, then pointed to some kid who was squirting shaving cream on the





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face of someone who had apparently already passed out. “That, are you?”

The shaving cream guy shouted “Boo!” and the other kid woke up with a jolt, his hands flying to his face. There was the quick zzzzt of a camera phone as someone took a picture.

“No. Of course not!” But I took another cautious step away.

He moved forward again, reaching for my sleeve, gesturing for me to unbutton the coat. I shook my head. He pulled again on the sleeve so that we were sort of playing peacoat tug-of-war.

“This coat seems very important to you. Is there something I should know? You are wearing a shirt under it, right?”

“I am,” I said, unbuttoning.

“Damn.”

I hated it when guys talked about me with my top off. Even guys like Dad’s age did it. Once one of Grandpa’s friends, who didn’t know I knew some Portuguese. Then Grandpa said some words to him I didn’t know and he apologized for about half an hour. But the thing is . . . I didn’t hate it when Cass joked about it. There was no ick factor. Just this buzz of warmth and cold skating over me. Then, something more recognizable. Panic.

“I’m not the one who’s always shirtless!”

Cass looked pointedly down at his shirt.

“I seem to be fine now. I don’t remember ever coming to SBH topless either. Is my memory going? Or are you talking about while swimming? Because, last time I looked, all the other guys on the team weren’t wearing shirts either. Why am I the one breaking the Gwen Castle dress code?”

Oh God. I might as well have borrowed his Sharpie and written “You’re the one I look at!” on my forehead. I needed a 213

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muzzle. Or a drink. No, that would have an anti-muzzle effect.

Plus, I’m not good with that and I’d wake up with shaving cream all over my face.

I didn’t know why I’d felt so comfortable with him in the car and was such a basket case now. Because we weren’t alone?

Shouldn’t I be more nervous about being alone? Shouldn’t I be wishing more people would crowd into the kitchen so that I wouldn’t grab him and push him up against the Sub-Zero and— I spotted Pam D’Ofrio across the room, waved as though I hadn’t seen her in five hundred years rather than five hours, thrust my coat at Cass, and headed off.