What I Thought Was True(87)

I bend down, retrieve the rumpled bag full of broken glass, oozing root beer from a jagged tear in the soggy bottom. Wrap it up in a beach towel. Pick up the picnic pieces, cheese, bread, strawberries. Gather it all together. The cleaning woman’s daughter.

But not only that.

“Cass.” I swallow. “I—I can get past the lobsters.”

“That’s a start,” he says, his voice cool.

“C-can I walk you home?” I ask. “So you don’t have to turn the key in the lock?”

A long silence. “Is that the only reason?” he asks finally.

I take a deep breath. Another deep breath.

“Maybe not,” I say at last, “the only one.”

301

301



In the low tide, the waves are lapping lazily far down the beach.

The only lingering sign of the storm are dimples in the sand from the pelting rain, and huge piles of kelp and rocks and boat shells littering the beach.

“Heavy lifting to come for the yard boy,” I say, scrambling for casual.

Cass tips his head in acknowledgment.

I trip on something and nearly fall and he reaches out a hand to catch me, then lets it drop before he can touch me.

Slowly, infinitesimally, as though if I moved quickly I might scare him off, I reach out for his hand, tangle mine in it, fingers slipping between fingers, then hand locking on hand.

Silence while I try to find what to say.

But then:

“Thank you,” Cass says simply. The way he did that night in the Bronco.

Good manners. It occurs to me that this is a kindness. Not simply a habit, not only charm.

Then, as if he knows what I’m thinking, is reinforcing it, he moves close enough to me that I can feel his heat, warm skin.

He tightens his hand on mine. But still, the walk uphill is long and silent.

When we reach the top, I turn to face him “If . . . if . . . it wasn’t about a jumbo pack of condoms. Or thinking I was easy. What was it, then?”

“We’re going to talk now? Finally.”

“Finally?” I breathe.

“Yes. We’re not having this discussion in the middle of 302

302



the street, though. Come on.” He tows me toward the dark hulk looming against the stars, the Field House. I hurry up the worn wooden steps, follow him into the hideous, haggy, yellow-walled apartment. Which seems all too exposed and open without any buffer between us. No party with room-fuls of people. No open Seashell road with a dozen possible witnesses. No Fabio. No Spence. Nothing but air and us.

We sit down on the couch. He takes a deep breath. Then another. He’s nervous. He looks down at his hand. Clench, unclench.

“Just spit it out,” I say. Beautiful. I sure do have a lyrical way with words.

He takes another deep breath. “I think I need some water.”

“I think you’re stalling. Please, Cass.”

I wrap my hand around his forearm. He turns to face me.

The sofa creaks. Definitely a relative of Myrtle’s. Great how the furniture in my life talks more easily than I do.

“Let me help you out. Spence told you I was easy . . . so . . .

He did, didn’t he?”

“Truth? Yeah. That you had crumble lines.”

“What the hell are crumble lines?”

“This garbage of Spence’s. He likes to spout off all these theories about girls and how to get them.”

“Because he’s Mr. Notorious, I-Had-Five-Girls-in-My-Hot-Tub-at-Once.”

“Three, for the record. Plus, one of them was his cousin who was just in there because she was in track and had run a marathon and her muscles were sore. What he says is to look for crumble lines—places where girls feel bad about them-303

303



selves or whatever. Then you get them at the right moment and they do stuff they might not ordinarily do.”

“That’s the sickest theory I’ve ever heard,” I say. So right too, I think, remembering that party and that side room. How it all had nothing to do with what I felt about Spence.

“Yup. And dead effective. How Spence plays his game. So, uh, he said you had a reputation.”

I wince. He holds up a hand, stopping whatever I was about to jabber.

“So what, Gwen? I have a reputation in my own family. Not to mention at Hodges. It happens.”

He shuts his eyes, pauses, then opens them and continues, his words coming out rough and hurried.

“I always told him to shut it when he brought you up with his crumble line crap. So yeah, he’d said that and yeah, I’d heard stuff. Locker room shit. But Gwen . . . I knew you. I mean, we knew each other. It was a long time ago, but . . . well. We did.

I mean . . . That summer? We did know each other. We were always at the beach or on the boat or doing those crazy scav-enger hunts. I didn’t talk to you because of anything Spence said. I didn’t, um, look at you and just see your body. I sure as hell didn’t sleep with you because Spence told me to. That had nothing to do with anything but you and me. I asked you to the party because I liked you.”

“Cass, why didn’t you just ask me out . . . before that?”

“Because I couldn’t read you anymore. I thought you’d say no.

I’m no good at asking. And I hate doing stuff I’m no good at.”