What I Thought Was True(90)

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“I’m fine, Mom. Do you think I should wear this green one?

Or the burgundy one? Or just white?”

My nerves are jumping, like sparklers that light, ignite, flare, fizzle. She’s all serene. “I’m sure Mrs. Ellington won’t care, honey.”

I hold up one, then the next, then the next. “Which looks the best? Really, Mom—you need to tell me.”

An “aha” expression flits across her face. But she says simply, “The green brings out the emerald in your eyes.”

“My eyes are brown.”

“Tourmaline with gold and emerald,” Mom corrects, smiling at me.

I smile back, even though they really are just plain old brown.

I turn my back, pull on the green tank top. “You got through the storm okay?” she asks, beginning to refold the jumbled clothes in my drawer. “I didn’t hear you come in. Musta been out pretty late.”

“Um, yeah. We, uh . . . watched a movie. Made popcorn.”

Kept our hands to ourselves.

“That Cassidy is a nice boy,” she offers mildly. “Such good manners. You don’t see that much in kids your age.”

This is one of the things about feeling this way. I want to grab on to every little bit of conversation about Cass and expand on it. “ Yeah, he’s always been very polite. He’s so . . . so . . . Do you think I should wear the khaki shorts or the black skirt?”

“The black one is a little short, don’t you think? Mrs. E.

isn’t as conservative as she could be, but you wouldn’t want to push it. I thought he’d be full of himself. Kids who look 312

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like that usually are. But he doesn’t seem that way at all.”

“He’s not,” I say briefly but dreamily. Embarrassing poetry, here I come.

I glance in the mirror over my dresser, put on lip gloss, remember Nic telling me guys hate it because it’s sticky, wipe it off. Mom comes up behind me, puts her arms around my waist and rests her chin on my shoulder, staring into the mirror.

Dad’s always saying how alike we look, and generally, I don’t get it. I see nitpicky things like the gray scattered in Mom’s hair, or the way my eyes tip up at the corners like Dad’s, the crinkles at the corners of her eyes, the fact that she has a dust of freckles and I have none, that my skin is darker olive than hers. But today, the resemblance hits me as it never has before.

I’m not sure why this is until I realize: It’s the optimism in our smiles.

All good, but I don’t know what to do with myself in the land of sunshine and butterflies. By the time I’m clattering down the steps in heeled sandals I never wear, my nerves are buzzing.

What if things are different in the light of day? How do I handle this, anyway? Do I run up to him when I see him mow-ing? Or is he going to want to keep things professional around the island?

Does this come easily to most people? Because I have no idea what the hell I’m doing here.

I listen for the sound of the lawn mower but can’t hear anything. No handy arrow pointing to a yard to say “Cass is here.”

Over-thinking. I’ll just get to work. I pick up my pace, then 313

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nearly scream when a warm hand closes on my ankle.

“Sorry!” says Cass, sliding out from under the beach plum bush by the side of the Beinekes’ house. “I was weeding. You didn’t seem to see me.” He slides back, stands up and beams at me.

Suppress goofy smile. “Um. Hi. Cass.”

He brushes off his hands—still gloveless—and comes around to the gate, slipping through it. Today he’s in shorts and a black T-shirt. “You can do better than that.” He loops his arms around my waist and pulls me to him.

“Where are your gloves?”

“Better than that too.” He drops a kiss on my collarbone.

“Good to see you, Cass. I dreamed about you, Cass. . . . Feel free to improvise.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be wearing those work gloves?

When you’re working? Or at least the leather ones because . . .”

Gah. I sound like Mom, or the school nurse.

I’m no good at this.

Luckily, Cass is good enough for both of us. “I missed you, Gwen. It’s good to see you, Gwen. I dreamed about you, Gwen.

Yeah, haven’t gotten around to the gloves. More important things to focus on. Want me to tell you what they are?”

“Can I have a do-over?” I ask.

He nods. “Absolutely. Thought we got clear on that.” He shifts his hands over my back. I want to tell him not to do that, it’s got to hurt, but I’m not going to be the nurse anymore.

I trace the scar in his left eyebrow. “How’d you get this?”

“My brother Jake threw a ski pole at me in Aspen when I 314

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was seven. In fairness, I was making kissing noises while he helped his girlfriend put her boots on. Back when he had girlfriends. You were saying?”

“I—I—” Give up. “I don’t have any words today.”

“Good enough.”

Lots of kissing after this. Apparently too much, as a pair of ’tween boys walking by whistle, though one of them mutters, “Give her the tonsillectomy in private, man.”