What I Thought Was True(92)
“That’s great, Dad. You can tell us all about it another time.”
I pull Cass out the door as Mom says, “A ton? That’s a bit much, Mike. It was just me and that trashy Candy Herlihy.”
“Are we ever going to leave my house without me having to apologize for my family?”
“Not necessary. I’m the one who showed up late.” Cass yanks at his tie, loosening it, hauling it off, then shoves it in his jacket pocket, opens the door of the old BMW, which is parked in our driveway next to Dad’s truck and the Bronco, pulls off the jacket and tosses it in. Then starts unbuckling his belt.
“Uh, strip in our driveway,” I say, “and Dad’s definitely going to think this is a booty call.”
He laughs, tosses the belt in, followed by his shoes and socks, pulls his shirttails out, bumps the car door shut. “Just 318
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felt like I couldn’t breathe in all that. I was headed home, saw your lights on . . . just wanted to see you.”
He takes my hand again and we head down the road. I love nighttime on Seashell . . . all the silhouetted figures of the houses, the hush of the ocean. It feels like the only time the whole island belongs to me.
“How were the trustees?”
“Stuffy as hell. Like the atmosphere at the B and T.” He takes a deep breath. “Not like this.” Then he tugs me a little closer.
“Or this.” Ducking his head, he rubs his nose in my hair. I brace my hands on his shoulders, lean closer, feel warm skin under his crisp cool shirt.
He steps back. “Okay, island girl. Give me a tour? The Insid-er’s Night Guide to Seashell?”
“We could just go to the Field House,” I say, then wince.
“Not about a jumbo box of condoms, remember? Come on.
You’ve got to have some secret places no one knows about.”
In the Green Woods, through the tunnel of trees, the forest full of night sounds, by the witch hat stone. There’s the low cry of an owl, loud over the distant rush of the water. Cass stops, hand on my arm.
“What?”
“Peaceful,” he says. He shuts his eyes, drinking it in. “Bar-bershop quartet night at the B and T.”
Almeida’s has done functions at the Stony Bay Bath and Ten-nis Club. I know he’s not kidding.
He stands there for a moment longer, then I whisper, “Come on, it’s better by the water.”
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“It always is, Gwen.”
The moon silvers the creek, the bridge above it, gleams on the rocks. The breeze moves over the marsh, sweet with sea grass, the old-wet-wood smell of the pilings. Cass sits down, leans back on his elbows, and looks at the sky, deep indigo and cloudless. I hesitate, breathing in the cool night air. After a few minutes, I walk a few feet away, unbutton, kick my shorts aside and wade into the rushing water, dipping underneath, surfac-ing to let the current, stronger and faster near the surface than below, seize me.
Then what’s catching me are Cass’s hands at my waist, his legs brushing mine, chin dipping into the curve of my shoulder.
Because the creek flows from the salt marshes into the ocean, the water’s warm, half salty, half sweet. I taste it on his lips.
Like before, things move fast with us. Cass has quick reflexes, and I have curious, wandering, wondering hands. He pulled me out of the water, as certain of his destination—a circle of soft grass between the bushes at the top of the bank—as if he’d visited here before and kept the map in his head. This is where we will go. I lean back on one elbow, tipping my head to the side, as Cass’s lips skate slowly up from my shoulder to my ear, so lightly, his lips are soft as a breath, but still enough to blow almost every thought away.
“My traitorous body.”
That’s one of those phrases that pops up all the time in Mom’s and Mrs. E.’s books. A handy excuse for the heroines, like, “Gosh, I knew I should stop and be ‘good,’ but my traitorous body . . . ”
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I’ve felt like that before. Or like I was one place and my mind off in the distance somewhere. Observing. Or trying hard not to.
But not now.
My body doesn’t feel as though it’s betraying me, separate.
I’m not drowning out thoughts and focusing on sensations. I trace the long line of Cass’s jaw, dip a finger in a dimple, feel it groove deeper as he smiles. When I slide my hand up his side, brushing a drier path on the wet skin, the bump and groove of rib to rib, I feel him shiver, then the shake of him laughing a little.
“Ticklish?”
“Happy.” He cups the back of my neck with one hand, nudges at the top of my neckline, edges it lower. But well before it tips into something more than making out, we both pull back, me bracing my hands on his chest, him moving back, breathing hard.
“Sorry. I—only meant to—” That flush edges from the tips of his ears over the rest of his face.
“I know. But let’s stop here.”
He pulls the straps of my tank top back into position, head ducked, gives a quick nod.
“Not, um, forever. But tonight . . .” I falter. “Because I want—”
Cass cocks his head at me.
I want. The beginning of that sentence feels as though it will lead me into tall grass where I might get stranded. I try again.