Until We Meet Again(13)

like that.”

“I hoped you were simply trying to get a laugh out of me.”

Lawrence looks into my eyes, his gaze piercing. “I’d be sad to

know you truly are unhappy.”

My stomach flutters. I look away from him. “Don’t worry.

I’ll live.”

“You know, brooding can only get you so far. You really ought

to try a swim. The ocean’s good for the soul.”

“I’m okay just looking at it.”

Lawrence turns a glance to the waves beyond, sparkling in the

golden evening sun. “True. It’s undeniably lovely. The second

most beautiful thing to look at on this beach.”

“Oh gosh. You really are a player.”

“I’m a man bound by truth.” He drapes the towel around his

neck. Then he lifts his chin, as if trying to remember something.

“Of truth and sea, her eyes become

Bound, endless in the vast beyond.

And morning starlight’s milky shine

Reverberates her soul in mine.”

I bite back what certainly must be a dopey grin. I’m a sucker

for a boy who recites poetry. “Is that…Byron?” I ask, uncertain.

Lawrence laughs. “No, though I’m quite flattered. That’s

my poetry.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Your poetry? As in, you wrote it?”

“Tried to.” When I offer nothing more than skeptical silence,

Lawrence says, “Is it really so hard to believe?”

This information still needs processing. After a restless three

days trying very hard not to think about Lawrence, seeing him

again, shirtless and reciting poetry, is seriously throwing me for a

loop. I start to walk along the shoreline. He keeps pace beside me.

“Well,” I say carefully. “You don’t meet many guys that write

poetry. And those that do are…” I start to say “not as hot as

you,” but thankfully stop myself.

“Are what?” Lawrence asks. “Drunks?”

“Not exactly the word I was looking for.”

“I’m not. Just so you know.”

I smirk. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

We walk in comfortable silence. Lawrence bends his head a

little to meet my gaze. “So, what did you think? Of my poetry,

I mean. Did you like it?”

“Not bad.” This downplayed response takes some effort.

“I’ll accept that.” Judging by his smile and the way he keeps

his eyes on me, I can’t help but feel that he’s well aware the

effect he has.

“Don’t you have a shirt or something?” I ask, trying my best

not to look at him.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No,” I say with an incredulous laugh that comes across as

trying way too hard to sound incredulous. Lawrence holds a

smile, and I feel my face flush. Get on your game, Cass. This

is ridiculous.

Lawrence walks up the beach and grabs a white linen shirt

that had been hanging on the bushes. He pulls it over his head

and jogs back to me. I’m ready for him.

“So,” I say, as he comes to my side, “I assume you write poetry

to help convince ditzy blonds that you’re deep and interesting,

and then they’ll want to sleep with you.”

Lawrence presses a hand over his heart. “She strikes to kill!”

“I’m calling it as I see it.”

“Well, in this case, you happen to be wrong.”

“I don’t think I am. I’ve got you pegged.”

“Not quite.” The corners of Lawrence’s smile fade. That

distant, pensive look returns. “Actually, I’ve never shared my

poetry with anyone else. Other than my father. And he made it

quite clear how useless he thought it was.”

This slows my pace. If Lawrence is playing me, he actually

deserves serious props, because, holy crap, he’s convincing.

“It’s not useless,” I say softly. “What I heard wasn’t, anyway. I

mean…maybe the other stanzas suck.”

Lawrence doesn’t reply. I bite my lip. I don’t want the conversation to end. Not yet. I need to investigate more. Time to lower the wall of sarcasm a bit.

“For what it’s worth,” I say, “I think it’s pretty awesome that

you write.”

“Thanks,” he says, but he still seems distant.

A particularly large wave rushes up, the white foam lapping

our feet. I turn to dodge it and notice that the sun has slipped

behind the house and out of sight. The clouds burn red and

purple. It’s a hot, humid night, and the wind carries the scent

of sea and fresh-cut grass. As I breathe it in, a warm, buzzing

sense of well-being spreads over me. For the first time in a long

time, I feel the strongest urge to get out my canvas and brushes.

That sky represents everything that’s perfect about summer.

“Beautiful sunset,” Lawrence says, following my gaze.