What I Thought Was True

by Huntley Fitzpatrick

  It’s so dim now in the gray light coming in through the windows that I can feel more than I can see. I see the outline of Cass’s head dip lower, then the faint rasp of stubble as his cheek brushes against mine, the roughness of the calluses on his hand as it slides over my hip.

  Then he is absolutely still, motionless.

  Very, very slowly, I lift my own hand, slide it up to rest on top of his and squeeze. His breath catches, but he still doesn’t move. There’s another flash of lightning. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. The way to count out a storm. Another beat of silence, then I turn my face to the side and catch his mouth with mine. And I am finally, finally kissing Cass Somers again.

  The hand I’m not touching slides down my back, gathering me closer, and he leans back so he’s against the wall and I’m flat against him. His mouth is warm and tastes like rainwater and salty ocean both. I take my other hand and slip it into his hair, wet and slick, twist my fingers around a curl. He edges his legs apart, so I’m closer still. Then his fingers edge slowly up my back to where my bikini ties behind my neck, tracing the outline of the straps, nudging at the knot, slipping away again, tracing the line around to my front, then the dip of the bikini top, down, back up to the other side.

  Slow. Tantalizing. I hear myself make this little sound of impatience in the back of my throat.

  He moves his lips away from mine for a second, takes a deep breath, then hesitates.

  Don’t think, Cass.

  I rest one hand on his jaw, reach the other hand back, yank at the bow at the back of my neck. I double-knotted it and it holds fast. I hear that impatient noise again, but this time it’s him, not me. His hand covers mine, untangles, unknots.

  Those long fingers moving so expertly, like on the lines of the sailboat.

  I move back for a second to let the top fall to my waist but, plastered by water, it stays in place. Cass pulls me close again, wraps his palms around my waist, instead of making the move I expect. Want.

  We’ve hardly paused for air and I’m completely breathless. I pull back, gasping as though surfacing after diving to the ocean floor.

  We stare at each other, but it’s too dark to see each other’s faces. One breath. Another. Then he makes a little sound, like a hum, and lowers his forehead to my shoulder, circling his thumb around the front of me, dipping it into my belly button.

  At which point, my stomach rumbles.

  “Is that thunder?” he asks as the lightning flashes to illuminate his smile. “It sounded so close.”

  I cover my eyes. Then burst out laughing.

  “Don’t worry. We can take care of that.” His thumb nudges teasingly into my stomach again. Then he steps back, moves over to the corner. I hear something fall over and clatter on the ground—an oar, probably, then the rustle of paper. But it’s too dark to see what’s going on, and, wait, why did he move away? We’re plastered against each another in a dark enclosed space, damp skin against damp skin, and he . . . steps back? Isn’t he supposed to be losing control? I yank at the ties of my bikini, retie them.

  Cass is pulling his towel from the pile of life jackets he tossed it on. Flapping it out to lay it flat on the saw-dusty slats of the wood floor, as though we’re on the beach. He picks something up and sets it on the towel, just as lightning illuminates two familiar white bags, both embellished with the black drawn figure of a mermaid, extending a plate of stuffed quahogs. Cass sits down cross-legged, then reaches up for my hand, lacing his fingers through mine and pulling gently.

  “C’mon. I’m hungry too.”

  I drop down on my knees, sit back on my heels as he starts hauling things out of one of the bags. A long loaf of French bread, a big wedge of Brie cheese, strawberries, gourmet chocolate . . . I know the contents by heart. I’ve packed tons of these for delivery to day-trippers coming in off the boats.

  “You brought a Dockside Delight?”

  “It seemed like a better plan than the carton of raw eggs and the Gatorade, which were the only things I had in my fridge.” He breaks a piece of the bread off and hands me the rest.

  But instead of the warm feeling that was chasing itself all over me a few minutes ago, I’m suddenly chilled.

  He had a picnic waiting. In the boathouse. Ahead of time.

  “You planned this—” I say.

  “Well, yeah, sure, partly—” Then, more warily, “That’s bad? What did I do now?”

  In flashes, like old photographs flicking from one moment to the next, I see the party.

  The Bronco.

  The boys and their knowing laughter.

  The guilt in Cass’s eyes.

  Jim Oberman, freshman year, dragging me against the locker to make his girlfriend jealous. Alex, just wanting to score an island girl. Spence. Just sex. Am I never going to be anything more than somebody’s strategy, a destination marked off on a road map and then passed through for someplace better?

  “You planned this,” I repeat.

  Cass sets down the bread, steeples his hands, and looks up at the skylight as though praying for patience. “Partly. Like I said. Not everything, because nothing ever goes quite the way you mean it to. Not for me, anyway. I wanted to take you out on the water. We both . . . relax there. By ourselves. So yeah, I planned that. I don’t have a kayak, so I had to borrow one, which also involved premeditation.”

  “And having towels all ready in the boathouse?”

  His tone is getting rougher now. “Beach towels. I thought we might go for a swim, after the kayak. Then have something to eat. On the beach. I didn’t plan the storm, Gwen. Didn’t look at the weather. And they’re towels, not a sleeping bag and a jumbo box of condoms.” His voice, which has risen, actually cracks. “That’s not what this is about.”

  “Not at all?” I ask. Great. Now I sound disappointed.

  The storm seems to be moving away, so no lightning to display his face. “Gwen. I’d be lying if I said that. And I’m not going to lie to you. Ever. But if I don’t, are you going to kill me, freeze me out again? Or get up, walk out, leave us back where we were all spring? What’s it take with you?”

  “With me? I’m not the one who flips hot and cold constantly!”

  “You’re not, huh?” Cass says, getting to his feet. “From where I’m standing, that’s exactly what you do. I never know which Gwen I’m going to get. The one who acts like I’m something she stepped in or the one who—”

  “Unzips your pants?” I ask.

  He smacks his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Right. Because I couldn’t possibly want anything more than to get some.”

  I stand. “It’s just a setup, Cass,” I say. “Like in March. A means to an end. That’s what I am, what—what this is.”

  Fast reflexes. Before I know what’s happening, Cass bends over, grabs the bag, and throws it against the wall. Splintering crash, bottles breaking, soda foaming. I take a step back. He jams his hands into the pockets of his suit, turns away from me. “Fine, Gwen. Gotcha. And you’ve got me figured out. Clue me in on this, then. Why do I bother with you? Why not just ram my head against a brick wall? It would be easier and less painful. Why are you so freaking—burned, that, that nothing I do counts! I’m not fucking Alex Robinson. I’m not that asshole senior with the psycho girlfriend Vivien told me about. I’m not . . . I’m not Spence. Can you get that? Like, ever? How come it’s so clear to you when some made-up fictional characters are massively stupid and you can’t see it at all when it’s you and me?”

  “Because you never tell me the truth! It’s all charm, and la-la-la, and I’m Cass, I’ll boil your lobsters, and I’ll charm your pants off, but it’s not what’s true.”

  He takes a long, deep breath, pushing the heel of his hand against his forehead, as though taking his own temperature. “You seriously need to get past those lobsters,” he says, finally.

  The storm is passing, darkness outside graying lighter, so I can see him slide his hand slowly down, cover his eyes, see the small shake of his head. He stands lik
e that for a long time. When he drops his hand and opens his eyes, he keeps his head down.

  “Gwen. I don’t lie. I’m not a liar. I’m not a—a user or whatever you think. I’m me. And I thought you finally cared who that was. I thought that was what this summer was starting to be about.” He raises his head.

  “I don’t know what this summer is about,” I admit.

  “Well, I do,” he says, the slightest edge of bitterness in his voice. Then he turns fully to me, looks directly at me.

  No, not bitterness. Hurt.

  And I can practically see every weapon, any defenses he’s had up, the distant look, the rich-boy poise, the shielding charm, slip from him, hear them all clatter to the floor.

  He hangs his hands at his sides, lifts his eyes to mine again, and lets me read everything in his.

  Hurt.

  Honesty.

  Hope.

  The realization is quick, sharp, and shattering like that bag striking the wall.

  I’m not the only one who can get hurt here.

  Who was hurt here.

  I can’t fathom his face in the dark. But right now, in this moment, I don’t need lightning to see.

  He was right. I should come with a YouTube instructional video. Or a complete boxed set. How the hell can I expect him to figure me out when I don’t even get myself? And worse, I’m a total hypocrite—hurt and angry that he’d think about having sex with me, when I’ve gone there so many times in my own mind. I still don’t understand what happened after the Bronco that night. Or even in it. No. But maybe . . . maybe there is an explanation, other than the one I’ve been so sure was the only truth.

  Because nothing about Cass is, or ever has been, “no big deal.”

  It’s very still. The rain has passed far into the distance, the high winds quieted down. Nothing to drown out my thoughts or the words I might say. Have to say.

  “Guess we should go,” Cass says, his voice remote again, as if he has decided this is just impossible.

  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.”

  In the low tide, the waves are lapping lazily far down the beach. The only lingering signs 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 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 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 roomfuls 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 themselves 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 scavenger 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.”

  I stare at him. “Those are really stupid reasons.”

  “Because Spence told me to would be stupider,” Cass says. “I thought maybe some opportunity would come up. When you waded into the water in your heroic rescue attempt, I figured you had to like me. Too.”

  He pauses, waiting for me to say something. Confirm something. But one thing is clear. Cass is much braver than me. I just look at him, silently urging him to continue.

  “Like I said. I didn’t think you did dates. That’s what everyone said. When I asked. Because I did. Ask.” He sighs, rubs the back of his neck, looks away from me. “So I invented the whole party thing. Which I realized afterward was a stupid-ass way of handling it. But, at the time, it was what I could do. I wanted to be with you. Any way I could.”

  “Cass—” I inch closer to him on the couch, edge my hand onto his kne
e. He covers it with his.

  “Look, I want to get this out. So . . . so listen.”

  “I’m listening. I came to the party. And we . . .” I trail off, pull at a tiny elastic string at the side of my bikini bottom.

  “For the record? Since we’re telling the truth now? That was not all me. You . . . you can’t sit there and act like, like, I took advantage of you. Because . . . because I may not have known . . . but you were right there with me. I know you were. I felt it. And I remember everything. Everything.”

  My skin prickles, awareness, total recall.

  “I didn’t plan on hooking up with you that night! That’s the truth. You were the one who—” He stops dead.

  “Pushed it, right?”

  “No! No. That was both of us. But I didn’t plan it. Going that far. If I had—if I had, I would have had protection, which, you may remember, I didn’t. Which completely freaked me out afterward when you wouldn’t even talk to me and just looked at me like I was scum.”

  “I’m on the Pill.”

  “How the hell would I have known that? You could have mentioned it.”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  “We should have used a condom anyway. But I could hardly think, Gwen. One minute we were kissing and the next minute your shirt was off and that was it—no more thinking.”

  “You’re helpless in the face of boobs?”

  He studies my face for a moment, then, at the sight of my smile, breaks slowly into one of his own. Then sobers.

  “Yours? Um, yeah. But that’s not the point. The point is, what happened didn’t have anything to do with what Spence said. Except that he screwed it all up for us. Well . . . he and the other guys. And me.”

  “And me,” I whisper, almost hoping he doesn’t hear me. But when I look up, his face is suddenly very close to mine. So he must have.

  “Are we clear?” he asks gently, his eyes unflinching on mine.

  “Clear,” I say. Then look down.

  And me.

  I need to say it.

  “Except . . . except for what I, um, did next.” Praise God for that bathing suit thread. I pull on it, tangle my finger in it, loop it around and around, concentrating completely until Cass again covers my hand with his own, calluses brushing my knuckles. Then he’s motionless. Expressionless. I’d rather not speak, or remember it at all, but—I have to say it. Tell him.