The more I play, the more I start to wonder if maybe telling Mike isn’t the right thing to do. If maybe keeping what I saw a secret is the smart decision. Maybe even the kind decision.
This is Grayson we’re talking about. Odds are he’ll be over this fling in a matter of days. And it’s Harper. She has a reputation for pulling stunts like this all the time. She does this nearly every single summer. She breaks up with Mike, she flirts with the tourists, she comes back to him. That’s her MO. That’s both of their patterns. It just so happens that this summer their patterns overlapped.
Harper and Grayson together is just a catastrophe waiting to happen. I wouldn’t be surprised if this whole thing blew over in less than a week. Then everything will go back to normal.
Grayson will go back to hitting on girls at beach parties. Harper will go back to Mike. And I can go back to moping around the house while trying to avoid another infuriating confrontation with Whitney.
But if I told Mike about Grayson and Harper, all hell would break loose. I’d basically be bringing about the end of our friendship. It’s not worth destroying what we have for a stupid summer fling, is it?
No, definitely not.
I’ll just lie low and pretend I never saw anything. And really, what did I see? A harmless little chase game on the street? An almost kiss? It could be nothing. It probably was nothing.
I’m staying out of it.
Besides, I’m not sure I can handle the emotional burden right now. Not with my mother still texting me nonstop trying to get me to come over to watch home movies or browse through photo albums, or take a tour of all the places on the island my dad loved to visit. I don’t know how many times I have to turn her down before she finally gets it. I have no interest in skipping merrily down memory lane with her.
I hear a strange scraping sound outside my window. I assume it’s Mike packing up his truck, but I pull back the curtain to check anyway.
Outside by the pool Whitney is rearranging lounge chairs. She’s wearing a one-piece bathing suit, an oversize sun hat, and a sarong. The way the sarong is cut, every time she takes a step, the fabric inches up her thigh, revealing one of her long, lean legs.
She finally positions the chair to her liking and plops down, propping her knees up so that the sarong falls down around her hips, giving me a perfect view of both legs.
My stomach does a series of crazy acrobatic moves.
When did Whitney become so sexy? I mean, she’s always dressed sexy, but it was like a little girl who had raided her mother’s closet and makeup drawer. It always looked like she was trying too hard. And she used to have these scrawny little legs that were way too skinny, and puny arms that I probably could have wrapped my hand around twice.
But now it’s evident that sometime in the past two years, she acquired a few curves. And in all the right places too.
I soon realize how creepy and pervy I am, just sitting here, staring at her through the window. I’m about to let the curtain fall back down, when Whitney pulls a giant hardcover out of her bag, flips it open to a marked page, and starts reading.
So I wasn’t hallucinating when I saw her come out of that bookstore. Whitney Cartwright is sitting by the pool reading a book.
Hell has officially frozen over.
I have to get to the bottom of this.
I drop the curtain, letting it swish back into place, and walk out to the pool. She doesn’t look up from her book, but she must notice my presence because she says, “About time you stopped being a total perv and came out here.”
So she saw me. Great.
I plop down onto the next chair, angling my body so I can face her. She stays focused on her book.
I flick my finger at one of the pages. “So what’s this all about? Trying to impress a college guy?”
She sneers. “Did you have to wait for your boner to go down before you came out here to talk to me, or are you just hiding it between your legs?”
I feel a flicker of exhilaration pass through me. The thrill of arguing with Whitney, of desperately grasping for the better comeback, is starting to become an all-too-familiar sensation. One that I’m afraid might actually turn into a full-on addiction.
“Let me know if you come across any big words that you don’t understand.”
“I will,” she immediately retorts, still not looking at me, “so I can send you to fetch a dictionary.”
I tilt my head so I can see the title of the book. “Sense and Sensibility,” I read aloud. “Two things that you severely lack. Is this a self-help book?”
“Actually, yes.” She stretches out her legs, crossing them at the ankles. “I’m learning lots of useful things, like how to stay away from Willoughbys like you.”
I assume this is a reference to something in the book and I grudgingly admit that I’ve never read it. I hate that she has the upper hand here and can get in jabs that I don’t even understand.
“Seriously,” I say, trying not to stare at her body. “What is this about? The glasses? The books? Did you join a cult or something?”
“I didn’t realize reading was a crime.”
“For you, it might as well be.”
She sets the book down on her stomach, and I see the flash of anger in her eyes. “Why do you even care?”
She’s totally stumped me there. Why do I even care?
“I—I,” I stammer. “I’m living in this house now, and you’re my best friend’s little sister. I care about what goes on around here.”
She breaks into a sarcastic laugh. “You’re so full of shit, Ian. All you care about is your stupid guitar and playing your stupid sappy love ballads until four in the morning.” She smirks at my reaction. “Oh, yeah. I hear things. The walls are not that thick.”
I feel frustration boil up inside me. She heard me singing? Did she hear the lyrics? Does she know they’re about her?
“At least I’m doing something with my life,” I shoot back, even though it’s a pitiful argument and I’m running out of steam. I’m like a pitcher who’s pitched eight and a half innings and all I’ve got left is a pathetic excuse for a fastball, with no oomph. “At least I’m not spending every waking hour of my day shopping and texting and being vapid.”
She sits bolt upright, glaring at me from behind those admittedly sexy-as-hell tortoiseshell glasses. “If I’m so vapid and useless, why are you even out here with me? Why aren’t you in your room saving the world with your super-important music?”
I shoot to my feet and yell, “I came out here to . . . to . . .” But I can’t think of a single thing to say. My witty comebacks are gone, and now all I’m left with is the truth. A truth I don’t even realize until it comes tumbling out of my mouth.
“To ask you out!” I finish, my voice still loud and full of angst.
“You came out here to ask me out?” she screams. “Like on a date?”
“Yes!” I fire back.
“Fine!” she roars. “Eight o’clock tonight. Don’t be late. And don’t wear those stupid shorts.”
“Fine!” I yell, and stalk back into the house, then slam the glass door behind me. I stomp all the way to the guest room. The first thing I do when I get there is stare in the mirror at the shorts I’m wearing.
What’s wrong with these? I think huffily.
I turn to the small overnight bag I packed when I snuck out of my grandparents’ house. There’s nothing in there but T-shirts and swim trunks and more shorts that look pretty much identical to these.
Which means that sometime between now and eight o’clock tonight, I’m going to have to do the one thing I hate doing more than anything else in the world.
Shop.
CHAPTER 22
GRAYSON
When my phone vibrates in my pocket, Harper and I are still kissing. I pull it out to ignore the call, assuming it’s probably my mother again, but freeze when I see Mike’s name on the screen.
My vision clouds over, and the inside of the boat starts to spin.
Does he know?
Did he see us?
Did someone else see us and tell him?
I knew it was a mistake to walk down Ocean Avenue with her. This town is far too tiny to make stupid mistakes like that.
I jump up from the bench seat. Harper looks insulted by my hasty retreat. That is, until she hears me answer the phone.
“Mike!” I say, too chirpy, too squeaky. I clear my throat. “What’s up, man?”
I’m a terrible, terrible, shitty, shitty person.
“Hey,” he says. “I just wanted to let you know that we had to delay the job for a few days while we wait for the hardware store to get a part in.”
The roof? He called to talk to me about the roof?
Relief floods through me, followed by a quick chaser of wretchedness. “Oh, right. Cool. That’s totally fine. Take as much time as you need.”
“Thanks, man. We should be back up and running by Friday. I taped the first invoice to your front door, if you want to just have your dad write me a check or whatever.”
“Of course,” I say uncomfortably. Mike and I have never actually had to talk about money before. It’s admittedly weird.
There’s an awkward pause on his end. It makes me squirm. “Where are you, anyway? Ian says you’ve been in and out all week.”
“He did?” I croak, feeling like there’s a huge seashell lodged in my throat. “Right. Yeah. I’m just hanging out.”
I can almost hear Mike smile into the phone. “What’s her name?”
My gaze whips to Harper, who opens her eyes wide.
I force out a laugh. “You know me too well, my friend. Her name is . . . is . . .”
Harper starts mouthing something that I can’t understand. It almost looks like she’s saying . . .
“Ebba,” I say into the phone. “Her name is Ebba.”
Harper rolls her eyes and shakes her head at me.
“Ebba?” Mike repeats. “What kind of name is that?”
“It’s . . . French, I think.”
Harper throws up her hands in defeat. I need to shut this thing down.
“So, what’s up with you?” I ask him, trying to make my voice light and airy.
“Nothing much. We just haven’t seen you around here a lot. I guess now I know why.” There’s a trace of mocking in his tone, and it feels like a punch in the stomach.
“Yeah, sorry about that. Hey, why don’t we hang out tonight? Just the three of us. We can catch up on Crusade of Kings, play our usual nipple drinking game.”
Mike hesitates. “Actually, I think Ian has a date tonight.”
This is a surprise. I haven’t seen him leave the house in two weeks. How the hell did he meet someone? “With who?”
“Dunno,” Mike replies. “But he seems really into it. He just left to go shopping for something to wear.”
Ian, shop?
I laugh. “Must be some girl.”
“I know, right?” Mike chuckles too, and for just a moment we feel like ourselves again. Making jokes at each other’s expense. Messing around. Laughing. For just a moment I’m able to fool myself into thinking that this is any other summer. When my mom isn’t gone and my arm isn’t killing me all the time and Ian isn’t moping around and I’m not hooking up with my best friend’s ex-girlfriend.
But then I peer around the inside of my father’s boat and see Harper standing just a few feet away, her hair mussed from my hands, her clothes rumpled, and I’m back to feeling like shit.
“Well, anyway,” Mike goes on, “we should all hang out tomorrow for the Fourth. I’m off all day.”
“Great!” I say, but even I can hear how fake my enthusiasm is. “Let’s meet at my house. I’ll fire up the grill.”
“Great.”
“Great,” I say again, feeling like an idiot. “Okay, then. Bye.” I quickly hang up the phone, before my guilt literally makes me keel over.
“I said ‘Emma’!” Harper immediately attacks me. “Not ‘Ebba.’ What kind of name is Ebba?”
“I don’t know! I couldn’t understand you. It looked like you were saying ‘Ebba.’ ”
“I chose Emma because it’s a popular name so it’s harder to narrow down. I figured there’s gotta be, like, ten of them on the island. There were two in my graduating class alone.” She stops ranting when she sees my tortured expression. “What? What happened? What did he say?”
I shake my head, running my fingers through my hair. “Nothing. But I think I should go home.”
“Why?” she asks, and I don’t miss the hurt in her voice.
But I can’t deal with that right now. I can’t deal with anybody else’s emotions. Not when mine are running so rampant.
I just lied to my best friend.
I lied like it was nothing.
I can’t stand myself right now. And I definitely can’t stand being here with Harper. But it’s not like I can tell her that.
It’s not like I can tell anyone anything. All of these secrets I’ve promised to keep. All of these things I’ve sworn to hide. They’re all snowballing in my brain. I can’t even keep them straight. I can’t remember who or what or why I’m not supposed to tell.
The truth about my mom.
The truth about my arm.
The truth about my uncertain future.
The truth about Harper.
I suddenly feel anxious and alone and desperately in need of something I fear I may never find. And worse, something I may never even identify.
“I don’t know,” I mumble miserably as I stuff my phone back into my pocket and hurry to the stairs of the hatch. “I just . . . can’t be here right now.”
I don’t wait around for Harper’s response. I know she’s not happy with me right now. She can join the club. I pound up the stairs, leap onto the dock, and start running.
Always, always running.
From what?
I can’t even keep track anymore.
For how long?
I wish I knew.
To where?
Well, there’s the biggest question of them all.
CHAPTER 23
MIKE
When I arrive at the outdoor playground of the kids’ camp, I’m attacked by two simultaneous human darts. Bam! Bam! Jake is hanging from my left arm while Jasper is attached to my waist.
“Mike! Mike!” they scream in unison. I’ve been bringing them here every day for the past two weeks. The doctor told my dad that if he wants any chance of going back to work by the end of the summer, then he has to completely stay off his leg during the day. And that means that chasing a pair of six-year-old monsters around the house is out. Julie swore it was no big deal for the twins to be here, so now my dad is holed up on the couch watching cooking-competition shows all day.
“Come see my tie-dye shirt!” Jake begs, swinging back and forth.
“No! That’s stupid and hippie!” Jasper says, tugging on my shirt. “Come see the bottle rocket I made.”
“Bottle rocket?” I ask, trying to walk with my extra “limbs.”
Julie appears from behind a tree, laughing at my attempts. “Don’t worry. It’s fake,” she whispers behind her hand. “Full of sand.”
I quickly get to work detaching each child.
“It is not fake!” Jasper insists, frowning at her. “It really works.”
“He didn’t want to do any of the normal arts and crafts,” she tells me.
“Why am I not surprised?”
Once I’m free of dangling children, I’m able to get a good look at Julie. She’s wearing her usual khaki shorts, but her polo shirt is gone. Instead she has a simple black one-piece bathing suit on, which, admittedly, she looks incredibly sexy in.
“Oh,” she says, glancing down at her top. “Right. I had to take off the polo. It got covered in tie-dye.”
My gaze rockets back up. I feel like a total idiot for blatantly staring at her chest. Not to mention, my face is probably bright red right now. The twins, having evidently grown bored of this conv
ersation, wander off to the swing set, where they immediately start fighting over which swing goes higher.
“I wasn’t . . . ,” I try to say, but stop myself. It’s a lost cause. She clearly knows I was checking her out. “Sorry to hear about the shirt. You seem to be having a hard time wearing clothes lately.”
She tilts her head, confused. And then I hear my words repeated in my head. “No, no,” I amend quickly. “I mean, because every time I see you, you’re covered in seawater, paint, or . . . You know what? Never mind. Can I start over?”
I walk out of the gate and then back in. When I do, Julie is grinning from ear to ear.
“Hi!” I say, overly bubbly. “How’s it going? Long time no see!”
She laughs. “You’re pretty adorable, you know that?”
“What? This old thing?” I ask, pointing to my face.
She giggles again. The sound of her laugh is kind of awesome. So openmouthed and uninhibited. Like she doesn’t care who hears or what they think.
“Are you here to pick the boys up early?” she asks.
“Actually, no.” I hesitate, feeling my throat constrict. “I came by to see you.”
Her grin broadens. If that’s even possible. “Here I am.”
“Yes,” I say, breathing out. “Here you are.”
I can feel my heart start to thud in my chest.
The truth is, I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to ask her out for the past week, but the timing never seems to be right. I’m always working or running home to make dinner for the twins. But now I guess I have no more excuses. I have absolutely nowhere to be for the next twenty-four hours.
But can I really do this? Can I really just ask her out? I’ve never asked a girl out in my life. With Harper it was always assumed. We were just together, from the moment we shared our first kiss at the bottom of the beach club pool. After that there were no questions. No date requests. We were just Harper and Mike for the next six years.
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