“You were beginning to look like a plague victim.”
“Well.”
“I also heard you were asking about me.”
“Only because I felt like I needed to clear something up about yesterday.”
“The fact that you gave me your phone number?”
“No.”
“And then I returned it?”
“No. I just wanted you to know that I wasn’t drowning and I wasn’t trying to drown. I’m sorry it seemed that way and that you felt you had to save me.”
He says, “You looked like you were drowning.”
“Well, I wasn’t.”
“Okay. Good for you. And you’re welcome.”
“For what?”
“Saving your life.”
“You didn’t save my life.”
“I kinda did.”
“Anyway. That’s all I wanted to say.”
Over his shoulder, Wednesday gives me this arch, smirky look and walks away. And maybe I should walk away too, but I don’t. I don’t want to. It’s good to feel hands on me. It cuts the loneliness in half.
Then he goes, “Yeah, this makes sense.”
“What?”
“You like to lead.”
“No I don’t.”
“You do. It’s okay. I’ll learn ya.”
“That is so incredibly sexist.”
“No it’s not. I’m not talking a man-woman thing here. Sometimes you got to let go and let other people lead for a while. I’m guessing that’s a problem for you.”
A flash of dimples and my stomach goes quivery. I tell it, Don’t get so worked up. They’re literally dents in his face, just little hollow pits at the corners of his mouth that mean nothing.
I say, “Can we just dance without talking?”
“Of course.”
He pulls me in and my head brushes his cheek, and for a few seconds it’s just the music and his hands on my back. Then I feel his breath in my ear and he says into it, “Why so mad at the island? Or is it the entire world that’s pissing you off?”
I pull back and look at him. His mouth is serious, but his eyes are grinning down at me like I’m the funniest thing he’s ever seen.
“I’m not pissed off. I’m great. I love it here. It’s amazing.”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious.” To prove it, I smile at him. My best smile, the one I’ve been perfecting for the past few weeks.
“I don’t believe you.”
“No, it’s true. I can’t think of another place I’d rather be. Even if this isn’t where I’m supposed to be right now. Even if I was never supposed to be here. Even if I was supposed to be in Ohio. At Kayla Rosenthal’s party, as a matter of fact. Drinking vodka with Saz and my other friends and making out with Wyatt Jones and getting ready for the road trip of a lifetime and going home and sleeping in the bed I’ve slept in since I was ten. Even though I never wanted a canopy bed, but my dad thought it must be something little girls like, and so he surprised me, which was really sweet. But that was back when he wanted us. And even though I’m now sleeping in a bed that doesn’t belong to me, staring at a photograph of a dead boy who will always be twelve years old. No matter what. So if I put you out yesterday because I was upset, well, I’m sorry. But I wasn’t drowning. Not literally. I didn’t ask you to save me. Because I can save myself. Not that I need saving. But you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I actually don’t know what any of that means.”
My chest is tight and I’m wishing I had another beer to drown out the noise in my head. The song bleeds into another and he doesn’t let go, so I stay there. And when that song ends, before he can pull away, I say, “Do you want to get out of here?”
DAY 3
(PART THREE)
We ride through the night in his old black truck with the windows down. There’s a collection of sand dollars and other shells on the dash. A camera propped on the center console. A pocketknife and some coins and a can of Off! in one of the cup holders. A bottle of water in the other, which he offers me now.
I drink and then hand it back to him.
“You should probably have some more.”
“I’m not drunk.”
But I drink it anyway, spilling some down my shirt as the truck bumps over the road.
He says, “So tell me. If you weren’t trying to drown yourself and you weren’t drowning, what were you doing out there?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I don’t believe that for a second. You’ve been yelling and talking every time