must happen to him all the time, and I’m just another girl passing through.
I walk away, hoping he won’t see me. I keep walking even as he’s yelling my name, but I pretend I don’t hear him. He catches up with me, breathing like he’s run for miles.
“Jesus, Captain. It’s a little late to play hard to get, don’t you think?”
“Sorry.”
“What’s up?”
“ ‘What’s up’?”
“Yeah. What’s up?” He says it louder and slower. “We can keep repeating it or I can ask it another way. What are you doing? How is your day?”
“It’s super, thanks.” I keep walking.
“Hey.”
“What?”
He falls in step beside me. “What. Is. Up?”
“Nothing,” I say, and I sound like a child who isn’t getting her way. “I just thought you were working today.” To make it worse, I can see the aerial view of this—the way I keep walking, the way I won’t look at him, even though he’s done nothing wrong. I wish I had a Claude-size eraser so that I could make myself disappear. But instead I look up at the inn and at Wednesday.
His gaze follows mine and then he sighs. “I was afraid this would happen. I told you not to fall in love with me.”
“I’m not in love with you.” And the way I say it makes it sound like I absolutely am, even though I’m absolutely not because I literally met him eight days ago.
“First, Captain, you’re jealous. Second, that ended last summer.”
“What ended?”
“Wednesday and me.”
“Oh.”
And he might as well slap me across the face because of course there was a Wednesday and him. I mean, of course. What did you think? You were the only girl he’d ever been with on this island? The only girl he’d ever been with anywhere?
I suddenly feel cornered. And incredibly stupid. And like maybe Terri was right and I should be careful. If I don’t start walking, I won’t be able to breathe, and I know if I stay, I’ll only make it worse by saying something I’ll instantly want to take back, and I won’t be able to take it back because it will be said and out there forever.
“I’m supposed to meet my mom at the museum.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“That’s okay. I like walking.” I like walking? Shut up, Claude.
“What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
Our eyes lock, neither of us blinking, neither of us looking away.
Finally he holds up his hands. “Okay.”
He doesn’t stop me as I walk away, and it’s now and only now that I can think about what it is I’m feeling.
Afraid, for one. Afraid. Afraid. Afraid.
Unsettled.
Mad at myself for starting to open up to this person I barely know.
Mad at him for making me think I could open up.
Stupid for believing I was different and he was different and this was different in any way.
Trapped behind the wall I’ve built around myself, unable to move or breathe or do anything but keep building it up around me, brick by brick, fast as I can.
Guilty because I should have told him I was a virgin. And now if I tell him, he’ll think it means more to me than it did, and that I’m asking him to love me or tell me there’s only me or something, on and on, blah blah blah.
But here’s the thing—maybe it was a bigger deal to me than I expected. Maybe it actually did matter.
* * *
—
One hour later, I manage to find my way to his house. I ring the bell and wait, scratching my bug bites, fanning myself in the heat. Even as I’m standing there, I’m telling myself, Walk away. Don’t make things worse. This doesn’t need to be serious. This doesn’t need to be anything.
The door opens to reveal Jeremiah Crew, shirtless, barefoot, gripping a snake in one hand, and I don’t mean a sexual-euphemism kind of snake, I mean an actual one.
“Hey,” he says.
“Uh. Hey.”
He holds the door so that I can come in. I bump into the doorframe, giving the snake the widest berth I can. The screen slams behind us. I follow him into the living room, and my eyes go right to the couch.
He says, “I thought you were going to the museum.”
“I was. I am. Why are you holding a snake?”
“Stowaway.”
“Is it poisonous?”
“Not this one.” He holds the snake as far away from me as his arm will allow. “Make yourself at home.” And then he walks out, screen door slamming again. Instead of sitting, I stand. I don’t look at the record player or