“Say he’s your boyfriend and you were supposed to have an adventure.”
“Do I know this person?”
“It doesn’t matter.” The last thing I’m in the mood for is another lecture on Jeremiah Crew.
She frowns because of course she knows who I’m talking about. “Hold on.” She marks her place with her finger and starts flipping through the book until she finds what she’s looking for. “I would say, ‘There are no ambitions noble enough to justify breaking someone’s heart.’ ” She waves it at me. “Colleen McCullough.”
“That’s a wise book.”
“It is.”
I write this quote in my notebook and circle it a hundred times. I replay our last conversation again and again, looking for plumes of smoke, earth tremors, something I did wrong or he did wrong, some clue as to why he didn’t show up. If I had his phone number, I could text him or call him, but he hasn’t given it to me and he doesn’t have mine because he gave it back.
He could be with another girl, someone from Jacksonville. Someone I don’t even know about who has a lot more experience and is easier and loves nature and has long, flowing hair and skin that doesn’t burn in the sun.
I tell myself: Calm down. Be rational. Be Thinking Claude, not Emotional Claude. Why do you always have to assume the worst?
He could be dead somewhere. I should be worried, not angry, because what if something horrible has happened to him? He could have been attacked by wild hogs or drowned in the marsh or eaten by a gator. I picture every scenario, including the look on his face as he’s swallowed whole and then spit back out onto the ground, nothing but bones for someone to take photos of or turn into a mobile.
I feel so, so stupid.
Because he made me trust him and tell him all my things, when he probably never really cared to begin with and was always going to stand me up as soon as something better came along. This is what I get for letting myself stop thinking for, like, a second about all the things he could do to my heart. And now he’s left and taken the floor with him, along with all the things I’ve told him and my virginity. This is what you get for caring.
But when I get home to Addy’s and my note is still attached to the door and there’s no sign that he was ever there, I know what this is. This is Miah fucking things up because he’s happy.
DAY 16
At ten the next morning, Jeremiah Crew shows up on my front porch—bare feet, swim trunks, The Endless Summer T-shirt—like nothing ever happened. He bangs on the door and I come outside, and from what I can see, he appears to be intact from head to toe, no bruises, scars, or missing limbs.
“Oh, good,” I say. “You’re alive.”
“I said I’d meet you at ten.” He cracks a smile, trying to make things light, trying to be my best friend. The dents at the corners of his mouth are flashing at me, attempting to seduce me into forgiveness.
“Ten yesterday. At the beach. Where I waited.”
“Shit, is it today already?” He pretends to look for his phone, even though he never carries one.
“I thought you might be dead or off with another girl. I mean, as far as I know, there are hundreds of them.”
“That’s why I like you, Captain: you’ve got an incredible imagination.” He leans against the doorframe—so casual but not casual. I catch a whiff of him and he smells like the ocean.
I stand as rigid as one of the columns on this porch, not about to bend toward him even a little. “I’m being serious. I don’t even have your phone number.”
“Even if you did, you wouldn’t have been able to call me.”
“That’s not the point.”
“So I’ll give it to you.”
“I don’t want it.”
He straightens, abandoning the doorframe. “Okay, so you’re basically saying, what? You can’t trust me? Or is it that you can’t trust anyone?”
“Don’t turn this around on me. Where were you?”
“I had something I had to take care of. Come on, let’s go. We could both use an adventure.” And he turns around, expecting me to follow him.
“Was it work-related?”
He pauses on the steps, one hand on the railing, squinting up at me. “No.”