fingers. “Straight girls really do their research, no?”
“You don’t read the NC-17 ones, do you?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Oh, jeez.”
He clasps his heart. “Abel’s piercing green eyes danced impishly as he unbuckled Brandon’s—”
“Stop!”
“His eyes roved hungrily over the smaller boy’s body…”
I plug my ears and la-la-laaa.
“…and he thought, For such a short boy, he certainly had a long—”
“Oh my God!”
I heave a shelf of water his way and he yelps and pulls me under again. I used to hate when I was a kid and things would get rough at the pool—the big Tortelli boys sneak-attacking in the deep end, yanking us down by our feet like Jaws and holding us under until we kicked and flailed. But with Abel it’s different. He lets me push back, only touches my safe parts—my elbow, my shoulder. And way before things get scary, he hooks my wrist gently and pulls us both up to the surface.
We stand there, chest-deep, smiling and shivering. The air is full of happy smells: snack-stand lemonade, soft pretzels, pina colada sunscreen. I almost strip my wet t-shirt off. Right now, right this second, if we were on Castaway Planet and Abel said hey, let’s check out this crystal spider cave, I think I’d go with him. I’d be scared, but I’d go.
“Abel,” I say.
“Yes, my pseudo-darling.”
I grin. I’m brave as ten Cadmuses. “Never had so much fun,” I say. “With anyone.”
He looks down, swirls a finger in the water. “Pas de quoi, cutie.”
“—Okay, you horndogs.” Bec’s standing on the lip of the pool, wiggling into her polka-dot flip-flops. “You want to eat something before the Q&A?”
Abel’s face gets kid-on-Christmas bright. “The Double T?”
“I think the lunch special’s fried meatloaf.”
“Sold.” Abel grabs the ladder and hoists himself out of the pool. There’s all kinds of dripping and glistening going on. I try not to look. “You in, Bran?”
I think it over. On one hand, it’s been great this week; flirting lightly and safely for the cameras, hanging out and playing five thousand games of WordWhap with a cute nonthreatening guy who knows how screwed up I am and still wants to be my friend. On the other, there’s something I desperately have to do back at the Sunseeker, and I need to be alone.
“Bring me back some cheese fries,” I tell them.
***
I pull down the Sunseeker shades. Lock the door.
Bec gave me the camera before they left, so I take a second to upload our poolside escapade to Screw Your Sensors. While it’s loading, my phone goes off. HOME CALLING. I pick it up, all relaxed and friendly. I wow-mm-hmm politely through the latest on the new-parish-hall saga and update Dad dutifully on my RV maintenance. Yes, I cleaned the fresh water tank, sanitized the hose.
When I hang up, I go straight to the Church of Abandon.
I know what’s going to happen there in the next ten minutes. Someone will link to our new post, and there’ll be OMGs and trembling-Spongebob gifs and dissections and debates over every little thing, from the sincerity of Abel’s dear to the way my eyes lingered on his wet swim trunks. Abel and I will soak it up later, and laugh.
Right now I have a new chapter to read.
It’s normal to feel tempted, Father Mike tsks. Just distract yourself with other things. Get out in the sunshine and go for a walk…
My fingers hover over the keyboard. Plastic Sim stares at me, tipped over on Abel’s box of Ho-Hos. I straighten his legs and stand him up in my new Castaway Planet mug, beside Plastic Cadmus.
Then I find hey_mamacita’s latest post and click her name.
Her personal fic journal pops up. I click User Info, just to see her photo again. Nose ring, thick dark dreadlocks, bold Celtic-cross neck tattoo; everything says I’m brave. She’s standing in front of the neon-green Virgin Mary statue in her overgrown front yard, opening her scruffy leather jacket and showing off what’s underneath: a tight tattered t-shirt, its big red sequined heart shooting off tiny light beams like a superhero insignia.
The bio underneath is just one line:
SENT BY GOD HERSELF to make Abandon happen.
I’m not dumb enough to think that’s likely. I mean, last year when Aunt Meg met a guy in the Target returns line and Mom said “God made that sweater too small for a reason,” I rolled my eyes so hard I think I sprained an optic nerve. If God exists, there’s no way he bothers with matchmaking.
It’s eerie, though. Right?
I keep asking for