work and shaved and did whatever boys do before a first date. “You also smell nice.”
Connor buries his nose in my hair. “You always smell like summer. It drove me crazy when we were working together at your house that day we made lunch. Your hair smells like coconut.”
He presses a kiss to the hollow of my neck, and a shiver runs up my spine.
He gestures at the cove. “You want to go over to the party?”
“I guess. I mean, yes. Claire is dying to meet you.” Abby’s at the Crab Claw till close; I might not get to see her because of my curfew. I look down the marina, to the restaurants that jut out over the water. Their decks are full of tourists and boaters and couples out for a nice dinner, all enjoying the pretty weather. There’s no chance of her getting off early. “But I like being alone with you.”
And I don’t want to run into Charlotte Wu or Katie Griffith or anyone else who witnessed the scene with my mother—or has heard about it second or thirdhand.
“Me too.” Connor’s voice is low. “We could leave early and go back to my place for a while. If you want. No pressure.”
“I want,” I remind him, pulling his head down for another kiss. His arms go around me, his fingers tracing little circles on my lower back, and we don’t break apart until some guys walk past and holler at us to get a room.
“Jesus. Are we that couple?” I bury my face in my hands, embarrassed.
“The ones who can’t keep their hands off each other? I’m kind of okay with that.” He grins.
“I’ve never been that couple before. Not that I have a lot of experience being a couple.” I went out with Jake Usilton in ninth grade for a couple weeks. We went to the movies once and he held my hand and bought me a Coke. Then he decided he liked Riley West better. That’s pretty much all of my dating experience. “Do you? I mean, have you had many girlfriends?”
Presumably he learned how to kiss like that from someone.
“I had one girlfriend in high school, my junior and senior years. Ruby. We were pretty serious,” Connor says, and I wonder if “pretty serious” means they had sex. Probably. I mean, two years is a long time to date. “We broke up last fall. She was up at NYU and the long-distance thing didn’t work. I applied to some schools in New York too, but I got a better scholarship to come here. Couldn’t pass that up, especially with my parents looking at…” He frowns.
“Looking at what?” I ask.
He runs a hand over his closely shaven hair. “Grams has her own apartment in our basement, but if she keeps getting worse, my mom’s not going to be able to take care of her, even with a part-time nurse to help out. They’ll have to hire somebody full time. Or put her in an Alzheimer’s unit. Stuff like that’s not cheap.”
“I’m sorry.” I bite my lip, feeling guilty that I don’t have to worry about money. And feeling jealous of Ruby, who was talented enough to get into a performing arts high school and then brave enough to go to NYU.
“Anyway,” Connor continues, “I can write anywhere. And it worked out great because your grandfather is a pretty amazing mentor. I’d never get this kind of opportunity at a bigger school.”
“I submitted a poem yesterday,” I blurt out like a completely self-absorbed idiot. “Of mine. To an online lit mag.”
“Really? That’s great. Which one?” he asks, and we start toward the party, hand in hand, while I tell him about it.
To our right, the sun sets into the Bay in a riot of cotton-candy blues and pinks, and the air is soft and balmy and tinged with salt and fish. I don’t know why I’m not happier.
“You were so adamant about poetry not being your thing,” he teases me.
“I was inspired,” I say, which I guess is true—he inspires me—but I pull him to a stop just short of the rocks that separate the cove from the marina. I could keep walking, keep pretending that he and Granddad know me better than I know myself. But that’s not what I want from this. “That’s not true. I freaked out because Erica and Granddad were fighting and she said some really mean things. I was proving a point by submitting that poem. Or trying to, anyhow.”
“Ivy.”