I twisted over onto my back.
Ethan hovered above me for a moment before I took hold of his shoulder and tugged him down. Then there was no space between us, just his lips on mine and sun-warmed skin on skin, with barely any clothing between us, only the thin strips of my bikini and the fabric of his swim trunks. It was easy to get lost in him, lost in sensation and warmth and touch. And I wanted to be lost because it felt so wonderfully good. It was intoxicating. I didn’t want it to end.
Which meant it wouldn’t end, if one of us didn’t do something. I put my hands on his shoulders. “Wait.”
He stilled. “Okay.”
Easy to say wait; harder to mean it when my body very much wanted to keep going. But I knew what happened afterward, I knew I felt shitty and sad and small. “We should stop.”
Ethan inhaled deeply, then rolled off me. He sat up, draping his arms over his knees. “Okay.”
I was afraid if we kept staring at each other with heavy-lidded eyes, I’d jump him again. “I’m gonna go for another swim.”
“Good idea.”
We both ran toward the water and plunged ourselves almost desperately in, Ethan screaming like a small child at the cold. The cold was probably good, distracting and draining us of our heat and energy. By the time we returned to the beach, I felt almost normal again.
Almost.
As we gathered our things, we glanced at each other once or twice, and I could feel the unspoken words bubbling between us.What are we doing? Should we talk about this?
But neither of us said anything.
Instead, we climbed the steep, treacherous stairs to the top of the bluff. “So that was fun,” Ethan said as we wound our way through the garden. From the leafy tree branches, a choir of songbirds serenaded us, while sunlight wicked the remaining water from our skin.
“Yeah,” I said. “It was fun.”
We reached the house and climbed in silence to our hall. “See you later,” Ethan said from his doorway.
“See you,” I said from mine. I watched him shut his door.
In the bathroom, I sank into the tub, the showerhead raining hot water down. What the hell was I doing? I’d been so proud of myself the night before for choosing the right thing, for not grabbing hold of Ethan when Kylie approached him. Yet here I’d made out with Ethan Barbanel a third time. I’d initiated it. I’d poured myself gleefully down a slippery slope leading to a cliff.
The problem was—IlikedEthan.
I wanted to drop my walls; I wanted to let Ethan in, to sayfull steam ahead, to believethistime it would work. Even if all signs pointed to the contrary. I even thought it might be worth it. So what if I fell for him and had my heart shattered into a million pieces? I’d done it before and survived.
But I couldn’t watch my dad go through my messy sorrow again, looking helpless and as heartbroken as me. And Idefinitelycouldn’t make him watch me be heartbroken over his protégé. What if, god forbid, he felt caught between us? Nantucket made him happy. Ethan made him proud.
So this couldn’t happen. Even if a large part of me wanted it to, it couldn’t.
I just had to keep reminding myself of that.
***
Two days later, I stepped onto Golden Doors’ lawn to find it transformed into a botanical wonderland. Flowers were arranged in colorful bouquets: green myrtle and white gardenias and pink peonies and blue hydrangeas. Helen Barbanel stoodat one end, directing two people to move vases around to the desired perfection.
I’d rarely interacted with Ethan’s grandmother this summer. I saw her plenty—she presided over dinners and Shabbats and the occasional birthday, and every afternoon she and her husband sat on the deck and drank two fingers of amber liquor. But I mostly stayed out of the way of the Barbanel adults, except for Ethan’s mom, who seemed determined to have genuine conversations about my day at least three times a week.
Now, however, Mrs. Barbanel and I were essentially alone together. I’d arrived early for the tour she’d be giving of her gardens, partially because I’d told Cora to come directly here instead of to the public meeting spot downtown. But I’d beat both her and my dad and now had to face the immaculately groomed consequences.
Mrs. Barbanel regarded me like I might regard a sea urchin—briefly interesting, but none too intelligent. “Ethan tells me you’re playing matchmaker.”
“He does?” I tried not to audibly gulp. “Uh…”
She raised her brows. “ ‘Uh’ is not a sentence.”
In my defense, she hadn’t asked a question, though I bet she thought she had. “I thought my dad and my boss might like each other.”
