“I promise. Bring the peanut butter.”
She grins before disappearing out the window.
It doesn’t really matter who we are during the day. These nights—?they’re ours. We’re not Grace Glasser or Eva Brighton. Just Grace and Eva. Two girls who need to feel young and free, need to feel like girls. Need to scream from the top of a lighthouse and eat peanut butter out of a jar and swear and accidentally brush up against each other and giggle about it.
So that’s what we do.
Chapter Twenty
FOR THE NEXT TWO WEEKS, EVA AND I FALL INTO A PATTERN. The days pass in a blur of serving onion rings and Emmy’s famous Better Than Sex pie—?yeah, that’s what it’s called on the menu, although all the little old ladies of Cape Katie call it BTS—?practicing for hours and hours at the Book Nook in the afternoons, and trying not to think about anything beyond the next sunset. My audition still feels so unreal, but as we move into the beginning of July, my stomach coils into knots every time I sit down to the piano.
Eva and I don’t talk much during the day. We work together, circling each other like acquaintances, communicating the status of ketchup bottles and fresh coffee. Twice, Mom came in for lunch. She fawned over me for about three damn seconds before smacking a kiss to my forehead and disappearing with Eva into a corner booth on Eva’s meal break. Once, they even left for the half-hour, meandering down the beach with their shoes hooked on their fingers.
I try not to think about what they’re talking about, what Eva is getting from all this. I try not to think about what Luca said about Eva getting hurt, about me getting hurt all the time.
Meanwhile, Luca and Emmy watch Mom and Eva’s interactions with narrowed eyes and tight smiles, panic brimming just under the surface. Actual panic, like Maggie’s going to swipe Eva right out from under their noses and go into hiding. It pisses me the hell off. And it worries the hell out of me. I can’t decide which emotion is stronger.
Still, I say nothing. Share nothing. Act like it’s no big deal.
But then at night, everything changes. We start at the lighthouse, eating peanut butter and laughing into the black air. Then we usually go on a bike ride or a walk on the beach. There’s a secretive quality to doing all of these things under the moonlight and stars that makes it exciting, makes it special. We talk about everything and everyone except our mothers.
Sometimes we dance around them, hinting at these two women—?one dead, one alive, both lost—?but we never quite land on them. Under the dark sky, we’re two motherless girls.
We’re whoever we want to be.
And apparently, who we want to be is friends who snuggle in bed until dawn, when Eva sneaks back to the Michaelsons’ before Emmy wakes up. Because every night, after our moonlighting, we’ve ended up back in my bedroom.
In my bed.
Under the sheets.
Legs entwined, backs pressed against chests, arms slung over waists, but never, ever more than that, and Eva’s always gone by the time I wake up.
So, as usual, on the morning of July fourth, I open my eyes to an empty bed and a tightly closed window. Also, as usual, I go through the previous night in my head—?more specifically, the minutes right before we fell asleep, when I couldn’t tell where my body stopped and hers started—?and wonder if the whole thing was a dream, some hallucination brought on by acute stress or acute exhaustion or acute what-the-fuckery that has been a staple in my life for the last fifteen years.
But there’s a little concave dent on the right side of my queen-size pillow. An Eva-shaped impression. And I know without a doubt that I fell asleep with her chin resting on top of my head, my back pressed against her stomach.
In the pale morning light, I stare at the ceiling. The dopey smile on my face slowly fades as my thoughts burgeon, because in all honesty, this whole thing Eva and I are doing is more than a little confusing. Every night our bodies wrap each other up, secrets are whispered, breath is shared—?it’s like the world’s longest make-out session without ever actually kissing.
I’ve been here before—?that weird zone after a hookup where you’re feeling each other out to see if it was just a one-time thing or has relationship potential. Except it’s always been the guy feeling things out, with me on the other end pretty much avoiding him. Eva’s certainly not avoiding me, but she’s not doing anything to confirm that what happened in the tree was more than a casual kiss to her. Maybe she just wanted to check her first kiss off her never-have-I-ever list.
So many times, I’ve wanted to just grab her and press my mouth against hers, dispel all these damn doubts. A few nights I got so bold as to brush my lips across the back of her neck, but she didn’t acknowledge it. Didn’t turn in my arms to kiss me. Once, she released a contented sigh, but that’s it, and the doubts continue to drive me nuts.
So, yes, Eva and I must be only friends. But this morning, the affectionate little friend zone we’ve got going doesn’t keep me from remembering the smell of her skin, the silky slide of her thighs against mine, or that kiss in the tree. It certainly doesn’t keep me from closing my eyes and letting my hand drift down my belly and under the waistband of my underwear. It doesn’t stop me from imagining Eva’s warm breath on my neck, her voice whispering my name as my hand dips lower. My fingers are her fingers, circling and seeking, gentle then rough. I give myself over to the whole illusion, whispering her name under my breath until the slowly building tension breaks and I bite down on my lower lip to keep from making any noise.
My body relaxes back into the mattress as my vision clears and my breath returns to normal. I lie there for a long time, listening to the house come awake, wondering what I’ll meet with when I walk outside my bedroom door. Mom drops a few eff-bombs as something that sounds like a coffee mug or a bowl crashes in the kitchen. I roll over and pull the covers up over my head. All of my nerves are still tingling, and I hug my pillow like it’s a lean, smooth-skinned body.
Yup. Totally just friends.
Cape Katie really pulls out all the stops for the Fourth of July. As I leave the bookstore and walk through town toward Luca’s, it looks like someone vomited red, white, and blue everywhere. Crepe paper snakes up lampposts, sparkly-colored streamers drip from store awnings, and the air smells like a mixture of hot dogs and sugar, which is not a totally unpleasant combination.
Luca lives in a yellow ranch-style house near the marina. Before Paul Michaelson moved to California, he was always on the water, fishing, and had even started getting into lobster fishing. He had a beautiful boat ironically named after his wife, Emmaline, that Luca and Macon have impeccably maintained since he left. If Luca’s house is my one true home—?and let’s be honest, Mom and I don’t stay anywhere long enough to make it a home—?the Michaelsons’ boat is my second. We practically live on that thing during July and August. I love the feel of the cool sea air blowing across my skin. It’s freedom and comfort, and my feet itch to feel that weightlessness underneath me today.
And, okay, maybe I’m itching to see a certain someone, but only because she’s my first real friend other than Luca.
Right?
Right.
