I’m sorry… son?It would seem Shepard wasn’t honest with me either.
Out of all the possible scenarios, I never imagined finding my cabin nested between two pieces of my past.
Reed takes my silence as a sign to back up the driveway. Where the top of the slope converges with the road, the trailer comes into view once more.
The sound of the tires rotating over the gravel draws Miles to a stop, but he doesn’t look up from the pile of wood at his feet. Not until Reed eases the truck onto the shoulder of the road and heads toward town do I see Miles lift his haunted eyes to mine in the side mirror, watching as we drive away.
It takes five minutes to get to the marina from the cabin, and Reed parks the truck in an open spot by the road. Both the restaurant and the parking lot are overflowing.
He reaches over my lap, opening the glove box. When he pulls his hand back out, a pair of small silver keys held together by an air-filled keychain in the shape of a tube rest in the palm of his hand, and a CD sits on the center of his pointer finger. He gives it a spin, and the light from the sun refracts off the back, making tiny rainbow disco lights across the dash.
“You’re a partier, aren’t you?”
Smirking, he tucks it in his pocket. “I know how to have a good time.” Then, dangling the silver keys in front of his grin, he says, “Come on!”
Everything Reed does is at a run. Like he’s always in hurry but not because he thinks he’ll be late. Rather, he might miss something good if he doesn’t chase what’s next. It’s making me live on a steady dose of adrenaline in his presence, and it’s a high I’m not sure I ever want to come down from.
In a row of white speed boats, Reed’s is neon orange. He hops over the edge and then grabs my hand to help me on board. There’s a seat across from the driver’s side that I take. Goose bumps prickle up my arms with the wind’s draft. Now I see why he asked me to bring a sweatshirt.
Reed slips the CD he was carrying into the disc reader and cranks the volume. The opening line of “Man! I Feel Like a Woman!” barrels through the speakers. We both laugh as we coast out past a series of yellow buoys, and then Reed floors the gas. My hair no longer bevels but whips behind my ears. A smile plasters my face as he jets along the shoreline. He’s navigating the boat with his eyes trained on me. I grip the dash in front of my seat and force my short legs to stand. Throwing my arms in the air I screech into the wind. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt freer than I do right now. It’s something I’ve been chasing for months.
Reed shouts over the sound of the boat cutting against the choppy waves. “Make her squeal, check!”
I like that he makes me feel like this.
He speeds along until he finds a deserted spot to slow the boat to a stop. It’s close enough to the shoreline to see rows and rows of cabins. There’s one that looks like the White House if it were planted in Bear Lake. When the boat stills, the water continues to lap against the sides. We bob along and stare at the milky clouds.
“It’s really something out here,” I say. My stomach floats up into the sky. I forgot how buoyant happiness can feel.
“Yeah, it is,” he says.
“Any other art in the world would never measure up to this.”
He rocks his head back and forth. “It’s beautiful, but I disagree. I’ve seen art that doesn’t even need color to be beautiful.”
I know he’s referring to my art, and I don’t want to go there. I still don’t even know if that’s me any longer.
“Just so you know, I don’t sketch anymore.” There’s an edge to my voice I hide behind, afraid he will press me on it. But when I look over at him, there’s a playful gleam in his eye.
“Then what does Teddy Fletcher like to do for fun?”
My stomach floats back down from the clouds and twists in a knot. The truth is, I haven’t done anything fun in a long time. And maybe I’ve forgotten how. But when Reed senses my hesitation, he grabs my hand and pulls me toward the back of the boat, stripping off his shirt.
“What are you doing?” I panic.
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
“It looks like you…” The sentence dies on my tongue as he shimmies his jeans down his legs and reveals a pair of very tight briefs. “—forgot your swimsuit,” I finish, and it comes out sort of strangled.
He chuckles and a blush creeps up my neck like a thorny rose vine that just might be the end of me.
“I don’t need one for what we’re doing. Turn around,” he instructs.
I do it on instinct, freaking out about what I’ll find when I turn back. I gasp when I hear a giant splash. I spin back around to the most infectious grin I’ve ever seen bobbing in the water.
“Your turn,” he taunts, droplets dripping from the ends of his hair. He combs them away from his forehead with his fingertips.
I don’t know if I can do this. I mean, I know I said Iwantedto do this, but maybe that was hypothetical. Maybe deep down I do need permission to do this.
