He lifts up on his arms. “I’m really supposed to be studying. Whopper geology test on Monday.”
I turn my head to the side and face away from him. “Of course. I’ve got tons to do, also.”
The next few minutes are awful. A horribly awkward scene while we extricate ourselves from each other’s hold; me muttering an idiotic thank-you for the help with my playlist, and Chris looking apologetic as he yanks on his shirt, only making me feel worse.
After a stupidly casual good-bye, I rush from his room before he can say anything else. The walk from his room up to mine is unforgivingly long. Talk about a walk of shame. I slam the door to my room and fling myself onto the bed.
I sniff. Well, fuck, I certainly don’t smell great. That’s one problem. Perhaps my stench drove him away? It’s not like I planned on stripping off his shirt when I went to his room. I roll over and drop one hand to the floor. A few flights down, Christopher is probably now studying the boring layers of the earth or something, and here I am, all sorts of bewildered.
But, damn, that was hot. Even though I don’t know why Chris pulled away, or what I did wrong, that was still hot.
And that is enough to make me smile.
JULY TWENTY-FIRST
“I’M GOING DOWNto the water,” Blythe calls into the house and then leans forward on the deck’s wooden railing. Even with all the trees, there is still an amazing view of the ocean cove, the water sparkling in the midafternoon light. And she loves that briny smell, especially strong now, at low tide. The stink always makes her younger brother, James, wrinkle his nose, but she breathes it in with pleasure.
“Have fun at the clam graveyard hour!” James shouts. That’s what he calls low tide. Blythe’s repeated explanations that the smell has nothing to do with dying clams, and that, in fact, the clams are just fine and perfectly alive, does nothing to make him like it any better. Or understand her love for it.
The truth for his sour attitude, she thinks, is that James is still pissed that she was the one to choose their vacation house from the list of possible rentals her parents printed out.
It didn’t seem worth being pissy about. It was only for two weeks, after all. Once the fourteen days were up, Blythe’s family would finally be able to move into their new summerhouse in Bar Harbor, a house called The Stone’s Throw, where the current owners were taking longer than expected to pack up their things. The delay was a surprise, and put Blythe’s parents in an awkward spot; by mid-July, it was virtually impossible to find any place to rent near popular Bar Harbor. That’s how they ended up in Chilford, a couple hours south, in an old house.
Luckily, it turned out to be a fine substitute vacation home for the place in Bar Harbor, and they settled in right away.
Blythe knows that fun, easy vacations aren’t easy to come by for most families, but hers pulls them off every time. She knows that’s mostly because her parents walk that magic line between being involved in her life and giving her space to grow up on her own. Plus, her brother is pretty damn great, too. It seems like she and James should fight more given that she is seventeen and he is fifteen, but they don’t. He is levelheaded, disciplined, and reasonable—many things that she is not. But under that cool exterior, he is kind. Truly, incredibly, deeply kind. And miraculously modest, considering that he is the top-ranked soccer player in Massachusetts. She is definitely the more carefree and sillier of the two, but James seems to appreciate that about her. They are a good pair.
“Hey, James! Jamie!” she hollers. “The dying clams want to say hello to you! Come down to the beach with me!”
“What? My God, quit yelling, you nut.” Her brother slides open the screen door and puts his hands on his hips. “We’re on a relaxing vacation. Soft voices, calm attitudes.” He half smiles, and the spark in his eye tells her that he is most definitely in a good mood.
“Come swimming! It’s a perfect blue-sky afternoon. There’s a dock not too far out that we can swim to.”
“I just scarfed down a massive sandwich. Later, okay? I’ll have to work off the six pounds of food I ate.” He pats his muscled stomach. He is a good-looking kid, Blythe knows, yet so far he has resisted the nearly incessant phone calls and overall interest from swooning girls. Soccer is his priority. “You shouldn’t swim that far alone, though,” he continues. “Take the boat, and I’ll watch you from up here.”
“Okay, Mr. Responsible. You can rescue me if I start to drown. I’m no hotshot soccer star, but I can swim well enough.” It’s true. She is a good swimmer. Her strokes and form might not be pretty by swim team standards, but she is capable of handling herself in even rough ocean water. All of her general athletic failings don’t seem to matter in the water. She feels strong in the water, and more than that, she just loves the feeling of buoyancy. Nothing compares to being cradled and moved by the force of the ocean. You just have to be aware of its power. She hears her father’s words in her head:Never forget that the current, the tides, the waves… they are all smarter than you are. They are in charge. It’s your job to listen. Don’t ever stop listening.
Her father was right. And so Blythe always listens to what the water tells her. “Fine, fine, stay here. I’ll be back in a bit. Wanna do steamers and lobsters for dinner? I saw a guy on the side of the road with a seafood shack. We can cook for Mom and Dad!”
“You got it,” he says, smiling. “Have fun.”
The path from the house to the shore runs under tall evergreens and is lined with feathery ferns. Blythe likes the way the leaves tickle her legs and how the rocky terrain makes her take her time getting to the water. She wants to slow down in general while here. This Maine vacation will be the calm before the storm. College applications are ahead of her in the fall, her senior year of high school: SATs and then forms, interviews, and freak-outs. Matthews is her top choice, obviously. Her parents met there, and aside from that cool aspect is the plain truth that it is an excellent college. She doesn’t want to go to an overpopulated university where she’d get lost in a sea of students. Frat parties and campus chaos are not her thing. Matthews is going to be her school. It has to. She even has on a frayed Matthews shirt right now. The pale blue lettering is chipped in more places than she can count and the red background is now closer to pink, but she doesn’t care how ragged the shirt is. It is her favorite. The Wisconsin winters would suck, obviously, but the beautiful campus and dynamic professors would make up for that. Blythe sort of hates that she will have to put down on her application that both her parents went there, because she wants to get in on her own merit, but she also isn’t entirely above using that connection if it can guarantee her an acceptance. If that’s what gets her in, then she will just have to validate the shit out of their decision to admit her once she’s there.
The thought of all the work that lies ahead of her makes her even more determined to enjoy every minute of the summer. Which is pretty easy to do, considering the house has its own section of private beach. Blythe much prefers this shell-covered shoreline and cold, rough water to the perfectly smooth white sand and warm aqua water at tropical resorts. Maine feels real to her, and much less showy. The boulders that are covered in seaweed, the barnacle-encrusted tide pools, and the salty air that invades every pore of her body; this is what makes Maine special.
She walks to the end of the narrow dock and tosses her things into the old rowboat that is tied up. She throws on the still-damp orange life vest and easily starts rowing out to the square floating dock that rocks with the waves, her boat bouncing playfully in the water. Blythe loves being around people, but she likes her privacy almost as much, and adores how this dock is like her own island in the middle of the cove. She reaches it a few minutes later and clambers on top of it, situating herself on her towel. At three thirty in the afternoon, the sun is still strong, but a slight chill from the cold water blows over her. She has her bathing suit on under her clothes, but she will try to warm up in the sun before she dives into the Atlantic. She kicks off her sneakers and removes her shorts, but keeps on her shirt.
Blythe lies down on her stomach and rests her head on her crossed arms. The sound. Oh, the sound of small waves lapping against the dock is hypnotic, and the sun burning on the back of her legs is nicely tempered by the ocean air. Bliss. The dock rocks under her, and she gives herself up to the will of the ocean, succumbing to the unpredictable rhythm of the water and her daydreams.
After what could be hours or minutes, Blythe isn’t sure which, she lifts her head, her contentment broken, but broken by what, she doesn’t know. She looks around. The rowboat is still tied to the dock. Nothing is amiss. She shakes her head. Blythe scans the shore to her right and studies the houses. Some are too far back or too shielded by foliage to see, while others are clearly visible.
Movement on the opposite shore makes her look straight ahead. Someone is walking slowly where the water hits the land. She props her chin on her hands. From this distance it is hard to see the figure too clearly, but she guesses that it’s a boy about her age. He’s tall, with dark hair peeking out from under a baseball hat. He has on tan cargo shorts, and no shirt or shoes. And he is carrying two large metal buckets, one in each hand. She watches as he plods slowly through the sand, wades a few feet through the heavy low-tide mud into the ocean, and then empties the water-filled buckets. He pauses a moment, tips his head back, and stands still. Maybe taking in the spectacular day? Or maybe something else.
The boy leans over and refills each bucket with water. Slowly he stands and brings the pails to his side and begins walking, obviously weary, back down the shoreline where he’d come from. He keeps his arms slightly bent at the elbows, flexing his muscles to keep the buckets from hitting his legs. When he reaches what is likely the end of his property line, he plods back into the water and dumps his buckets again. For ten minutes, Blythe stares entranced as he repeats this ritual over and over. What on earth is he doing? Does he have some sort of compulsive disorder that requires him to repeat mundane acts over and over until his brain is satisfied? Although she would hardly call this activity mundane. Buckets of water are heavy, even for someone with his strong build, and the repetition has to be tiring him out. Perhaps it is some kind of physical conditioning exercise? He could be a sports nut like her brother. She continues staring.
Twenty minutes must go by. His pace remains the same, but his physical pain is easy to see. He has to be hurting. She stands up and brings her hand to shield her eyes.
Ten more minutes.
