“You’re right. You’re right.” I nod. “Stupid idea.”
It’s quiet for a minute, and then I open my mouth again. “But it’s really just review at this point, right? All stuff you already know. And you don’t have a single absence this year yet.” My voice is picking up speed. I sound like a crazy person. “And the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, not a cloud in the sky . . .”
I gesture grandly out the window, and the truck swerves in all my excitement. Josie laughs and grabs her door handle as I whip the wheel back on track.
“Sorry.” But I grin, because now she’s grinning. “I’m just a little excited.”
She presses her lips together and frowns, and I’m sure she’s going to say no. I can already feel the disappointment rising in my chest like a wave.
But then she sighs. “Well, if we’re going to go to the lake, I’m gonna need to go back and grab my bathing suit.”
Yes! I feel like pumping my fist in the air, honking the horn as loud as I can, screaming into the quiet morning, Hey everyone! Josie Sedgwick likes me enough to skip school with me!
But instead, I settle for reaching over and squeezing her knee. “Sure thing.”
I turn the truck around, and an hour and a half later, after stealthily snagging our bathing suits and some towels from Paintbrush, after winding our way through the mountains, after a minor battle over the radio, after swinging by a grimy gas station to grab potato chips and trail mix and cold sodas, we’re here. We dump our stuff in the sand right next to the quietly lapping lake water and stretch out in the lazy sun. Besides an older couple at the other end of the beach and a woman playing fetch with her slobbery Great Dane, we are entirely alone.
Lake Margaret is big and beautiful, but it gets crazy crowded in the summer. There’s always screaming children playing tag on the little beach and sunburnt old men chewing tobacco and very plump ladies stuffed into very tiny swimsuits who blare Top 40 radio at full volume. It’s kind of a mess, and I avoid it like the plague. But right now, in the lull before school lets out, before it gets blazingly hot—it’s perfect.
“I’m skipping school,” Josie says from next to me, like she’s amazed by this fact. She’s wearing jean shorts and a men’s Hawaiian print button-up shirt, and the sunglasses perched on top of her head are a bright-pink thrift store find. She props herself up on her elbows. “I’ve never skipped school before.”
“Nerd.” I grin at her. She looks like an obnoxious tourist. A hot obnoxious tourist.
She rolls her eyes. “Right. Like you’ve skipped so much school.”
I shrug. “I’m a man of mystery.” But she’s right. If I skipped school, I wouldn’t be allowed to participate in after-school activities. And since my whole life has revolved around after-school activities, skipping definitely wasn’t an option.
She shakes her head. “You’re a nerd. Just like me.”
“I know.” I sigh.
She laughs and flips over onto her stomach. “Well, I always meant to be more of a rebel in high school. So this day is just crossing a number off my high school bucket list.”
“And a chance to spend the day with an adorable and charming guy,” I add.
“Really? Where is he?” She puts her hand over her eyes and pretends to scan the beach.
I reach over and shove her shoulder. “He should be arriving any moment. Jerk.”
She laughs. “Good. He sounds great.”
She looks at me, eyes crinkled from smiling, a faint blush on her cheeks, and I lean over and kiss her. It’s instinctive, practically. Like I can’t help it.
It’s just a peck, but the blush on her cheeks deepens. My heart does a cartwheel across my chest, because her embarrassment is actually adorable, and because kissing her is the best. But also I want her to like kissing me, not to be scared of it.
I sit up. “Speaking of bucket lists.” I point across the lake. “See that dock over there?”
She sits up and follows my finger, shielding her eyes from the sun. “The floating one in the middle?”
“Yep.” I nod. “I’ve always wanted to swim out there and dive off.”
She scoops up a pile of sand. “Why haven’t you?”
“There are always too many people here. I feel like I have to fight my way through the water.”
She lets the sand drift through her fingers, gazing across the water. She smacks the last few grains from her hands and hops to her feet.
“So let’s go.” With one quick motion, she pulls off her shirt and tosses it onto the sand. Her shorts go the same way, and then she’s running into the lake.
I stand up and do the same, and do my best not to stare at her. Or at least to only stare at her when she’s not looking.
I catch up to Josie, and we wade in together. The late May air might be warm already, but the late May water sure isn’t. I stop and shiver, but next to me Josie splashes her way forward and dives right in. She surfaces a few yards away, rubbing her eyes and beaming.
“Is that captain of the swim team really last in the water?” she taunts.
“No way.” I point at her. “If you want to play that game, you have to announce it first. As in, last one in is a rotten egg. Or whatever.”
She paddles in circles. “How about, last one in the water is incredibly pathetic? Last one in the water is the type of dude who irons his jeans? Last one in the water eats his french fries with a knife and fork?”
“Okay, okay. I get it.” I hold up my hands and wade in a little deeper. Jesus, it’s cold.
“Last one in the water gets sorted into Hufflepuff,” Josie continues in a sing-song voice. “Last one in the water has a rolling backpack. Last one in the water—”
“That’s it.” I launch myself into the water, cutting through the glass surface in perfect diving form.
This. This one perfect moment is why I love swimming. The moment when I’m finally submerged and feel like I can breathe again. The medals and the championships and the teammates—those were all nice too. But this shock to the system, this clarity, this weightlessness—it’s why I keep coming back to the water, again and again and again.
It’s clear under the surface, and Josie’s feet tread water just a few yards in front of me. A few powerful kicks and I’m there, my hand circling her ankles and yanking her down. I hear her muffled screech before she plunges under.
When we come up, she’s sputtering and I’m cracking up.
“I can’t even be mad.” She pushes her wet hair out of her face. “I deserved that.”
“Yeah. You did.”
She splashes me, sending a spray over both of us. A bead of water drips down her forehead, over her nose and lips, and I want to kiss that drop of water away.
But if I start, I might not be able to stop, and then we’ll both drown.
“So.” She nods toward the dock, a good two hundred yards away. “Ready?”
“I was born ready.”
She rolls her eyes and starts to swim. “Always so dramatic.”
She cuts through the lake in thick, steady strokes, moving surprisingly fast. Of course, if I wanted to, I could really kick myself into high gear and leave her in the proverbial dust. But instead, I keep in pace with her. By the time we reach the floating dock, we’re matched almost perfectly, stroke for stroke.
I haul myself up, the dock shaking precariously underneath me. It’s not much—really just a square floating piece of worn wood covered in a thin layer of mossy, lakey slime. Who knows who put it out here or when or why. But I love it.
Josie throws one leg over the edge and hoists herself up next to me. We sit cross-legged, right across from each other, knees barely touching, hair dripping.
“There’s really not that much room up here, is there?” She leans forward and flicks a tiny fly off the side of the dock.
“This town’s not big enough for the both of us?” I make my hand into a gun and point it at her.
She points her own hand gun back. “Exactly.”
/>
“So is one of us going to push the other off?” I raise my eyebrows. “Do we have a Titanic situation on our hands here?”
“Yep. And I hate to break it to you, but I’m Rose and you’re Jack.”
“Um, no way. You’re Jack.” I make a move to push her off, and she shrieks and grabs my hand to stop me.
“No!” She shakes her head, laughing. “If you push me off, I might never be able to get back on.”
“Fine.” I pause. “But only if you admit that I’m Rose.”
“Fine. But only because of your ladylike good looks and fine manners.”
“Don’t forget my giant diamond necklace. And the way I like to recline naked on couches while I get my portrait sketched.”
“How could I?” She grins, and I grin back, and I realize we are still holding hands.
Slowly, I reach for her other hand. She meets me halfway, weaving our fingers together and clasping tightly. She squeezes both my hands, and that’s it—I tug her closer until our foreheads are touching, and then our noses, and then our lips.
She breathes a small sigh as our lips touch, and it makes me want to crash into her and roll around with her on the ground and kiss every inch of her face and her neck and her everything else. Softly, I bite her lip, and she tugs a hand through my hair and grabs a handful, anchoring me in place. She kisses my cheekbones, my neck, my closed eyes, my chin—she is all over the place, she is everywhere, and for once I am not the one making all the moves. And it feels so, so good.
So good, in fact, that I don’t realize I’m clutching her a little too close, don’t realize that I’m tugging her onto my lap, don’t realize that my hand on the curve of her waist is pushing us both off balance—until we’re both tumbling into the water.
Later, we’re lying on our beach towels, side-by-side, on our stomachs, reading. It’s a little bit hard to concentrate with her this close, her damp bathing suit outlining her soft lines and muscled arms and slightly freckled skin. But I’m making it work because I’m finishing up Pride and Prejudice, and it’s actually really good.
I slap the book closed with a resounding smack. “Are you kidding me?”
Josie jumps, alarmed. “What?”
“She ends up with him?”
“Elizabeth? And Mr. Darcy?” A slow smile creeps across her face. “Well, yeah. They’re only the most famous literary couple in the history of literary couples. What did you think would happen?”
“Not that.” I shake my head. “He was such a jerk to her. In the beginning. I thought Elizabeth was better than that.”
She sits up. “Well, Elizabeth wasn’t that nice, either.” She wraps her towel around her shoulders. “Besides, he redeemed himself.”
I sit up too. “He basically called her ugly. And then she told him he was a dick. How could you get past that?” I stretch out my legs. “Like, how would a relationship ever work, after that?”
She shrugs. “They forgave each other.” She pulls on her wet hair, combing it with her fingers. “And they had a history together. Good or bad, that’s gotta count for something.”
She weaves her hair into a braid, towel draped over her shoulder, face pink in the sun. Her mouth scrunches up a little in concentration, and she focuses on the ground, like she’s lost in thought. Like she’s really and truly thinking her hardest about Elizabeth and Darcy.
“You should come with me,” I blurt out.
Her eyes snap back up to mine as she pulls a hair tie around her braid. “What?”
What am I doing? I pause for a second, take a breath, and realize that, yes, I’m being serious. This is a good idea. This is what I want.
I swallow. “When I leave next week. For the summer. You should come with me.”
Her eyes widen, and then her eyebrows furrow, and then she opens her mouth. Then closes it again.
“What are you talking about?” she asks.
My face heats up, and I rub my palms on my thighs. “I’ll be traveling for the summer. Road tripping out to whatever national park I get hired at. Seeing the country, hiking around, swimming in every lake and river I can find.” I take a deep breath. “And you should come with me.”
She bites her lip, and there’s a long pause. Actually, it’s only like five seconds. But for me, it’s excruciating. Real physical pain.
“I don’t know, Mitchell.” She pulls her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs. “We don’t even know each other that well.”
I laugh. “Are you kidding me? Josie, we’ve known each other forever. Our whole entire lives.”
She cracks a small smile. “I know that.” She tugs the towel closer around her. “But being with you like . . . like this”—she gestures back and forth between us—“it’s new. You know? It feels like you’re a whole new person, practically. Like I’ve really only known you a week or two.”
“Maybe you should kiss me more,” I suggest. “Really get to know me.”
Her face bursts into flames, and she reaches out and shoves me. I shove her back, and we go toppling over onto the sand.
Our faces are close, and my arm is draped over her stomach. She stares at me, her wide eyes searching my face, and I reach up and rub my thumb over her cheekbone.
Finally, I put my head down on her shoulder. “You don’t have to say anything now,” I whisper. “Just . . . think about it.”
She runs her hand over my damp hair and whispers back. “Okay.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Josie
When Mitchell and I were little—like really little—we hung out naked a lot. Summers were always hot, and Carrie and my mom would toss us in this little blue plastic pool or let us crawl around in the grass or sit in the Sanctuary eating handfuls of Cheerios—all while we were totally nude. We were young, maybe five, and it was summertime, and clothes were hot and itchy. Plus, when we inevitably smeared dirt or food or mud or juice on ourselves, there were no clothes to wash. Just a toddler to wipe down. So being naked was totally normal. Nothing sexual about it.
Now, Mitchell and I are hanging out all the time with our clothes on, and there is everything sexual about it. Not like actual sex or anything. Not even anything particularly juicy or scandalous. Just . . . the way he toys with the hem of my shirt while we’re kissing or traces circles on the small of my back. Or the way he sometimes grabs my face with both hands when he kisses me, like he’s worried I’ll pull away. Or how he makes this low humming sound deep in his throat when I kiss his neck—like he’s trying to be quiet, but he just can’t. It’s not any one big thing, like sex or third base or second base or any other baseball metaphor. It’s just a thousand tiny things.
And the tiny things aren’t just sexy things. It’s also the way his eyes light up when I say his name. And a few nights ago, when we watched a movie, he kept looking at me during the funny parts to make sure I was laughing too. And the way he casually mentions things like my mom’s birthday—April fourth—or my least favorite band—Insane Clown Posse—or the time I fell out of a tree and skinned both my knees in third grade—on a dare. The way I’ve been taking up space in his brain for forever, without even knowing it.
So it’s a thousand tiny emotional things, plus the thousand tiny sexy things. Which all adds up to one big . . . something. I think. It’s been over a week since we skipped school, a string of days full of kissing and sneaking around and late night talks, and it feels like we’re dating. And it’s a pretty good feeling.
But we can’t be dating. Because Mitchell is leaving. And I’m not going to be the girl who gets left behind. And I’m also not going to be the girl who trails across the country after her boyfriend like a pathetic puppy dog.
I’m not really sure what kind of girl that leaves me to be. Which is what I’m trying to communicate to Leah. It’s our last lunch together in the cafeteria. Ever. Tomorrow is finals, and then we have Friday off. And then, graduation.
“I think it’s cute,” Leah declares. She bites into her gooey chocolate chip coo
kie. We both got cookies and soda for lunch—last day calls for a celebratory meal.
“Following a boy around is not cute,” I reply.
Leah rolls her eyes. “Yes, it is. He likes you. He wants you to come with him. You’re not following him; you’re going with him.”
“Same thing.”
“Nope. It’s not.”
I take a big bite and let the warm chocolate melt on my tongue. Yum. Nine-hundred delicious calories.
I swallow my mouthful. “What’s gonna happen when we’re hundreds of miles away from home, prancing around Yellowstone or Montana or Florida or wherever, and he decides he’s sick of me? Then what?”
Leah stares at me.
I glance down at my shirt, but it’s clean. “What? Is there something on my face?”
“What’s the matter with you?” she demands. Her bright-red nails click impatiently on the plastic table. “Why would he get sick of you?”
My face heats up. “Oh, please. You know why.”
“I absolutely do not.”
I gesture down at myself. “I’m not his usual type. You know?” I swallow. “I’m not sexy enough for him.”
Leah slams her fist down onto the table, and I jump as all the dishes and silverware shake.
“Unacceptable!” she shouts, and several people look at us.
“What the hell, Leah?” I hiss.
“It’s completely unacceptable for you to say things like that about yourself. You are smart. You are kind. And you are way, way sexy.” She shakes her head. “Please stop underestimating how hot you are, and just own it.”
My face is really burning now. “Oh my god, Leah.”
“I’m serious.” She points at me. “Mitchell should be thanking God and Buddha and Zeus and anyone else he can think of every second of every day that he gets to kiss you.” She picks up her cookie. “And from the sound of it, he probably already is.”
I shake my head, but I can’t stop myself from smiling. “You know you’re ridiculous, right?”
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