by Alexis Bass
He raises his eyebrows. “What would you have me do, then?” There’s an edge in his voice.
“We leave now”—I’m talking a million miles a minute—“going as fast as we can—how fast can this thing go?”
He smiles again, his eyes on me like he’s watching me, like he’s looking for something, but they still seem sad. Like he wishes it could be that simple.
“I’m surprised you aren’t listening to me, after I saved you out there.”
“You’re right, you’re right—you saved my life. Thank you, by the way. But I’ll have to take it from here. And I’m going to wait it out.”
He gets up and opens a compartment below a seat on the inside edge of the boat. He pulls out a first aid kit. I watch as he rummages through its contents until he finds the sanitizer and a bandage. He holds it out to me. “That’ll get infected.” He motions to my wrist.
I hesitate, because I still think he is making a mistake staying here like a sitting duck, but he’s right about my cut, so I take it from him.
“The least you can do, I guess, since I saved your life.”
It’s not really that he’s being nice; it’s to nudge me on my way. Clean yourself up, and then scram.
“You really thought they were going to kill you?” I dab my cut with the sanitizer, pressing hard against my skin with the bandage to quell the stinging.
“What—no.” He shakes his head. “No, they weren’t going to kill me. Of course not.”
“You just said I saved your life.”
“It’s an expression. You rescued me, sure. I needed badly to get away from them, and you made that possible. That’s why I said that.”
I don’t believe him.
“What did they want?” I ask.
He ignores me, sifting through the first aid kit again, then devoting all his concentration to shaking out the instant cold pack before he sits down and begins fashioning it to his ankle using a compression bandage.
“You’ll want to elevate that to keep it from swelling,” I say.
“You’re sort of … bossy, you know.” But he’s smiling again, a barely there upward tug of his lips.
“And yet you refuse to listen to me, to take any of my advice, even after I saved your life.”
He stares at me for a moment but does not elevate his ankle. “Again, the only thing I was in danger of is a concussion. They would not have killed me.”
I nod. Sure—except: “But you stabbed one of them.”
He leans back against the seat and this time doesn’t look directly at me. “It was self-defense. I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t trying to hurt him. We were in a fight—they outnumbered me. I did what I had to do to get away.”
He doesn’t know it’s always best to stick to one excuse. And also that the best way to get someone to believe you is to make eye contact.
When he looks at me, it’s only to make sure he’s convinced me, his expression asking, Okay? Is that good enough?
“Why were you in a fight?”
“What’s with the interrogation?” He throws his hands up, but his smile counters his annoyance.
I watch him, trying to gauge how truly irritated with me he really is. “Just making sure I saved the right side.” I wait for another slight, can’t-help-it smile, and he does not disappoint.
“Money—I owe them money,” he says. “Isn’t that why everyone fights?”
“I’ve always thought physical violence was a stupid way to get money from someone.”
“Right.” It’s all he says.
“But now maybe you’ll pay what you owe them.”
“Maybe.”
“How much money do you owe them?”
“It was just a poker game.”
“How much?” I ask again.
“A lot.” His face scrunches like he’s concentrating. Likely he’s trying to pick an answer out of the sky but wants to appear serious about this topic.
“Do you need help coming up with it?”
“Are you offering me money?” He laughs, shakes his head. “It’s fine, I don’t know—I can ask my parents to help or dip into my savings or something.” Too many answers. “What?”
I am staring at him with a look of indignant surprise. They were going to beat the shit out of him, kill him probably, and he chose to meet them here in the deserted part of the island, carefully hiding his boat like he knew he would need to stay hidden, just for money that he can simply borrow from his parents or get from a savings account? Something does not make sense. Also, he is a terrible liar.
“You are a terrible liar.”
“I’m not sure why this is any of your business.” He breaks open another cold pack and lays the large clump over his eye.
“I was only trying to help.” Now would be a good time to storm off; he’s lying to me and treating me like I’m getting in his way, and whatever is chasing him isn’t my problem. But—“You’re doing that all wrong.”
“Is there really a wrong way to hold ice to your face?”
He should be using a smaller cold pack that won’t be so overwhelming against the bruising on his face. And that’s not the only thing he’s doing wrong.
I grab the large cold pack from him and press it against the other side of his ankle, grabbing a towel that’s resting on the seat and using it to cradle his foot. It also helps hold the cold pack in place properly, to give his whole ankle the icing it truly needs. I pull his foot up, laughing to myself at how this surprises him, and he grips the seat with both hands to balance himself as I set his foot on the driver’s seat so it’s nearly elevated. I break apart and shake out another cold pack, this one much smaller, and place it carefully over his cheek. He cringes when I move it closer to the bruising by his nose. Almost instinctively, I press my free hand against his shoulder to calm him. He breathes out slowly, keeping his eyes on mine.
I like that he’s letting me do this—that he knows to trust me, even though I’m peppering him with questions and opinions, and he’s seen what a brilliant liar I can be and how much better I am at it than he is.
“Take a breath,” I say. “It hurts now, but you’ll be glad later.”
“Are you a doctor or something?” His jaw is still tensed, but he manages a smile.
“I was a clumsy child.”
This gets a real laugh out of him, but he doesn’t say anything else. He seems like he needs it—the laughter. Even if it’s fleeting and shallow. I like that I can give it to him. I brought him to safety, but getting him to laugh somehow seems like a rescue, too.
He takes another deep breath before he looks at me, and when he does, I feel myself breathe out, too. I stare into his eyes, gray and stormy, and realize they are the only part of him that is completely honest. They do not lie, they do not make jokes or excuses, and right now, they are saying thank you. When I first met him, they were desperate; then they were sad. They are the eyes of a person who thought they were going to die.
“I should probably get going.” I let go of his shoulder, remembering that I didn’t bring my phone and the New Browns have no way of reaching me when they are ready to go.
This is what he wants anyway, to be left alone.
“Do you know how to get back to—”
“I can figure it out,” I say. If he wants to be scarce with his information, I’ll be limited with mine.
“Okay,” he says, attempting to stand as though he plans to see me off like a gentleman. I press down on his shoulder, encouraging him to stay seated.
“Good luck,” I tell him, not looking back, so careful not to look back at his handsome face, those sad and grateful eyes, that smile full of abandon, as I ease myself over the boat and into the water.
I walk back the way I came. No sign of anyone. Not Archaletta or the guy in the red hat or the short and stocky guy. I pass the creek where I cut my arm, and the rock Finn and I hid behind. There’s something there. A small dark object. It’s a brick of a phone. Old, too. A flip phone, cheap looking. Probably pay-by
-the-minute; untraceable, like he is on the run in all areas of his life. I know it’s his phone, not only because we were here behind this rock but because it’s speckled in blood.
I open it, power it to life. There’s a notification of a text message, and I open it.
What did you see? Hello?
It’s the only message on the phone, and it’s from an unnamed number. The contacts list is empty, as well as the call log.
It shouldn’t surprise me, I guess. But it does. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this intrigued.
Chapter 7
I was gone for too long. I can see it in the way George’s forehead is creased and his eyes won’t meet mine. Trisha is quiet; her face carries a forced-pleasant expression. I recognize it. Whenever the principal was left alone with me before the counselor came in to discuss why I’d missed a week of school or why I hadn’t turned in homework since the start of the semester, he had this face. This is the look people give me when they are afraid of saying something to make it worse.
We leave Honeycomb Island right away even though there are still hours of daylight left and we’d packed enough food and essentials to stay until dusk. I apologize profusely, but I always do, so George and Trisha are pretending they don’t want to talk about it.
“I told you she’d be right back,” Chelsea says to them, an unsuccessful attempt to lighten the mood. She doesn’t like a single dark cloud hovering near the New Browns. “I told them there was nothing to worry about,” she says to me.
“Thank you.” It’s probably the least I can say if George and Trisha spent the last hour complaining about me not being back yet.
“What happened to your wrist?” George says, more anger than concern in his voice.
I’d removed my dress and wrapped it around the phone to hide it. I took off the bandage on my wrist, too, so there would be no questions about how I got it, and did my best to conceal the cut, which is still red and on the verge of opening again.
“I tripped, and when I tried to catch myself with a boulder, it cut me.”
George sighs and goes back to ignoring me.
Chelsea gives me a sympathetic smile, but it is still timid. Phoebe hardly notices me, but when she does, she has a face full of glee. I like that she is not yet old enough to know that her feelings about me should be complicated. Chelsea sits right beside me on the boat ride home, not leaving a seat between us even though there is plenty of room. She doesn’t say anything to me, but I think this is her way of being on my side. Like she can see the guilt I feel, or assumes it must be there. The mistake I did make is putting out warning signs too early in the summer—they won’t want to trust me to go off on my own again; I’ll have to make this up to them somehow.
I receive a fierce text message from my mother: You need to be more respectful, which means George called her from Honeycomb Island and told her I’d wandered off and made them all worry.
I knew this was how it was going to be, my behavior in constant question and scrutiny, but now, as George sighs again instead of telling me that I scared the hell out of him by wandering off without my phone, staying gone longer than “I’ll be right back,” returning with a cut he thinks probably “needs stitches,” I feel a twinge of anger.
My mother was the one who had to bail me out when I was arrested for vandalizing the new spring training facilities and when Trevor and I were found with the stolen car and the cocaine. George wasn’t looped in until the charges didn’t hold up and I was given community service. She was always the one to answer the door when the police brought me home for using a fake ID to get into one of the clubs in Scottsdale, George thousands of miles away not even losing sleep. My mother had to hear the news directly from the counselor and the principal in person that I had too many absences to graduate this year. George heard about this after I’d passed the GED exams. And she was the one who got the call when I was in the emergency room, broken ribs, covered in cuts and bruises. The call George got was informing him that I had been in a car accident but was going to be fine.
Part of me hopes he was a mess while I was gone, wondering if or when or how I would be coming back. I’m afraid he can see it on me, sense it on me, that I wish for holes in his happiness.
Just in case, I tell him, “I’m sorry,” one more time.
Chapter 8
Finn’s phone rings after dinner, an unfamiliar chiming coming from my beach bag. I rush upstairs to take the call, pretending it’s coming from my own phone. As soon as I’ve got my bedroom door shut tight behind me, I answer it, but keep silent.
There’s no sound on the other end. It’s a call from an unlisted number.
“Yes?” I finally say when my curiosity becomes too much.
“So it is you.” It’s Finn’s voice, and I feel a touch of satisfaction that he could recognize mine, too.
“Who else were you expecting?”
I hear a grunt that I interpret as the beginnings of a laugh. “Did you find my phone, or did you take it off me?”
Now I laugh, full-on. I’m undeniably happy to be hearing from him. Handsomeness aside, he is the most exciting person I’ve ever met or could have dreamed of meeting someplace like this, where serenity is the selling point. He has a secret. There’s a mystery to him. And were it not for me, no matter what he says about his life not being in danger, he wouldn’t even be here to make this call.
“I found it, of course.” There’s no telling if he believes me.
“Well, I’m going to need it back. Where are you? Staying in the cove, I assume? Can you meet me somewhere tonight to give it back?” He is talking quickly, already back to no-nonsense. “And can you be discreet about how we know each other? The cove is full of people who like to gossip.” He clears his throat. “You haven’t told anyone about what happened on Honeycomb Island, have you?”
“You think people care what I have to say?” It’s a non-answer, and I give it to him that way on purpose.
“Please—” he starts, but he cuts himself off like maybe he knows showing his desperation isn’t a good next move.
I’ve missed this—your move, my move, opponents in a game, who will break first, what lie will be the one that accidentally reveals too much, who will expose their weakness first and have to surrender. The difference is that usually people don’t know they’re playing. Finn is very aware. It keeps me on my toes, even if currently I am the one holding all the information that’s damning to him, and therefore the one winning.
“Where do you want to meet?” I ask.
“There’s a lot on the corner of Van Ness and Pine, on the south side of the cove—”
“I know where Pine is.” The New Brown beach house is on Pine. “I can be there at nine.” When the fireworks start and everyone will be distracted by them.
“Don’t be late.”
“I’ll be on time. Don’t worry, Finn.” I hang up before he has a chance to react to my voice saying his name—one last reminder that as secretive as he’s been, I still know more about him than he thinks.
Chapter 9
“The fireworks are too beautiful to miss,” Chelsea says that night when I announce I’m tired and am going to go to bed. “When else in your whole life are you going to be treated to a private fireworks show every night?” But it’s too close to nine for her to really put up a fight without missing the show herself.
Like the first night, Trisha and George gather with Phoebe on the screened porch, and Chelsea rushes to stand in the surf and stare up at the sky with her feet in the ocean.
I escape out the front door, letting the booming from the Covingtons’ fireworks disguise the sound of my footsteps and the door shutting. Coming back, I’ll have to climb through my second-story window, which would be a challenge except my window is over the garage and there’s a trellis on the side of the house, making it easy to get onto the garage roof and through my window.
Using my phone’s GPS, I find the property, bare except for a dark two-story house on the corn
er of Van Ness and Pine, a few blocks from the New Brown Family beach house. It’s a big lot with a tall house and a cement platform in front, the beginnings of a driveway. I use the flashlight from my phone to illuminate the darkness. The tall trees encroaching make it darker than normal. There are hardly any streetlights on the cove, so the stars and the fireworks have nothing to compete with. There is no sign of Finn. I look around again. Surely, no one lives here; there’s no evidence of people, and it’s an unfinished landscape. I shine my light on the house, and as I suspected, there are still stickers on the windows, marking them as newly installed.
The popping of the fireworks starts up again, making me jump. There’s a light in the distance. It’s Finn holding a lantern. He’s more put together now, more so than I expected. Like before, he’s wearing dark clothes, but these clothes are nice. Unwrinkled shorts and nice sneakers, a black sweatshirt with the collar of a polo shirt, tucked under, but still visible at his neckline. He looks like someone who might belong here at Cross Cove on vacation. Someone who would get in over his head for something as trivial as a poker game. Someone who would know hiding spots on a vacation island but not know how to properly treat his hurt ankle. His hair is windblown, like he must’ve arrived here by boat since this is a still night. He seems calmer out here. He’s not limping anymore, but there’s something else about him, something peaceful, like a real burden has been lifted off his shoulders.
“You’re here,” he says, joining me on the cement.
I shrug, hiding my surprise over how relaxed he’s being about this. The lantern light makes shadows over his face, veiling parts of his expression depending on which way he moves. I can’t place how he transformed from the broken person on the island, scared for his life, a somewhat snarky boy on the boat in desperate need of a laugh, to this cool and composed person in front of me now.
I remember the image I had in my head of Finn being held down by the men on the island. I add to the picture, visualizing Finn desperate and reaching for whatever he could find to get them off, discovering a knife in one of their pockets and grabbing it and stabbing at the first piece of flesh he could, then running like hell the moment their hands were off him, not wasting a second of their shock to make his escape. Maybe he is stronger than I think. Maybe he was the one hiding in the brush, waiting for Archaletta, ready with his knife, and it was the other two men who surprised him. There is too much to wonder. And that delights me.