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I have to get away from this, too—the thought of kissing Clint. I race through the cool moonlight toward the lodge. I stop just outside the door, tears cascading. There’s no way I can talk to Gabe now, not like this. Maybe though, I think as I stare at the messages in my hand, Brandon’s on to something. Maybe Gabe would be more suspicious if I didn’t return his call—make that calls. About a hundred of them, from the looks of all these messages. So I push through the door of the lodge, toss all the messages into the wastebasket in the lobby. I wipe my face, fish some coins from my 123/262

little purse, drop them into the phone. As soon as Gabe’s cell starts to ring, I pray that it’ll just go to voicemail.

“Hey, babe,” Gabe says, surprise lacing his tone. “Didn’t think I’d ever catch you. Where—I mean, what’ve you been up to?”

Gabe Ross, you are as transparent as a Ziploc bag.

“Birthday party,” I blurt.

Gabe chuckles. “Don’t I wish.”

I instantly feel the burn of shame creep up my entire body, starting with my toes, inching toward my knees, my neck, my face …

“Thanks for the present,” Gabe says.

I hold the phone away from my face a moment as I spit a few whispery curses at myself.
You’re an ass, Chelsea Keyes. An ass.
The picture of a braying donkey actually fills my mind.

At least I had the foresight to leave Gabe’s present with his mom before I headed out of town. But little more than one week after driving away—just one measly week—I’ve already done the unthinkable. I’ve forgotten to call Gabe to wish him a happy birthday. I didn’t even wish him a happy birthday in the crummy email I sent earlier. No, no, no. That’s not the worst of it. That isn’t even
close
to the worst. And I know it. My hand flies to my mouth again. When I close my eyes, I can feel Clint against me. His lips pulling me closer, but not just my mouth. Pulling my legs, my arms. I’d wrapped myself around him for the brief moment before I’d slid down, before my feet hit the ground. What kind of person
does
that? And Clint knows I have a boyfriend. What must he think of the way I just acted?

What if Clint doesn’t want to work with me anymore? How can I explain that to Dad without the word
quitter
glowing in his pupils?

And if Clint doesn’t want to work with me, would that just confirm everything that Brandon suspects? Would it be the proof he needs?

Would Brandon decide to side with a guy, squeal his suspicions to Gabe? I don’t want to lose Gabe—not that comfort of sliding my hand 124/262

into his. Not the daydreams that pop up as I linger in the grassy green of his eyes.

This night could not possibly get any worse. At all.

“You win,” Gabe mumbles. “You one-upped me in the gift department.”

Correction,
I think, as a new tide of guilt washes through me.
It
could always get worse.

“It’s not a star or anything,” I say.

“An eternity symbol is definitely more than a star,” Gabe protests. My heart twists painfully, feeling tight and tiny and desperate inside my chest.

“I bought it after prom,” I say softly, my hand turning into a fist around the receiver as I think of the black titanium ring I’d purchased with the lazy, sideways “8” carved into it. “After you traced the symbol on my shoulders—”

“—while the sun rose,” Gabe says. “First thing I thought of when I saw it.”

My tongue is melted. I’ve forgotten how to speak.
Please, Gabe,
don’t suspect.

“You all right?” he asks. “You sound funny.”

“Fine,” I say. “My cell gets crummy reception around here, and I’m on this old pay phone. That’s why—why I wasn’t carrying my phone. Why I haven’t called more.”

“Yeah. You told me that in an email. I just really wanted to talk to my girl on my birthday. Haven’t taken my present off since I unwrapped it, though,” he says, and I’m eternally grateful he’s decided to make a u-turn in the conversation, veering away from my lame excuses.

“You know, I got pretty nostalgic tonight. Dug up that old picture Brandon took of us the night we went out for the first time. You remember the one, right? I swear it probably sounds all mushy, but the way we’re 125/262

looking at each other, it’s like we knew, even that first night, that we’d found something special.”

Okay, now I’m not so grateful. I can feel the tracks of Clint’s lips shining like glow-in-the-dark paint against my mouth. My eyes tingle, and I know I’ve got to hang up before I say something completely stupid. “You sound tired—I should—let you go—you’re probably working really hard.”

“Yeah. I just couldn’t let my birthday go by without talking to my girl. Love you, Chelse.”

“I’ll—I’ll call more. I promise. Everybody at the resort has to share the same pay phone, and I just—happy birthday, Gabe.” I hang up and gasp all in the same motion. I probably look like a near-drowning victim who’s just broken the surface of the water. I hurry out of the lodge and start to drag myself back up the trail to cabin number four when it suddenly hits me—this is the first time in more than a year that I’ve ended a phone call to Gabe without actually using the words
I love you
.

Has the thought occurred to Gabe, too?

God, I hope not.

Clint

neutral zone trap

Can’t kayak, maybe, but you can canoe,” I say, really slathering on the chipper voice.
That’s it, Clint. Just pretend nothing happened
last night.
“No exercise like rowing.”

But the truth is, I just keep replaying the whole scene—cabin number four, the open door of the GMC, Chelsea’s body pressed against my own. The way my heart sprung open when I felt her lips on mine. And as I remember, the devil hovering over my shoulder tells me to drive Chelsea down to the edge of the lake, where summer love always blooms along with the water lilies and occasional lady slippers.

“Good for core strength,” I tell her, trying to turn my ear away from the devil on my shoulder. He knows that just looking at Chelsea is making my entire body vibrate. “Rowing, I mean.”

The Rainy River flows gently, barely moving at all, less than a foot from where we stand. Luckier folks are at Clementson Rapids, whitewater rafting down a more exciting branch of the Rainy. Of course, when I’d suggested it to Chelsea, she’d immediately started shaking her head. 127/262

Now, I’m stuck spending the day on a
float trip
—which isn’t exactly all that exciting. And it also isn’t going to take my attention away from how insanely pretty Chelsea is.

“Or paddling, at least,” she teases.

“Paddling?” I repeat.

“Yeah. Core strength? Hello—” she says, pointing at the two short wooden paddles I’ve placed inside the canoe.

“Right,” I say. “Rowing—
paddling.
Core strength.”

I help her into the boat, only to find that her skin is more enticing than the Rainy on a hot day. Just touching her makes me want to immerse myself, put my head completely under the surface of her. I want to drift, to let her carry me away, down her current. Once she’s seated, I settle into the canoe, too. As soon as I sit down, I notice the way her shorts have ridden up her thighs.
Concentrate on something else—the feel of the paddle in your
hands
, I tell myself.
The way the wood’s worn smooth from so much
use.

Too bad, I think, that letting the same thought run through your mind over and over doesn’t turn your soul as smooth. Too bad it does the exact opposite. For more than a week now, I’ve been thinking of long yellow hair and the peachy-sweet smell of Chelsea’s skin. And all it’s done is made me feel rough and splintered inside.

“All about the rhythm, see?” I tell her as I use my paddle to push through the water on one side of the boat while she works the other.

“Just think of Brandon and his bass.”

“If I try to row like Brandon plays, I’ll wind up breaking
both
our hips,” Chelsea jokes.

The smile on my face makes me feel a little calmer deep down.

“Look,” I say, deciding to tackle the damn elephant already. “Last night, I—”

128/262

“Don’t worry about it,” she says. “Totally my fault. I just—fell onto you. Accident.”

“Right,” I say.

We both know this is a horrendous lie. A ridiculous lie. But at least the whole subject has been picked up and put aside. So I lay my paddle down in the bottom of the boat and say, “You take over. Paddle once on one side, once on the other. I’m just going to enjoy the scenery.” I turn my back on her, looking out across the green fringe of pines, the white ripple of light down the river.

“What is this?” Chelsea asks. “Your own personal gondola ride?”

“You’re the one who needs exercise, not me. Hey, what’s that?” I ask, holding a hand to my ear. “It’s the ghost of your former self,” I tease. “Wants you to get your flabby butt in gear.”

She lifts the paddle up in the air, tossing a spray of water on me. A giggle burbles out of her chest. I turn, dip my hand into the river, and send a spray right back at her. She squeals, her voice bouncing down the riverbank like the squawk of a bird. Like something wild and free that has never known sadness. Hunger, maybe. Physical pain occasionally. But never sadness. She raises her hands to protect herself from my splash. The world turns slow motion as her paddle starts slipping deeper into the Rainy.

“Chelse,” I say. “Chelse, watch—”

But she doesn’t listen. She’s still holding her hands up, waiting for the next spray of water. I reach for her paddle, but by the time my hand arrives, all I wind up grabbing is my own fist. The paddle dips down beneath the water and is gone. All that remains is the circle of a ripple—the kind of thing that appears after a fish has eaten the bug on the water’s surface.

We both gasp, but when we look at each other, our laughter spills over. Thank God—
laughter.

“It doesn’t have to be all serious, does it?” Chelsea asks. Chelsea

full-court press

It’sreallygoodtoseehimsmile.Thekindofgoodthatzingsthrough me. I’m the one who
put
that smile on his face. Clint’s shoulders relax; his chest is no longer like the armor knights wore in the Dark Ages. And in that moment, he doesn’t seem so far away, so unobtainable.

“Good thing we’re not too far from the shore,” Clint says. “Water’s pretty shallow here.” Still, he pulls his compass from his pocket and places it in the bottom of the canoe before easing himself out, rocking the boat slightly. The river barely reaches his waist. Holding his arms out above the water’s surface, he wades across the Rainy and grabs the paddle, easy as fishing a pebble from a bowl of tap water. But before he can reach the boat again, I’ve already eased myself out, too. The surface of the river circles my body like lips around a straw.

“What’re you doing?” he says, his easy smile now flickering, threatening to go out completely. He tosses the paddle into the canoe, grabs 130/262

my wrist. “You know how slippery this river rock can be?” he scolds, shaking his head.

My body starts acting on instinct, as though this is a play I’ve practiced hundreds of times in preparation for game day. Only I’ve never reached for a man when he shakes his head. I’ve never pressed forward, searched for a hole in his defense, charged for the goal, sought to win a heart that was held just beyond my reach.

Gabe’s heart was given to me. It was a necklace I took from the box and held to the light, staring at for a moment before deciding it really was something I’d like to wear.

I’ve got my hand on Clint’s wrist—I don’t even know when it happened, when we switched positions. But
I’m
touching
him
. Lightning is flowing straight up my arm, across my shoulder. My breath grows ragged.

Clint’s muscles tighten as he pulls away a little, but I can see in his eyes that he’s afraid if he wrenches himself free, he might knock me off balance. He might hurt me. I’ve got him—and all I can think of is how his lips felt against my own outside the cabin. It’s all I
want
to think about.

“Chelsea—” he says, his voice coming out in a whine. But I’m not teasing. I’m completely serious. Both of my arms circle his waist. My brain is screaming,
Gabe! Gabe! What’s wrong with you?

But I don’t care. Not now. Not with Clint standing in front of me. The world behind him blurs, becomes unrecognizable. We aren’t in the middle of a river, we aren’t in Minnesota. We’re nowhere. There is no right, no home, no boyfriend. I draw him closer to me.

“Chelsea.” He whispers it this time, but not to complain. Not to tell me to stop. He just whispers my name as if he wants to hear it, to feel it on his tongue.

We’re exactly the same height. We match up—our eyes, or noses, our lips. When I lean forward, our mouths meet, gently. But my insides 131/262

pop, like a string of Black Cats have been lit and are going off one after another. The explosions start going off in my chest, but soon start popping lower and lower. I open my mouth, and Clint’s tongue works its way behind my teeth.

Firecrackers pop behind the fly of my shorts.

But I’m not afraid. I’m not embarrassed. I’m not thinking of a thing except how he feels, his mouth closing, then prying my lips back open again, his tongue touching the tip of my own.

I put both hands on Clint’s back, pulling him toward me. But Clint’s muscles tighten again. Instead of leaning into me, he grabs my wrists and pries my hands from his body.

“Clint—I just—I want to be with you,” I find myself babbling, the words spilling out of my mouth without any command from my brain.

“Not because my dad’s paying you. Not for boot camp. I just want to—”

“I can’t,” Clint says, avoiding my eyes, looking into the water that swirls around us.

“He’s not
your
boyfriend,” I plead. “He’s mine, okay? Let me worry about that. He’s my problem, not yours.”

Clint just stares at me all horrified. I’ve done something wrong. What, though? I have no idea where I’ve messed up, so I just keep pressing forward.

“I’m the one with the boyfriend,” I say again. “And—I don’t know what you think cheating is. Maybe—maybe we’re already cheating. Maybe it’s already happened. But I just—I can’t help myself. So what if this thing’s got an expiration date stamped on it? Really. That doesn’t mean we couldn’t have the absolutely most amazing experience—the kind of thing you always look back on and are grateful for—”