Cover.html (25 page)

“It’s—taken me a long time,” I stammer. “To even think about dating. And now I’m finally asking if you—you want to have dinner?”

“As in—dinner,” she repeats.

“I’m really bad at this,” I say. “Can I just take you someplace nice?

This Friday? To make up for all the time it took me to get here?”

She sighs, her shoulders falling. But her scowl is gone, and a smile slowly starts to spread.

Chelsea

switch

Foundmycamera!”BrandoncallsasGabeandIstepinsidewithtwo enormous, piled-high pizzas.

“Nothing formal,” Mom adds from the living room. “We’re eating in the comfortable chairs tonight.”

Gabe opens the two pizza boxes on the coffee table and we all help ourselves, each of us insisting that Hank at Hill Toppers’ is in fine form tonight. Everyone but Brandon, who’s thrusting his digital camera in Gabe’s face.

As he starts to yammer on about the Dwellers, I stare at the browned cheese on my slice and remember graduation night all over again. I think about the me who stood on the sidewalk outside of the pizzeria, bidding her former teammates an awkward goodbye. About how she had no idea what she would discover in Minnesota. My ears fill, for a moment, with the pulse of a waterfall.

“Here’s Pike’s,” Brandon says, pointing at the back of the camera. He tosses his hair away from the rim of his glasses. I notice he’s 224/262

stopped trying to gel the hair into place, letting it go all wavy around his ears; apparently Kenzie really did tell him she liked his crazy hair. I can’t stop myself from rolling my eyes at him.

“So we were kind of a cross between Kings of Leon and Fall Out Boy, but we had our feet firmly planted in the
roots,
you know?” Brandon brags as Gabe keeps pushing the button on the back of the camera to view the photos. Brandon’s talking like he’s being interviewed by
Rolling Stone
. “Sex Pistols and the Stones, and I can see myself really branching out. I’ve been writing a few songs—”

“Who’s this?” Gabe asks. “He’s in an awful lot of these photos.”

My face falls when he pushes the camera under my nose. In the picture, Clint and I are standing on the dock—open-mouthed, obviously laughing. When Gabe flips backward through the stream of photos, there we are again, on a hiking trail. Or climbing into his GMC. Here Clint is, helping me out of his boat during our first fishing trip. My stomach starts doing somersaults.
Brandon, you moron,
I want to shout.
Why on earth would you take so many pictures of the two of us?

I watch Gabe in horror, wishing I could read his mind. What is he thinking? Good God, are Clint and I looking at each other in a telltale way in any of those photos? Can Gabe see in our faces what we’d done?

Worse yet—what if Brandon snapped a shot of me and Clint holding hands? Or
kissing
?

“Just my personal trainer,” I say, yanking Brandon’s camera out of his hands.

“
Chelsea
,” Gabe says, frowning.

“Sorry—sorry. Just wanted to show you my—my—enormous catch—my walleye,” I lie. “It’s got to be here somewhere. I’m not such a bad fisher,” I add, trying like hell to seem nonchalant.

“Chelsea found out she’s good at lots of things over vacation,” Dad says from behind a mouthful of mushrooms and pepperoni. “She rescued that trainer when he wrecked his ATV.”

225/262

“Chelsea?” Gabe says, impressed. “No kidding?”

“I shouldn’t have been racing him,” I say, and instantly regret it.
Why would you race your trainer? Someone you work with? Isn’t that
something you do when you’re goofing off? You don’t goof off with a
trainer. You goof off with the guy you’re fooling around with behind
your sweet boyfriend’s back …

“Well, I tend to think Chelsea’s pretty good at anything she tries.”

Gabe smiles at me as he adds, “I’d believe she spent the summer catching great white sharks, or rescuing shipwrecked tourists from deserted islands.” But his smile quickly gives way to a concerned frown. “Are you hot? Your face is all red.”

“Hot,” I agree, stupidly, fanning my face with my hand. “I think I got overheated this afternoon in the Explorer.”

“Get real. We had the air on full-blast,” Brandon argues, rolling his eyes at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“Scratches!” I shout, scooping him into my arms. “Scratches, I missed you so much.” I squeeze him to my chest, bury my nose in his neck, let his whiskers tickle my cheek, hoping that everyone will take this little distraction as an opportunity to find something else to talk about.

“Before I forget,” Gabe says, wiping orange smears of grease from his mouth. “I bought two tickets to an exhibition game at MSU.”

“
Awesome,
” Dad says, leaning, as he hasn’t in ages, on his high school lingo, his eyes lighting up at the idea of me being back in a gym. Any gym. Even the bleachers of a gym. “Basketball game?”

Gabe nods. “Lady Bears. Figured we could spend the night with my brother at his place so we won’t have to drive back exhausted.”

“Good plan,” Dad nods. “Worst thing you can ever do is drive tired.”

Yet again, the Gabe Ross charm has its advantages. Dad (thank God the high school gossip about journalism camp never made its way to the 226/262

parents) would never even suspect that Gabe and I would do anything other than go to the game and bed down on separate couches. I begin to relax a little. A basketball game sounds amazing, actually. I can already taste the popcorn. Maybe, by now, I won’t even mind so much being in the concession stands during halftime, instead of a locker room. Every athlete has to make that transition at some point. Mine just came a little earlier than I’d anticipated. Right?

“Only hitch is, the game’s the day after tomorrow,” Gabe says. “It’s short notice—”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Mom says, waving him off. “We’ve had Chelsea for three weeks. Now it’s your turn. I’m sure you guys want some quality time before your fall semesters start and you both take nose-dives into textbooks.”

Ever since the Explorer hit the city limits, I’ve been so wrapped up in guilt I’ve forgotten how
easy
it is to be with gorgeous, sweet Gabe Ross. Now, though, I begin to unwind, begin to imagine being with Gabe on campus as soon-to-be freshmen, hand-in-hand, walking across the quad toward the sports arena …

After dinner, Mom gathers our plates and I walk Gabe to the door.

“Thanks for the pizza,” I tell him as I shut the door behind us and head out toward his ’Stang. “That really was incredibly thoughtful.”

Would Clint ever be that thoughtful?
I wonder. Hard to know for sure, since we were never allowed to admit to being a couple in front of my family.

“And the MSU game sounds—”

“I don’t have tickets,” Gabe says, his eyes sparkling playfully.

“But you said—”

“Come on, Chelse. You didn’t
forget,
did you? Didn’t you count down the days of your vacation like I did? The game was the only coverup I could come up with. The only excuse I could think of to explain why you would be away with me all night.”

227/262

“There’s no game?”

“Oh, there’s a game. At MSU, just like I said. And that’s why I made reservations for the Carlyle that same night.”

The Carlyle
. My stomach starts to churn like ocean waves during a typhoon.

“The Carlyle,” I repeat. “Night after tomorrow.”

He nods, squeezing my hand. “Don’t be nervous,” he whispers into my ear. “It’s just us—there’s nothing to be nervous about
us
, right?”

I nod as he leans in for a good-night kiss.

He’ll know,
I think as Gabe wraps his arms around me.
He’ll know
I’m not a virgin anymore.

Clint

long shot

Seemsprettyquietaroundhere,”Toddsays,crackingopenhisthird can of Bud.

“You drink all the beer, you have to bring it next time,” Greg warns, like he always does, though he never follows through on his threats. Todd’s right—out here night fishing (
really
night fishing, not lying to be alone with Chelsea), the whole world seems empty except for the three of us. Our lines drift lazily along the surface of the lake. The water sloshes against the side of the Minnow. Whenever I hear water anymore—a rush, a gurgle, even the trickle from the faucet in my bathroom—I think of Chelsea. For a second, I swear I can taste her.

“That Brandon, man, he kept us busy,” Todd goes on, slurping off the top of his can. “Maybe we could advertise on Craigslist or something for another bass player.”

“Maybe,” Greg says. “Hard to find somebody that good.”

“Or somebody who shows up to practice,” Todd agrees in a halfsigh. 229/262

“You’re quiet tonight, Morgan,” Greg says, attempting to stretch his legs in the cramped skiff. “You going to come listen to me and Todd limp along without a bass at Pike’s tomorrow?”

“No,” I say quietly. “I have a—date—actually.”

You’d think my words started some sort of tidal wave out in the middle of the lake, the way Todd grips the side of the boat.

“With
who
?” he asks.

“Kenzie,” I breathe.

Todd starts muttering something about
lucky bastard,
while Greg just stares at me, squinting as he leans against the side of the boat.

“Huh,” he mutters. “And here I was thinking this resort probably felt quieter to you than it did to either of us.”

It does,
I think, but I just shake my head, tighten my line. Chelsea’s a past tense. Summer will be over soon. I can’t go brooding over her like I did for Rosie.

I reel in my line to bait my hook again.
Don’t live timidly,
I tell myself as I cast out into the lake. Chelsea

indecisive move

My computer screen glows blue against my skin. I’ve just finished packing my bag for the Carlyle, filling it with a flattering, nearly sheer azure dress and the raciest panties in my drawer. Which strikes me as a little weird, actually, since I didn’t worry in the least about having to dress up for Clint. Just threw on a red cami and shorts and raced up the trail behind cabin number four.

It’s late, and my eyes keep trying to close. My entire body begs me to get to bed. But instead of turning my computer off and slipping into the cool envelope of my sheets, I reach into my top desk drawer and pull out a torn-off scrap of paper napkin—the email address Clint gave me before dropping me off at the cabin our last night at Lake of the Woods.

“Whaddaya know?” I’d teased him. “Guess even fishing guides can be a
little
high-tech.”

231/262

I stare at the address awhile, touching my lips with my fingertip, hoping like hell that being with Gabe won’t make me forget exactly how Clint’s mouth felt, traveling over every inch of my body.
What’s wrong with me?
Last month, I’d bemoaned the fact that I was the oldest virgin on the planet. Tonight, I’m planning on sleeping with guy number two—in the same
week
? Have I gone from being a virgin to complete slutsville in a matter of days?

I place the napkin near the top of the keyboard, click on “New Message,” and type in Clint’s address. I stare at the screen, wishing I could tell him everything that swarms through my heart—how much I miss him. How much I wish we were still bowling and fooling around in the lake and making out in his truck. How much I miss the carefree breeze that blew into my heart whenever I was around him. My cell phone starts to vibrate, buzzing against the desktop. I pick it up hesitantly.

“Hey, Chelse, it’s me,” Gabe says softly. “Got a clock handy?”

I glance at the bottom right hand corner of my computer screen.

“Midnight.”

“You know what that means, right?” Gabe asks.

“It’s the day you and I have been waiting for all summer.”

“The day I’ve been waiting for ever since I met you,” Gabe corrects.

“Love you,” he whispers.

“Mmm,” I say. “Me, too.”

I click the phone off, my eyes falling on the cursor that blinks like an elbow nudging me in the ribs. Saying,
Come on already, write your
message.

Instead, I click
cancel draft
and sign out of my email account. Scratches pushes open the bedroom door and mews his way across the floor. When he jumps onto the bed, he knocks my purse on its side—and Clint’s compass tumbles onto the comforter. I let Clint think I’d dropped it from the ATV somewhere … selfish of me, since he 232/262

seemed to love the old thing. But it saved us, in a way. I just never had the heart to give it back.

I pick up the compass and curl up with Scratches, both our heads propped on my bed pillow. As I stare into his sweet sleeping face, I start to get jealous of his simple life. He’s never found himself in the kind of tangled mess I’m in right now. He’s never felt like his heart was in a tug-of-war.

I place Clint’s old compass on the pillow beside me. But the only place it points tonight is toward sleep.

Clint

game time

It’s not a completely foreign place, her parents’ house. When I was a kid, I’d ride bikes with Greg and Todd past Kenzie’s yard, and there she’d be on her porch, giant glasses on the end of her nose and a book in her lap. She was nothing compared to Rosie back then.
But maybe
, I try to convince myself,
it’ll be nice to be with a girl who’s known me
such a long time. Maybe this’ll be just what I need …

I park the truck at the curb and rush to Kenzie’s porch, getting so sweaty you’d think I was going to a job interview. As soon as I knock, I close my eyes to try to steady my nerves. My mind drifts, though, and I see a fleshy lady slipper and the green, tall grass that surrounds the resort. I see flashes of sun-kissed skin. My nose fills with the clean, peachy-sweet smell of soap; laughter rings in my ears.

When the door opens, a simple white dress fills the space. But I start to knot up inside when I see wavy brown locks trickling down the front of her chest. Not blond.

234/262

When my eyes trail up and I see Kenzie’s face, disappointment rattles me. I try to shove down my wish that it was Chelsea standing in the doorway instead.