Truest (9 page)

Silas drove Papa Arty's pickup, which had seen its best days in the early nineties. We stopped by my house for my swimsuit, and then by the mini-mart for sunscreen since Silas swore he'd turn red as a stoplight without it. Whit's car was in the parking lot, so I said, “Just stay in the car, okay? I'll run in and get it.”

“Why?”

“Never mind. Be right back.”

“But
I'm
the one who wants it.”

“It's okay. Just stay.”

Inside, Pocket Swanson was at the till, talking the ear off a woman whose child grabbed at the items on the counter. Whit was stocking beef jerky. “Hey, do you have sunscreen?” I asked his back.

“Hello to you, too,” he teased.

I grinned. “Hey. Miss you.”

“Ditto. Sunscreen's back here,” he said, leading me into a different aisle. He lowered his voice. “Don't tell Pocket I said so, but you really should get it at the Red Owl. You'll pay with your firstborn here. Going swimming or something?”

“You betcha,” said . . .
Silas
, who had ignored my request to stay in the truck and now approached us in the aisle. “That's what you say in Minnesota, right?” He held out a hand to Whit. “Hey, man, I'm Silas Hart.”

“Mark Whitby,” said Whit, a bit bewildered. “And you're . . . ?”

“A friend of West's.”

Whit raised an eyebrow.

I rolled my eyes. “He's my detailing partner,” I explained. “We need to go.”

“You just move here?” Whit asked, ignoring me.

Silas nodded. “From Alaska.”

“Awesome,” said Whit. “Then you won't be a wuss when January hits. Do you sled?”

“If you've got an extra snowmobile.”

“I could find one.”

What was happening here?

“Do you know what classes you're taking this fall?” Whit asked.

“AP World History, Senior Lit, I don't remember what else. All that was left for electives was Agriculture.”

Whit snorted. “Don't worry—you'll get shoulder-length gloves before you have your way with the cow.”

Silas's eyes widened.

“Okay,” I said. “Time to go.” I pinched a corner of Silas's T-shirt and dragged him to the register, Whit laughing in our wake.

“Nice to meet you, Silas. Let's hang out,” he said.

“Oh, we will,” answered Silas.

The Green Lake beachfront is small, just a fifty-yard strip of sand with a tiny parking lot behind it and a picnic area and playground a little off to the south. I made sure we claimed a spot on the outskirts of the beach, as far as possible from the tall wooden lifeguard stand where Abby Kuiper, who was in my class at school, blew her whistle at kids in bright swimsuits. The sand burned beneath our feet, and the lake smelled strongly of fish and algae and the white clover that grew along the shoreline. I busied myself spreading out two giant beach towels while I chastised Silas. “I don't know why you couldn't just stay in the pickup like I said. Whit is Elliot's best friend. And now he's going to tell Elliot that I was hanging out with you, that we were going
swimming—
”

Beside me, Silas pulled off his T-shirt—which starkly read “Unreliable Narrator”—without a thought.

“—and . . . and . . .” Like the morning he'd walked shirtless into the sunroom, I was flustered. Only this time there was no
Laurel as a buffer. “And I don't want to give people the wrong idea about you and me because we're only business partners . . . just business partners and friends and Green Lake is so small and we wouldn't want people here to think something was going on with us, right?”

Silas grinned at my rambling. “Right,” he said.

“Right. Okay.”

His chest and stomach—and arms, for that matter—had the perfect amount of muscle: not bulky and overbearing, but toned and fit. He had abs
for days.
He squinted at me in the sun. “Your turn.”

“My turn? What? Oh.” My cheeks flared. “Give me a second.” I continued to spread out our towels—which were already perfectly spread out. Get it together, I admonished myself, then stood up. Silas stared at me, expectantly. “Well, turn around,” I said. “This isn't a freakin' striptease.”

He pulled his lips together, still squinting, as if considering what I'd just said. Then, without a word, he turned around.

I peeled off my shorts and T-shirt. “Okay, let's swim.”

Silas turned to face me. His eyes raked over my body. “I like your suit,” he said with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Thanks,” I said awkwardly, crossing my arms over my chest. It was just boy shorts and a halter top, but, compared to the T-shirts I wore while we detailed cars, I was practically naked. I glanced around the beach but felt his eyes on me. “So, are we gonna swim or what?”

“Swim,” said Silas. “But first . . .” He held up the bottle of sunscreen.

“SPF fifty?” I said. “What are you, a vampire?”

“I am rather fond of my epidermis. And yours. Turn around.”

“I'll be fine,” I said.

“Turn.”

I obeyed and pulled my hair off my shoulders.

“
This
is fun,” Silas said, tugging lightly at my halter top's knot.

“Don't pull on that!” I said, panicked. “That keeps—”

“Oh, I know what it does, West.”

When I turned around, he raised his eyebrows and flashed an angelic grin. “What?” he asked, voice dripping with innocence. I punched him in the arm. He laughed, boyish and playful.

“Watch yourself,” I warned him, but I couldn't help but grin at the way he was giggling.

He held up his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine! I'll work around it.”

So he did. His hands felt
ginormous
on my shoulders and back. “You're so tense,” he said, pressing his fingers into the knots in my neck. It felt amazing, and I gave an involuntary and embarrassing little moan. I squeezed my eyes shut in embarrassment. “But
why
are you so tense?” he whispered teasingly in my ear, his breath on my neck.

“Okay, all done,” I said, moving away from him. “Your turn. You're gonna need to sit down or I won't be able to reach.”

He obliged, and I got on my knees behind him, squeezing some sunscreen into my hands and rubbing them together. It smelled like coconut oil, sweet and exotic.

I hesitated.

“Everything okay?” he asked, craning his head to see me.

“Yeah, of course. Why?”

“You tell me.”

“Everything's fine,” I barked. “Now turn around.”

“Always so bossy,” he said, still grinning.

I took a deep breath and touched him, moving my hands softly over his shoulders and back, feeling the warm skin and lean muscle beneath my greasy palms. The ridge of his spine. His lower back. Silas was lightly tanned and a tiny bit burned near his neck, his skin so much fairer than Elliot's. Where Elliot's shoulders were thick and corded, Silas's were lithe and angled with his sharp shoulder blades. Silas had three freckles on his right shoulder to match the one on his cheek.

If I were his girlfriend, I would press my lips to that little constellation, I thought for a moment, then berated myself: Why are you even
thinking
that?!

Silas suddenly jerked when I touched his side. “Ticklish?” I asked.

He turned around, smiling. “A little.”

I reached for his side again, but he said, “Oh no you don't!”
and then stood and picked me up,
over his shoulder
like a fireman's lift, and carried me laughing and screaming into the lake and tossed me in.

I popped up out of the water, feeling my wet hair plastered across my face. “You're so dead, Hart!” I shouted, throwing my arms around his neck and trying to pull him down into the water. But he was so much stronger than me that he didn't budge—only put his hands around my waist, pulled me against his bare chest, and took me under once again, this time with him.

We both came up laughing. I held out my hands to ward him off. He interlinked his fingers with mine as we struggled against each other. “I give up!” I said. “I give up. But one day, when I grow up to be a six-foot-three freak of nature like you, you're going down.”

“Freak of nature, huh?” he goaded me, still with that same giant smile, still with our palms together.

“You heard me,” I taunted.

“Your knot's coming untied,” he said, and I gasped and reached behind my head . . . where my halter ties were still in their tight knot.

“You wish, Hart.”

“You
wish
I wish, Beck.”

We moved into deeper water and faced one another as we treaded the rolling waves.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” Silas asked.

“Don't know. What'd you have in mind?”

“This. Again. Or have a bonfire. Or go on a walk. Or make cookies.”

“Hmmm . . . oatmeal chocolate chip?”

“Durr.”

I laughed. “Okay.” Then—“No, no, not okay,” I backtracked.

Silas—whose grin had just gone from Cheshire cat to nonexistent—asked, “Why not?”

“I have a date. With Elliot.”

“Oh.”

“He's picking me up at six thirty for the drive-in movie triple-header in Enger Mills. We . . . we've had it planned for a little while now.” I let out a small, disappointed breath, then checked myself: Isn't that exactly what I wanted—to spend time with my boyfriend this summer? My priorities had gone haywire.

“Another night,” I told Silas.

“Another night,” he agreed.

Elliot brought flowers the following evening—a beautiful bouquet of violets—and when he lifted me off my feet in a giant hug, the orange transistor radio fell out of my sweatshirt pocket. Silas was its unofficial warden, but somehow I'd ended up with it.

“What
is
that?” Elliot asked.

“An old radio,” I said, picking it up, then joked, “It's how I've been dating Sullivan Knox this summer.”

“You should bring it over to my house and listen with me this week.”

“While you complain?” I teased.

“I won't.”

“Right,” I said sarcastically. “Wait here, okay? I'm just going to put this”—I held up the radio—“inside and get these”—the violets—“in some water.”

As I stepped back onto the porch, Mark Whitby pulled up and parked in the church lot next to my house. “Hey, you two!” he said, walking over to us with his arms full: a set of giant speakers and a paper bag I suspected held liquor. “We're taking the van, right? Might as well all pack in.”

Elliot looked at me. “Did you . . . invite Whit?” he asked quietly.

I let out a tiny laugh at the suggestion. “On our date? No.”

The two boys greeted each other warmly in my driveway. “Whit, what are you doing here, man?” Elliot asked.

“Bailing on Sloane's party. Brought a little party with me though,” he added, nodding toward the things in his hands.

Elliot and I looked at each other again, baffled.

“Bailing on Sloane's party . . . ,” I repeated.

“You should be grateful!” Whit said to me, moving over to the minivan. “I know you hate it when I go out there.” He opened the side door of the van and stashed the liquor beneath
a seat and the speakers behind it.

Just then, another car pulled up and parked beside Whit's, our school friends Bridget and Marcy honking and waving from inside. The girls made their way over to where we stood, dragging lawn chairs behind them.

“Wait, what's going on?” Elliot asked. “What's everyone doing here?”

“Silas stopped by the mini-mart last night and told me this was the plan,” Whit said.

“
Silas?
” I choked out.

As if on cue, Silas pulled his grandpa's pickup into my driveway. In true Silas fashion, he rolled down his window and flashed the most disarming smile. Laurel leaned over him and waved.

“Hey,” Silas said to me.

“Hey,” I whispered back, glad to see him but so confused. Beside me, Whit was gawking—presumably at Laurel.

Marcy coughed.

“Guys, this is Silas and Laurel.” Pointing to each, I listed, “Whit, Bridget, Marcy . . . and Elliot.” Elliot put his arm around my waist.

“Great to finally meet everyone. Ready to roll?” Silas asked.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Elliot said. “Hold on just a minute.” His face was flushed. He rarely lost his temper, but—only because I knew him so well—I could tell he was about to come unglued.

I put a hand on his arm and turned my back on the others.
“It's okay,” I said to Elliot so no one else could hear.

He looked hard at me, his eyebrows pulled together. “
Okay?
That little shit—”

“Everyone's already here. And we haven't all hung out yet this summer. And it'll keep Whit away from Simon's place, at least for tonight.” It was only the last statement that seemed to sway Elliot.

He closed his eyes, let out a frustrated breath, then said to the group, “Okay. Everyone pile into the van. Hart, you can drive yourself. Know where Enger Mills is?”

“I'm sure I can find it,” said Silas coolly.

“Why doesn't West just come with us?” piped Laurel from beside him. “Then we won't get lost.”

Everyone paused and looked at Elliot, whose jaw was set and nostrils flared.

“Fine,” he said, his voice flat and dangerous. Everyone—including me—started moving toward the vehicles, but Elliot grabbed my arm, pulled me to him, and kissed me long and hard on the mouth. “We'll see you there,” he said, then tossed one last scowl at Silas—who looked a little stunned—before getting into the minivan.

I climbed into the pickup cab between Silas and his sister. He put the truck into gear and we headed out, following the minivan. “He's a sloppy kisser,” Silas remarked.