“Mike, you’re such a pessimist. Have a little faith in human kindness.” To my complete amazement, she ruffles Dad’s hair, nudges him on the shoulder. I don’t think I can ever remember seeing them touch, much less exchange an affectionate gesture. It actually gives me a lump in my throat, especially when Dad looks up, his hazel eyes big and pleading, a little lost, so like Emory’s.

“You never get it, do you, Luce? You still think that the whole damn world is full of happy endings just waiting to come to you. Haven’t you noticed Prince Charming hasn’t showed up yet?”

Mom’s voice is dry. “Yes, honey. That I’ve noticed.”

Dad actually cracks a smile.

I’m almost afraid to breathe. My parents are having a minute of truce. An instant of genuine connection. For a moment (honestly, the first in my life) I can understand why they got married (besides the me-being-on-the-way thing).

There’s a loud knock on the door. “Betcha that’s him now,” Mom says, smiling at Dad.

But it’s Cass. He grins at me, then looks a little sheepish. “I know it’s late,” he starts.

“Almost midnight.” Dad comes up behind me. “And who the hell are you?”

Cass introduces himself.

“Aidan Somers’s son, right? Coach Somers your brother? Lobster roll, mayo on the side, double order of fries?”

Cass blinks, momentarily confused. “Uh . . . Yeah, that’s Jake.”

“Bit late for a swimming lesson.” Dad surveys Cass, who is wearing a blue blazer, a tie, neatly creased khakis. “And you’re not exactly dressed for one, kid.”

“Don’t be silly, Mike. He’s come for Gwen,” Mom says, sounding as though this is the most natural thing in the world.

“I wondered if she’d want to take a walk with me,” Cass explains. “I know it’s late,” he repeats in the face of Dad’s glare.

“I’d love to,” I say instantly, grabbing his hand. “Let’s go!”

“Wait just a second,” Dad says. “How old are you, Cassidy?”

“Seventeen.”

“I was seventeen once too,” my father begins unpromisingly. “And I took a ton of girls to the beach late at night—”

“That’s great, Dad. You can tell us all about it another time.” I pull Cass out the door as Mom says, “A ton? That’s a bit much, Mike. It was just me and that trashy Candy Herlihy.”

* * *

“Are we ever going to leave my house without me having to apologize for my family?”

“Not necessary. I’m the one who showed up late.” Cass yanks at his tie, loosening it, hauling it off, then shoves it in his jacket pocket, opens the door of the old BMW, which is parked in our driveway next to Dad’s truck and the Bronco, pulls off the jacket and tosses it in. Then starts unbuckling his belt.

“Uh, strip in our driveway,” I say, “and Dad’s definitely going to think this is a booty call.”

He laughs, tosses the belt in, followed by his shoes and socks, pulls his shirttails out, bumps the car door shut. “Just felt like I couldn’t breathe in all that. I was headed home, saw your lights on . . . just wanted to see you.”

He takes my hand again and we head down the road. I love nighttime on Seashell . . . all the silhouetted figures of the houses, the hush of the ocean. It feels like the only time the whole island belongs to me.

“How were the trustees?”

“Stuffy as hell. Like the atmosphere at the B and T.” He takes a deep breath. “Not like this.” Then he tugs me a little closer. “Or this.” Ducking his head, he rubs his nose in my hair. I brace my hands on his shoulders, lean closer, feel warm skin under his crisp cool shirt.

He steps back. “Okay, island girl. Give me a tour? The Insider’s Night Guide to Seashell?”

“We could just go to the Field House,” I say, then wince.

“Not about a jumbo box of condoms, remember? Come on. You’ve got to have some secret places no one knows about.”

In the Green Woods, through the tunnel of trees, the forest full of night sounds, by the witch hat stone. There’s the low cry of an owl, loud over the distant rush of the water. Cass stops, hand on my arm.

“What?”

“Peaceful,” he says. He shuts his eyes, drinking it in. “Barbershop quartet night at the B and T.”

Almeida’s has done functions at the Stony Bay Bath and Tennis Club. I know he’s not kidding.

He stands there for a moment longer, then I whisper, “Come on, it’s better by the water.”

“It always is, Gwen.”

The moon silvers the creek, the bridge above it, gleams on the rocks. The breeze moves over the marsh, sweet with sea grass, the old-wet-wood smell of the pilings. Cass sits down, leans back on his elbows, and looks at the sky, deep indigo and cloudless. I hesitate, breathing in the cool night air. After a few minutes, I walk a few feet away, unbutton, kick my shorts aside and wade into the rushing water, dipping underneath, surfacing to let the current, stronger and faster near the surface than below, seize me.

Then what’s catching me are Cass’s hands at my waist, his legs brushing mine, chin dipping into the curve of my shoulder.

Because the creek flows from the salt marshes into the ocean, the water’s warm, half salty, half sweet. I taste it on his lips.

* * *

Like before, things move fast with us. Cass has quick reflexes, and I have curious, wandering, wondering hands. He pulled me out of the water, as certain of his destination—a circle of soft grass between the bushes at the top of the bank—as if he’d visited here before and kept the map in his head. This is where we will go. I lean back on one elbow, tipping my head to the side, as Cass’s lips skate slowly up from my shoulder to my ear, so lightly, his lips are soft as a breath, but still enough to blow almost every thought away.

“My traitorous body.”

That’s one of those phrases that pops up all the time in Mom’s and Mrs. E.’s books. A handy excuse for the heroines, like, “Gosh, I knew I should stop and be ‘good,’ but my traitorous body . . .”

I’ve felt like that before. Or like I was one place and my mind off in the distance somewhere. Observing. Or trying hard not to.

But not now.

My body doesn’t feel as though it’s betraying me, separate. I’m not drowning out thoughts and focusing on sensations. I trace the long line of Cass’s jaw, dip a finger in a dimple, feel it groove deeper as he smiles. When I slide my hand up his side, brushing a drier path on the wet skin, the bump and groove of rib to rib, I feel him shiver, then the shake of him laughing a little.

“Ticklish?”

“Happy.” He cups the back of my neck with one hand, nudges at the top of my neckline, edges it lower. But well before it tips into something more than making out, we both pull back, me bracing my hands on his chest, him moving back, breathing hard.

“Sorry. I—only meant to—” That flush edges from the tips of his ears over the rest of his face.

“I know. But let’s stop here.”

He pulls the straps of my tank top back into position, head ducked, gives a quick nod.

“Not, um, forever. But tonight . . .” I falter. “Because I want—”

Cass cocks his head at me.

I want. The beginning of that sentence feels as though it will lead me into tall grass where I might get stranded. I try again. “I don’t want—”

“A jumbo box of condoms,” Cass says.

“I’m not taking that off the table. I mean, not forever. Because I— Jesus. This is awkward. Feel free to chime in anytime.”

“You get pissed off when I rescue you, Gwen.”

“I get more pissed off when you’re all calm when I’m—”

“Calm?” He sets his hands on my shoulders and gives me the smallest of shakes. “Hardly. ’Cause, no, I don’t want to stop now. I mean”—glancing down at where our bodies are still against each other’s—“clearly. But you’re right to. We’re right to.”

“Right?” I’m not sure what he means.

“A do-over, do better, a redo. If this”—he twitches his finger back and forth between us—“goes, um, there, again—”

“When,” I blurt. “When it goes there. Since we’re telling the truth here.”

He squeezes my shoulders, gives me a quick, hard kiss. “When. We’re doing it in a place and at a time we both choose. Not in the car or on a couch in some other random hurried way.”

“Not in a boat, not with a goat,” I say, unable to help myself. He did sound like one of Emory’s Dr. Seuss books.

“No and no,” Cass says, laughing. “We’re doing it in a bed. No goats.”

“You WASPs are so conventional.” I give his chest a shove.

“The first time,” he amends. “After that, all bets are off. And we’re doing it when we have more than just the one condom I’ve had in my wallet since I turned sixteen.”

Not for the first time, I wonder why he didn’t use that thing, or any other one, ages ago—what exactly he’s been waiting for.

* * *

Leaning against the railing of our porch, I only wait for Cass’s silhouette to be swallowed up by the night before hurrying down the steps again, in need of the rush, the peace, of jumping off the pier, swimming alone.

Swimming with Cass in the creek, bumping up against each other in the water, skin to skin, slip-sliding so close, then him ducking away, dodging me, was hardly calming.

God, isn’t it supposed to be the guys who can’t think straight? Whose bodies are screaming at their brains to just shut up because everything feels so good? Or is that another rumor someone started? Without thinking who it was going to hurt. Or just confuse.

The moon’s full, leaving Abenaki bright as day, but without the clutter. Except that there’s a lone car in the sandy beach parking lot, parked far over in the corner, nearly concealed by sea grass. But no silhouettes on the pier or the boat float.