CHAPTER 12
TATE
Tuesday is a slow day at Bartlett Marine, so Dad and I spend half the morning looking at boat porn. He’s hoping to replace our ancient thirty-seven-foot Hatteras with a newer model, maybe one with built-in GPS and a few more bells and whistles. But while I keep trying to steer him toward more practical options, Dad keeps clicking on shit that in no way meets our criteria.
“Dude,” I chastise. “We don’t need a high-performance speedboat.”
“Everyone needs a high-performance speedboat.”
“Well, yeah.” I sigh. “But we’re looking for something suitable for deep-sea fishing, remember?”
“I know, but…” Dad groans happily. “Look at this one, kid. Check out the design of her V-bottom hull … aw, man, she’s so sexy I can’t take it.”
A dry laugh echoes from the door. We both look up to see Mom standing there. We were so engrossed with the computer screen we didn’t even hear her come in.
“What’s her model number?” Mom asks.
I snicker. Most people would hear she’s so sexy I can’t take it and assume we’re ogling photos of women. “What makes you think we’re not looking at human porn?” I challenge.
“Because I know you boys better than that.” She strides toward us, an oversized wicker tote slung over her shoulder. With her yellow dress, flip-flops, and blond hair in a ponytail, she could easily pass for one of the college girls who’ll be swarming the Bay in September.
“Hi, sweetie.” She plants a kiss on my cheek.
“Hey, Mom.”
She turns to greet Dad, except when her lips near his cheek he pulls a sly switcheroo and plants his mouth on hers instead. I glimpse a slip of tongue, and cringe.
“You guys are repulsive,” I say, pretending to gag.
I don’t really mean it, though. Because all that stuff Mackenzie said last week about me never showing much interest in girlfriends? I suspect my parents’ relationship has a lot to do with that. When you grow up witnessing that sort of love, you start to believe that’s how all relationships are supposed to feel. And then you wait. You hold out for that feeling. It’s obscure, impossible to describe, but you know it exists. I know it exists because I see it with my folks.
I’ve been with many women, fucked a lot of them, dated a few, but I’ve yet to experience a deep connection with anyone. It might be cheesy and embarrassing and I’d never say it out loud, but I think I’m waiting for that feeling. And unless I feel it, there’s no point falling into a relationship with anyone.
Dad says he knew Mom was the one the moment he met her. She tells it a little differently, always teasing him that technically they met in high school and clearly he had no clue she was the one, otherwise they would’ve been dating back then. Dad was a big baseball star, dated cheerleaders and didn’t know Mom existed, according to her. After graduation, he left Georgia for St. Louis to play in the minors, while Mom stayed in St. Simon’s and started dating an accountant named Brad. A year into his ball career, Dad got injured and returned to the island, where he quickly reconnected with an old cheerleader flame. Which means they were both otherwise involved when they bumped into each other in the grocery store one afternoon. Despite that, Dad claims he took one look at her and knew he was going to marry her.
Mom ditched Brad, Dad ditched the cheerleader, and they’ve been blissfully married for twenty-five years.
Dad calls it their origin story. He gets a kick out of telling it. But Mom … it’s weird. Sometimes when she talks about it, she still wears this odd expression of disbelief. As if she can’t fathom how Gavin Bartlett could have chosen her, Gemma McCleary, over some cheerleader he dated in high school. I don’t get why she’s so stumped. Of course he chose her. Mom’s the coolest person I know.
With a curious expression, she peers closer at the computer screen, then lifts her head to narrow her eyes at Dad. “You can’t fish in that, Gavin.”
“But isn’t she beautiful?”
“Can you fish in her?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Then she’s ugly,” Mom declares. “Utterly hideous.”
Dad pouts. “Spoilsport.” He leans back in his rolling chair. “What brings you here, darlin’?”
“I took a half day at work today, so I decided to drop off some lunch for my boys.”
She reaches into her bag and pulls out a pair of sandwiches wrapped in foil. They’re man-sized, as she calls it. Meaning each sandwich is about the size of a shoebox.
“The vegetable garden is growing out of control, so I’m trying to use everything I can from it. Picked some fresh tomatoes, lettuce, peppers. And I grabbed some of that deli meat from the butcher in town. The roast ham you like.”
Dad’s eyes light up. “Oh man, yes. Thanks, Gem.”
“How are my children?” I ask Mom. “You’re not sending me enough pics of them.”
“Because I have more pressing matters to attend to than taking pictures of your dogs, sweetheart. You know, like go to work every day?”
“The kids are great,” Dad assures me. “Polly killed a rabbit last week and brought us its severed head as a token of her love.”
I guffaw.
“And Fudge got into the pantry yesterday and ate half a box of cookies, so he was farting all night. Around ten he was in a dead sleep and ripped one out so loud he woke himself up. Got so freaked out he was barking for a solid five minutes.”
Now I can’t stop laughing. “Shit, I can’t believe I missed that.”
Leaning against the side of the desk, Mom glances at Dad and nods toward me. “Did you ask him yet?”
I eye them both. “Ask me what?”
“No, I didn’t get a chance to yet,” he tells her. “Got distracted looking at boat pics.” He spins around in his chair, hands propped behind his neck. “It’s a big ask, but we were hoping you could do us a favor, kid. You know how we planned to take a trip in the fall?”
I nod. “A week in California.”
“Right. Well, we’re hoping to be gone a little longer than a week. We figured if we’re already on the west coast, we should make a real holiday out of it. Add Hawaii to the itinerary.”
“Hawaii!” Mom claps excitedly.
I rise from my chair and head for the water cooler to pour myself a cup. “So how long would you be gone?”
“If you’re on board, it’d be a month,” Dad says. “Your contract with the club is done in September, right?”
“Yeah.” I don’t teach sailing during the off season, working only from April to September. After that, I switch over to full-time shifts at the dealership. But I’ve never run the place on my own before. It’s always Dad and me, so the responsibilities are split fairly evenly. Working solo for a month means much longer hours.
On the other hand, it also means much bigger paychecks. I could put all that extra money toward buying my own sailboat.
“I think I could manage it,” I say slowly.
“Thanks, sweetie.” Mom comes up and gives me a quick hug, resting her chin on my shoulder. “We really appreciate it.”
“Told you we could count on him,” Dad says with a pleased smile. “Family always takes care of family, right, kid?”
“Yup.”
The rest of the workday flies by after Mom leaves. Around one o’clock we deal with a rush of tourists coming in to inquire about boat rentals, which we also provide. Dad and I are so busy we don’t even have a chance to eat our sandwiches. I scarf mine down in the Jeep on the way home later.
As always, I conduct a quick visual sweep of the Jackson house when I walk in, just to make sure nothing bad happened when I was at work. No wild animals finding their way in, or greedy hooligans getting the bright idea to rob us. All is good, and I head upstairs to change into sweats.
My plan for the night is lazing on the couch and watching mindless TV, because tomorrow’s going to be busy. Working with Dad till four, then speeding over to the yacht club to teach a five o’clock safety class to a group of teenagers who’re hoping to get the certification required for them to compete in single-handed dinghy racing. I love that the Manor sponsors junior programs for young sailors—I found them so valuable when I was their age. I do wish we offered club races to prepare kids for national events, but at least they’re able to compete at our sister club in Charleston.
I’ve just pulled a pair of gray sweatpants up my hips when I glimpse a flash of movement next door. It’s messed up, this strange synchronization Cassie and I have going on. As she passes her window, I narrow my eyes, frown, then grab my phone to text her.
Me: You’re wearing pink to your carnival date? No.
Cassie: Why not??
Me: Because you’ll get lost in a sea of cotton candy. You won’t stand out.
Cassie: But I look cute in pink.
I can’t argue with that. As it happens, she looks cute in everything, but I keep that observation to myself. I insisted I only wanted to be friends. Telling her how hot she is would only send mixed signals and confuse us both. And to be honest, I’m enjoying the hell out of this friendship. Hanging out with Cassie feels so damn natural. We have fun together, and there’s no pressure on my end to be on top of my game. I can be stupid and say whatever nonsense comes to mind, and, like a good friend, Cassie just laughs and doesn’t judge.
At the window, Cassie toys with the edge of her side braid, clearly mulling it over. She types another message.
Cassie: Okay. Stand by.
The curtains shut. But I don’t think she realizes they’re kind of sheer, especially when the bedroom light is on. The gauzy white material does very little to conceal the silhouette of the pinup girl next door.
Don’t look.
Too late.
Heat streaks through my bloodstream and settles in my balls, drawing them up tight. Oh fuck. I never knew a silhouette could turn me on so much. My throat is dryer than sawdust as I watch Cassie’s delectable shape move around the room. She disappears for a moment. In the walk-in closet, I think. Then she’s back and my dick weeps with joy. I’m semi-hard and unable to stop myself from staring. She’s in profile now. Her arms raise as she slips a garment over her head. The move makes her chest jut out, offering a perfect side-boob view.
Sweet Jesus.
She’s incredible.
Gulping rapidly, I wrest my pervy eyes away from her and make a mental note to jerk off next time before even thinking about stepping foot in my bedroom. It appears I need to curb all temptation before indulging in future window time.
The drapes part, and she reappears, clad in a white sundress. Instead of a bra, she’s wearing a bikini top, or at least I think that’s what those thin straps belong to. The pink strings peek out of her bodice, climbing up her collarbone to wind around her neck. The dress itself is knee-length, with a skirt that flutters around as she gives a little twirl before texting me.
Cassie: Now hear me out. Yes, I threw in a splash of pink with the bikini top. But that’s because I think it’s smart to color-coordinate with the cotton candy. We’ll complement each other.
Me: I’ll allow it.
Cassie: Do we like?
She does another twirl and I pretend the glimpse of bare thigh doesn’t do all sorts of things to my body.
I give her a thumbs-up, then type, Go get ’em, tiger.
Around midnight, I finally admit defeat and accept I can’t sleep. It has nothing to do with the fact that I haven’t heard a car engine next door or noticed her bedroom light flick on. She’s still out with that Aaron dude, clearly. Good for her. She deserves to have fun. My inability to fall into slumber is not Cassie-related at all. Like, at all.
I make my way down to the dock and sit at the very end of it, dangling my bare feet over the edge. But let’s say Cassie is the reason I’m still up. Obviously, this just means I’m a good friend. A friend who worries about the well-being of another friend. I mean, I know nothing about this Aaron kid. But I do know for a fact the carnival shuts down at eleven. So, really, she should’ve been home by now.
Unless she went back to his place.
My shoulders stiffen. His brother said they were staying in a rental on the north end, right on the water. The reminder makes me frown. I hope he doesn’t convince her to take a late-night dip. The waters up there are choppier. It’s where we usually go to surf. Swear to God, if fuckin’ Aaron allows Cassie to get sucked into the sea by a freak midnight riptide …
I’m suddenly craving a cigarette. I only smoke if I’m drinking, and then maybe one or two max, but right now I could use some help easing the jittery sensations inside me. My smokes are in the house, though, so I debate going for a swim instead. I allow the toes of one foot to skim the water, finding it much warmer than expected. I’m about to strip off my shirt and dive in when my phone lights up.
Cassie: You up?
I laugh softly. Swim plan instantly abandoned, I reach for the phone.
Me: Is this a booty call or a debriefing?
Cassie: Debriefing. I need my wingman ASAP.
Me: I’m on the dock.
Cassie: Be there in two.
The heaviness in my chest lifts as if someone flicked a switch. I try not to question it too hard. It’s crucial to this friendship that I don’t.
The tall grass at the base of the slope rustles, and I turn to see Cassie emerge from the shadows. Her hair is no longer arranged in a side braid but falling around her shoulders. With her white dress, bare feet, and loose copper waves, she has an almost ethereal quality about her. Practically floating down the dock toward me.
She plops beside me, legs over the edge, and releases a moan of unhappiness. “Hi.”
I grin. “That bad?”
“No. Not bad at all. We stayed out past midnight, so obviously there were lots of checks in the plus column.” Yet she’s visibly distressed.
“Okay, let’s hear ’em. Give me the play by play.”
“He’s super funny. He’s smart. He didn’t monopolize the conversation. Asked me lots of questions, but it didn’t feel like an interrogation. It was just, you know, a good conversation. Flowed easily.”
“All pluses so far.”
“He held my hand and didn’t ask beforehand if he could. I figured you’d view the confident hand grab as a plus.”
I snicker. “Oh, absolutely. What else?”
“He’s scared of heights, but still rode the Ferris wheel after I said how much I love seeing the town from above. That was another plus.”
“Agreed.”
“The carnival grounds close at eleven, so we left and got slushies afterward. We sat in the parking lot and talked, and…” She pauses, and I notice a blush rising on her cheeks. “We were definitely feeling each other.”
“This is all good so far,” I point out, ignoring the weird clench in my chest. “How did he manage to fuck this up? What were the minuses?”
“Just one minus.” She turns to me with a look of defeat. “The kissing. Oh my God, Tate.”
“Aw, shit. Our boy Aaron can’t bring it home? What was the issue? Saliva? Because that might not be his fault. My friend Chase dated a guy once who had something called hypersalivation and—”
“It wasn’t the saliva,” she interjects. “It was the tongue.”
“Too much of it?”
“Too much is an understatement. And it was right from the get-go. I’m talking even before our mouths actually touched. He came at me tongue first, eyes closed. Want me to demonstrate?”
“No, I think I get—”
Cassie ignores my objection and demonstrates anyway. “It was like this.” She squeezes her eyes shut, sticks her tongue straight out, and comes barreling toward my face.
It’s so unsettling I instinctively rear back.
“Holy shit. He didn’t.”
“He did. It was terrible.”
I try to control the laughter bubbling in my throat, but it’s difficult. “Okay,” I say carefully. “That sounds … unpleasant. But once the lips made contact, did it get better?”
“It did not,” she groans. “It was just too much. He was trying so hard to be passionate, I guess, but it wasn’t working in the slightest. When it finally ended I felt like I’d run a marathon. Or worse. Like … like I’d just changed a duvet cover.”
“Did you ask him to slow down at any point?”
“No.”
I roll my eyes. “Why the hell not?”
“I don’t know.” She offers a self-conscious shrug, her fingers toying with the hem of her dress. “I’m not that person.”
“You’re not the person who asks a dude not to shove his tongue halfway down your throat and pretend you’re sword-fighting during a make-out session?”
“I’m not the person who tells someone they’re a bad kisser,” she corrects.
“Requesting to go slower isn’t telling him he’s a bad kisser,” I argue. “You’re just vocalizing your needs.”
“Vocalizing my needs? What are you, a self-help guru?”
“Apparently you need one,” I say in accusation, flashing a smile so she knows I’m half kidding.
“Why, because I’m too polite to tell a guy he’s doing it all wrong?”
“Would you rather be polite, or would you rather enjoy a kiss? And anyway, you don’t go about it that way, like he’s doing something wrong. You make it about you. You pull away and say something like…” I ponder. “I like it slow. And make sure to sound all breathy, even apologetic, as if it’s a you problem. Know what I mean?”
Wariness flickers through her expression.
“Or you could pull back and whisper something like, I like being teased. Then flutter your eyelashes and give him that hot-girl look and order him to tease you for a bit.”
Now she looks fascinated. “Okay, you’re not bad at this.”
“I know,” I say smugly.
“But it’s easier said than done. It’s easy to imagine myself saying and doing all those things after the fact. In the moment, though, I know I’ll freeze. People are so vulnerable when they’re kissing. It’s like this super precarious state of being. When he’s kissing me, his self-esteem hangs in the balance. One negative word from me, and it’s an embarrassment he’ll carry with him forever.” She heaves a sigh. “Plus I don’t like conflict.”
“One, you’re giving yourself way too much importance in this dude’s life if you believe your criticism will haunt him forever. Either that, or you hang on to embarrassing shit a lot longer than most people, which is a whole other conversation altogether. And two, I’m pretty sure nearly everyone is conflict averse. Conflict fucking sucks.” I cock my head. “Do you want to practice on me?”
“Practice what?” She wrinkles her forehead.
“Being assertive.” I angle myself so I’m facing her. She’s blushing again, a deep, noticeable red. “C’mon, I think this’ll be good for you. I’ll come at you tongue first and let’s see how you handle it.”
Cassie spits out an unequivocal, “No!”
“Nah, this is an excellent idea. It’ll be an exercise in self-assertion and conflict mitigation.” I roll my neck around my shoulders, stretching it out. When Cassie sighs at me, I lift a brow. “What? I need to be limber for this. Ready?”
“No.”
“Great. Here I come!”
I shoot forward with my eyes closed and tongue spearing the air.
Cassie shrieks and pushes my chest, nearly knocking me off the dock. She doubles over in laughter, which makes me chuckle as I regain my balance. Her spirits are lifting, so that’s good, at least.
“Oh my God. Are you sure you’re twenty-three and not an overgrown child?”
“I’ve been informed by my mother that all men are overgrown children until the age of thirty.” I snort. “Or in my dad’s case, still a child in his midforties.”
“So that’s where you get it from.”
“My dashing good looks? Yes.”
“I meant your antics.”
“Antics? I’m trying to help you here, ginger. You need to learn to speak up. Vocalize your needs. Don’t tell me you’re not sitting here wishing you handled tonight differently.” I meet her suddenly troubled eyes. “You regret not saying something, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she confesses. “I wish I said something.”
“Good. Then I’m serious—practice on me. Let’s try again.”
She eyes me suspiciously. “Are you going to launch yourself at me with your tongue again?”
“Nah.” I wink. “But get ready for the worst kiss of your life.”