9
Somehow, when it’s time to leave, Justin ends up in my car. We’re both sun-kissed from playing in the ocean and everything has that salty-sunscreen smell.
I can’t tell if it’s weird that I just kissed his friend, but Pete squeezed my hand when we got out of the boat and wandered off with Nick and Whit.
The Pact.
No strings.
No attachments.
I wait as Justin rinses off everything back at the marina before placing it back in the car. Then he piles a cooler and towels in the back seat. I’ve noticed he’s meticulous about some things—boats, cars, especially his work ethic. Anita is probably right, that he has bigger dreams than living on this tiny part of the coast, but at the same time he seems perfectly at ease with his life.
“Here,” he says, handing me my flip-flops. They’re wet but clean and I slip them on my feet. I’d offered him a ride when the others quickly left the marina and he was still securing the boat.
“You have so much more patience than I do,” I tell him. We’re in the car now and I’ve cranked the air-conditioning to cool my burned skin. He wastes no time moving the seat back to accommodate his long legs and he fiddles with the knobs on the radio and settles on a classic rock station. I laugh at his choice. “What, no country?”
“Don’t knock it,” he says, lifting an eyebrow. “And whatever, you live in Nashville, that’s about as country music as you can get.”
I pull out of the parking lot and head down the main road. “Which way?” I ask. I’ve never been to Justin’s house—or really, Richard’s, I guess. I can’t deny I’m interested to see where someone lives around here if it’s not at the campground.
“To the right.”
I turn like he says and listen to him sing softly next to me. He knows all the words to Light My Fire and it prompts me to tell him, “In the ninth grade my friends and I all got really into Jim Morrison.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“We thought he was so tragic and poetic. Plus, those leather pants…”
He studies me. “Yeah, I can’t see it.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve got that clean-cut sorority girl thing going on. I can’t see you dropping acid and eating ‘shrooms.”
“Aren’t you awfully presumptuous? You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know enough,” he says. “Believe it or not, I flirted with a Grateful Dead stage. Tie dyes and long hair.” His eyes light up from a passing car. “We were so lame.” We’re about halfway back to the campground when he gestures to a street coming up and I turn right again, back toward the water. “I guess everyonegoes through some kind of rebellious stage or ‘self-exploration’. Mine just included lots of guitar jams and weed.”
“Do you play guitar?”
“No, but Pete does. He’s pretty good.”
I remember the callouses on his fingertips.
We’re traveling along a dirt road now, passing a couple of individual trailers until we get to a driveway that branches off and heads straight toward the water. Massive trees shade the yard from the setting sun and in the dusky light I can make out a large house.
“This is your house?” I ask, pulling the car to a stop.
“Richard’s.” The house has a sweeping staircase, reminiscent of a southern plantation, and enormous columns. I’m still staring when my door opens and I see Justin holding it open for me.
“This is beautiful.” The water behind it is from the waterway and I can see a dock. Lights flicker on as the sun sets lower around the property. “No wonder you crash here.”
“You want a tour?” he asks and I nod, following him past the car.
“Can we go out there?” I point to the dock. I feel dirty and gross, still in my bathing suit and cover-up—unacceptable for visiting someone’s home.
“Sure,” he says and I feel his fingers slip between mine. I consider removing them, but on second thought I don’t, because there’s no reason. No reason to fight this moment or the guy in it.
