“For what? You’re the one who started it.”
“Like I said, it was anaccident.” When I remain silent, he cocks his hand back. Mud oozes between his fingers. “Admit I’m right and apologize, Boston.”
It doesn’t matter whether he’s right, because I’d rather spend hours scrubbing a stain out of my clothes than apologize to the guy who spent the last two weeks erecting a giant hill for me to climb.
Accepting my fate, I close my eyes and wait.
One second ticks by. Two, then three. Water laps gently and a soft breeze hums through the air.
Tentatively, I pop one eye open to find Grayson’s hand by his side, head shaking in exasperated wonder. Little droplets of water fling from his hair with each movement. “Jesus, you’re more stubborn than Anson.”
In this context, it sort of feels like a compliment.
“Are you going to do it?”
The Grayson I met two weeks ago would have already slung the muck at my face and taken a photo to hang like a trophy, then thrown darts at it all day.
ButthisGrayson just keeps shaking his head. “It’ll stain that sweatshirt, which means you’ll end up needing another one. And they’re supposed to be forpayingcustomers, not freeloading employees.”
The sweatshirts are inexpensive to produce, and there are literallyhundredspiled in the stockroom. Grayson’s too aware of the farm’s operations tonotknow this.
But he sticks to the weak excuse. Shaking the mud from his hand, he turns toward the boat, wet shirt glued to the muscles of his upper back and shoulders. “Come on. Before you get cold, Boston.”
I trudge behind him, tugging my useless, sopping sweatshirt over my head. The sun’s out, and the fabric was thick enough to save my black tee underneath from most of the water. Still, I can’t help but shiver a little in the sea breeze as I board the skiff.
“The bow,” Grayson says, as he shoves the boat off and jumps in with practiced ease. When I look over in question, he glances at my shirt, then my plastered-on jeans, a frown marring his scruffy mouth. “Sit on the floor at the bow. It’ll protect you from the wind.”
“The sun’sout. It isn’t bad.”
“Just sit at the bow.” His nostrils flare on an exhale. “Please.”
The sky must be falling, or I’m already hypothermic and hallucinating. Because there’s no way that six-letter word just came out of him.
But it did.
Just like his invitation to join today’s tour, despite the headache it caused. Just like his poorly worded conviction that I’m not at fault for my layoff.
So, for once, I don’t fight him, dutifully heading to the bow and hunkering down.
And he’s right. It does protect me.
10
ELIZA
The stained,off-white backboard and rickety hoop stare back at me blankly, like they’re wondering why in the world I’m standing in front of them with a basketball.
Or maybe I’m projecting.
I’m not a middle-schooler. Nor am I a washed-up D1 athlete. I haven’t actually touched a basketball since sophomore year of high school, before swim and school took over every ounce of my free time. I have zero business being here.
But it’s one of those ugly early summer weekends, where it’s cloudy and cool, and even the sand and picnic warriors aren’t interested in the beach. After a full week of work and a morning spent writing cover letters for two positions Suzanne found, I needed a break from the screens and the house. Or, boat.
I could’ve gone to one of the vacation towns sandwiching Garnet Shores, but they remind me of the neighborhoods I used to visit with my friends. The ones with cute cafes, shopping, and pretty sidewalks. The thought of doingthat without them only reminded me of my current predicament, and allthatdid was twist my gut.
It didn’t help that Sami had texted this morning, asking how I was. She didn’t respond to my reply, probably because she’s at brunch with Kyle and the others—something we’ve always done on Saturdays.
So I grabbed the lone basketball hiding in the boat cabin’s storage bin and walked here, trying to pretend this is completely voluntary and not as pathetic as it feels.
