Happy Place(66)

Parth drops into the seat beside Wyn. “What, it’s fine for Kimmy but not for me?”

“Kimmy isn’t wearing white pants made out of tissue paper,” Wyn points out.

Parth’s hands go protectively toward his crotch, then he sighs, resigned. “Whatever. Everyone in this boat has seen me naked at some point or another.”

“I actually haven’t,” Kimmy says thoughtfully.

“Well, Kimberly,” Parth replies, “it might just be your lucky day.”

Wyn’s eyes catch mine for a second again. In my chest, an engine turns over.



* * *



? ? ?

WE CRUISE THROUGH the smattering of islands that dot the coast, sail past two separate lighthouses, and pause for giddy pictures when we spot the first slew of plump seals sunbathing on the rocks. Pretty quickly, we realize the water is brimming with them. A horde of them, an embarrassment of seals.

“Quick,” Kimmy says to Cleo, “help me grab one to take home.”

“This isn’t my exact area of expertise,” Parth says, “but I’m guessing there are laws against that.”

“Yes, and there are higher divine laws about little whiskered faces needing kisses,” Kimmy says, leaning out over the edge of the boat toward a seal who’s either scratching his back on the rock or possibly trying to roll upright. “Plus, taking a seal home was my secret goal for this week.”

“Sometimes when you love something,” Cleo says, squeezing Kimmy’s shoulders, “you have to let it go.”

I have to work not to look over at Wyn.

“You’re a good boy!” Kimmy shouts at the seal as we pull away. “Or girl! Or whatever!”

Around lunchtime, we dock on one of the summer community islands and climb over the jagged shoreline, watching horseshoe crabs dart and scuttle through the murky shallows.

“These things freak me out,” Parth says.

“They look like something out of Jurassic Park,” Wyn says, lightly touching my elbows as he leans over me to see. The breeze swirls his scent around me like a length of silk.

“I love them,” Cleo says.

“I’ll let you take one home,” Kimmy says, “if we go back for my seal.”

“I’m sorry, babe, I just don’t think we’ve got room for that kind of responsibility in our lives.”

“If life’s too hectic for your best friends to visit,” Sabrina says, “then you don’t have time to start a horseshoe crab preserve.”

“Would you quit picking at me,” Cleo says.

Sabrina’s eyes widen. “I was kidding.”

“Well, it’s not funny,” Cleo says.

“Okay, okay,” Sabrina replies. “I’m sorry!”

Cleo turns away, hiking up the shore toward the gnarled woods, and Sabrina looks at Kimmy.

She shakes her head. “She’s under a lot of pressure right now. Give her a break.”

It’s as close to an admonishment as I’ve ever heard Kimmy give, and she doesn’t wait around for Sabrina’s reply before striding up the path after Cleo.

Sabrina turns away, looking out at the water, shoulders square and arms folded. She gives one firm shake of her head on a laugh that rides the line between exhausted and hurt.

“Maybe we should eat,” I suggest.

“Great idea,” Parth chimes in, clearly as eager as I am to smooth things over.

“I’ll go grab the picnic basket,” I call, already picking my way back over the kelp-strewn rocks toward the docked boat. I kick off my sandals and hop in.

“What was that about?” comes Wyn’s voice.

I turn to find him walking up the dock. I look back toward the others. Sabrina and Parth are having an animated conversation on the shore, and Cleo and Kimmy are ambling through the woods, partially obscured by twisted branches of thick dark pine needles and yellow-green leaves.

“From what I’ve gathered,” I say, looking away before his closeness can hit my bloodstream, “Sabrina’s jockeying for an invitation to the farm, and Cleo’s annoyed that she’s jockeying.”

“And Kimmy?” Wyn asks.

“Annoyed with Sabrina for being annoyed with Cleo.”

The boat rocks under my feet as he steps down. “So where do we fit into this?”

“I don’t know, I guess I could be annoyed with Kimmy about being annoyed, and then that could potentially annoy you?”

“You never annoy me,” he says.

I look up, catch him watching me.

My laugh is breathless, woozy. “We both know that’s not true.”

He studies me for a second, brow furrowed. “Frustrate, maybe. Not annoy.”

“What’s the difference?” I ask.

His eyes drop to my legs and back up. “When you’re annoyed, you don’t want to be around a person.” His chin shifts to the left, not quite a shake of his head. “I always want to be around you.”

I want to call him out, to trot out those key moments from our history that decidedly disprove this. But I can’t. I can remember what the arcuate fasciculus does for the human brain but not exactly how to use it to make words.

“Here,” he says, reaching for the cooler. “I can get that.”