Phantom Limbs (28 page)

I wished I had words for what it meant to me, that she said that. I knew she hadn’t erased Mason from her memory, and I knew how hard it was for her. That she was trying . . . it was everything.

She leaned her head on my shoulder, and for a moment it was like we were thirteen again, sitting on the pier and totally isolated from the world around us, in our own private little bubble. I leaned into her, briefly letting my head rest on hers.

The sound of a motorboat broke our reverie. Jeff was out on the boat with the Dunhams. Meg was right. He was fun. Everybody loved him. He and Stephanie jumped off the boat into the lake. We watched as they grabbed on to the tube and Tommy spun the boat into motion. I wondered if Meg felt like I did, which was kind of astounded that there were people who could play and have fun, people who could just have light times. They seemed so damn
carefree.
Sometimes I wondered if I’d ever feel that way again.

“Some people have all the fun,” I tried.

“I was just thinking that.” She stared down into the water at our feet. “We’re the walking wounded, aren’t we?”

“Yeah.” I leaned on her again. “We are.” I desperately wanted to put an arm around her, but I had no idea if Jeff could see us. The boat was circling back around for Stephanie, who had been thrown from the tube.

Meg turned to me. “Let’s go swimming. Let’s be the people who have all the fun.”

“I already showered,” I protested. “I’m all de-lake-ified.” As if I’d really say no to her.

“Last one in a swimsuit’s a rotten egg,” she said, jumping up and bolting for the house.

I was right on her heels.

I was already waiting on the patio, towels in hand, when she came out. She stopped short when she saw me and sighed in defeat. “I’m a rotten egg.”

“The rottenest.” We walked back out to the pier, and I stepped into the water. “No ducks,” I said. “Jump! You can do it!”

She laughed. “Like Amanda.”

She jumped down, then did a perfect impression of Amanda. “Did you see that? Did you see that?”

We walked in the direction of the pier. The Dunhams’ boat zoomed across the water in the distance, Jeff and Stephanie flying behind.

“Stephanie’s really grown up, huh?” I asked. The water was past our waists now.

“I can’t even believe that’s her.”

“Tell me about it.”

She looked at me, squinting into the setting sun. “Do you — do you like her?”

I shrugged. “Sure.”

“You mean, you
like
like her?” She stopped walking and stood across from me, running her hands over the surface of the water.

“I don’t know. I never thought about it.”

“Well, we’re not here for long.” Meg scooped handfuls of water. It fell through her fingers, catching the sun. “Anyway. Bet Kiera wouldn’t like that.” Meg lowered herself into the water and started to doggie paddle toward the raft.

I shook my head and smiled. “Doggie paddle . . .”

“It’s my specialty stroke!” she said, lifting her chin to keep her mouth above the water. “You breaststroke, I doggie paddle.”

“It’ll take days to get to the raft that way. Can’t you swim?”

“This is how I swim!”

I did a slow sidestroke, staying with her. “Meg Brandt, Olympic hopeful in the ten-yard doggie paddle with a top time of four hours, twenty-six minutes —”

“That’s it,” she said, reaching for me. She grabbed my shoulders and tried to push me down, but the water was still shallow enough that I could stand with my head above water. She tried to stand, too, but the water was too deep. She spluttered and reached for my shoulders.

I couldn’t think of a decent place to put my hands to help hold her up, so I just let her hold my shoulders as she coughed. “Can you make it there?” I asked.

“Of course I can make it,” she said, returning to her doggie paddling. The sun lit her legs, pale under the water’s surface.

I sidestroked leisurely beside her until we reached the raft, which she grabbed on to. “We’re really going to have to work on your swimming skills,” I told her.

“I’ll sign up for lessons.” She grinned. “Can I ride you afterward?” Her eyes widened and she clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Sure!” I said enthusiastically, and she whacked me on the arm.

“Go on up,” I said, gesturing toward the ladder.

But instead she inched her way around to the west side of the raft, the obscured side, the side with a history. My pulse quickened as I followed her.

“Remember the last time we were here?” Meg said, holding on to the raft with one arm and treading.

“Well, yes.” I stared into the water and nodded. “Yes, I do.”

“The hanky-panky?”

I moved over and held on to the raft with one arm, facing her. “I remember.” I looked into her eyes. In the sun, in the water, their color was insane. Nobody had eyes like hers.

She tilted her head. “I think that was the happiest I ever was in my whole life.”

My stomach suddenly felt as wavy as the water. I remembered how she had held on to me in this very spot. I could still summon the feeling of her mouth on mine, the taste of warm lake water on our lips, the joy of knowing that an evening lay ahead and then a night after that and then a day after that and then the rest of the summer and the rest of our lives . . .

A motorboat roared somewhere on the other side of the raft.

“That’s probably Jeff,” I said.

“Right.”

We climbed onto the raft and lay down, riding the gentle waves the motorboat sent our way. The sinking sun warmed our skin. It was impossible not to look at her, lying there in a bikini, drops of water glistening on her golden skin . . .

“What are you thinking about?” she asked after a while.

I closed my eyes. “I am thinking . . . of the way sunlight looks at dawn when it filters through the mist over the lake.”

“Mmm . . . You
are
a poet,” Meg murmured. “So what poets do you like?”

“Lots,” I said, my eyes still closed. “Yeats. Wordsworth. Frost. Rūmī . . .”

“Hmph. All men.”

“Um, Emily Dickinson, Elizabeth Barrett Browning . . .”

She smiled and, without opening her eyes, reached out a hand to pat me. She landed on my stomach, just under my rib cage. It felt stupidly good, embarrassingly good. I was sad when she withdrew her hand.

We lay there listening to the sounds of the motorboat zooming back and forth across the lake, and I didn’t want it to end. I didn’t want Michigan to end, and I didn’t want Willow Grove to end. I only wanted Jeff to end.

“Meg?”

“Mm-hm?”

“What about Jasper? If you don’t move back. Won’t you miss him?”

“Of course I’ll miss him. But even if I stay in California, I’ll still visit my dad.” She turned to me. “So we’ll see each other again. Either way.”

We lay there in silence for a while as I processed the idea of her going back to California to stay. It had always been a possibility, of course — maybe even a likelihood. But I hadn’t wanted to see it, hadn’t wanted to let myself believe that I would lose her again. That these next few days might actually be our last together for who knew how long. And now that she was flying back with Jeff, I might not even have the opportunity to say goodbye privately. Instead, it’d be another of those awkward public hugs. My chest ached at the thought. I wished I knew how to convince her to stay.

The sound of splashing bumped me out of my thoughts. I opened my eyes, and there was Jeff, swimming over to us.

“Hey. What are you guys doing?” he asked, treading water.

And even though I wanted to hate him, damned if I didn’t feel sorry for him. He flew halfway across the country to be with Meg, and she kept ditching him for me. He was trying to be upbeat, but any idiot could see he felt left out.

“Nothing, just hanging,” Meg said.

“It’s probably almost dinnertime,” I said, getting up. “We should head in.”

I dived off the raft, then waited as Meg climbed down the ladder and started her doggie paddling.

Jeff swam on her other side. “All right, you little mermaid, move it along . . .”

It stung, hearing how patient and affectionate he was with her. I couldn’t watch. I took off, sprinting freestyle to the pier.

I toweled off and walked up to the house. My mom had set out a huge platter of sliced watermelon and berries on the picnic table on the patio, and my dad manned the grill.

“How you doin’, buddy?” He arranged the coals with long tongs, glancing up at me. “You all right?”

“I’m fine,” I said, my tone a little prickly. My parents’ concern irritated me. It just reminded me what a loser I was.

Meg’s dad came out with a platter of brats. “Hey, Otis, how’s the water?”

“Great, you should go in.” I smiled.

“Ha.” He called over to my dad, “That’s a real smart-ass you’ve got there, Scott.”

“My best work,” my dad said. He kissed his bicep.

Meg appeared, wrapped in a towel, with Jeff right behind. Jeff made small talk about how great the lake was while Meg picked up a slice of watermelon from the table. Jeff hooked her around the waist and pulled her down into a patio chair with him, right into his lap.

I got up, mumbling an excuse, and went inside before I had to see anything more.

I SHOWERED OFF, CHANGED INTO SOME fresh shorts, and pulled
The Great Gatsby
off the shelf in my bedroom. I lay down on the bed, propped myself up on floppy, dusty pillows, and was quickly whisked away into the gaiety of the 1920s, which sort of made me wish that I dressed sharp and drank cocktails and knew how to dance.

A while later Meg knocked on my door. “Ot? Can I come in?”

“Sure,” I said.

She stepped in and closed the door behind her. She was still in her bikini, her hair drying in a tangle of waves that skimmed her breasts. I averted my gaze quickly. She seemed oblivious of the effect she had on me.

I put my book down and put my hands behind my head.

She ducked her head, looking a little embarrassed. “You have nice armpits.”

Nice
armpits
? Was that an actual thing? I craned my head around, trying to see what the big deal was. It was an armpit. Not super hairy or anything — not like Shafer’s simian pits. Pretty standard, if you asked me.

“Hey, I love that book.” She came over and sat on the bed. That’s when I discovered that, on a bed, a girl in a bikini looks even more naked. My throat went dry.

“You remind me of Daisy,” I said without thinking.

“What? Shallow and self-absorbed?” She pulled her legs up and sat crisscross, which made my brain short-circuit.

“No! Because you’re —” I stopped myself. Now I was stuck.

“Because I’m what?” Her breasts. Her stomach. Her legs. There was no safe place to look.

“Unforgettable.”

Her eyes met mine, but I couldn’t hold her gaze. “Where’s Jeff?” I asked.

“He’s playing softball with the Dunhams.” She picked up my book and examined the back cover. “He’s not much for sitting still. And they’re more fun than I am.” She shrugged.

“I think you’re plenty fun,” I said. The box fan that kept me from melting at night chugged away, lifting strands of hair off her shoulders. “What bedroom are you sleeping in?” I asked.

“The usual.”

“The one next door?”

Meg nodded. “My dad stuck Jeff in the upstairs room.”

Good move, Jay.

“I think he figures putting me next to you will keep me safe,” she said.

“From?”

She gave me a pointed look.

“Oh! So it’s my job to keep you two from having sex, is that what you’re saying? Is this a paying position?”

“Ha-ha.” She tossed the book down.

“Hey,” I said, changing the subject. “I have news for you. Only it’s not news, because you already guessed.”

“What?”

“Dara and Abby are . . . sort of a thing.”

Her mouth fell open. “I knew Dara was gay! You just found out?”

I shook my head. “It’s no longer classified.”

She blinked, then glanced down, her smile falling. “You’re her secret-keeper, huh?” She picked up the book again and flipped the edges of the pages against her thumb. “Seems like you’re everything to her.”

“Not a potential sex partner,” I pointed out. The irony was that I
would
have been Dara’s first sex partner, if I’d acquiesced. In hindsight, I could see that my ego might not have survived it. I’d make a poor lesbian.

“Are you a virgin?”

She caught me off guard. I blinked and scrambled to figure out how to handle it. How would it strike her if I was? Or if I wasn’t? It didn’t matter. It’s not as if I was going to lie about it. So I nodded.

She sat back a little and covered her eyes with her hand. “I shouldn’t have asked you that. I’m sorry.”

Was I supposed to reciprocate the question? I didn’t even want to know.

“I don’t know how you’ve stayed so chaste,” she teased. “I know certain girls would jump at the chance to deflower you.”

The remark made me blush, so I turned the spotlight back on her. “Who says ‘deflower’? You’re like an old schoolmarm trapped in the body of a Greek goddess.”

She smiled, recognizing the joke, but continued her line of thinking. “Kiera’s a sure thing,” she pointed out, still fiddling with the book.