Swept Away (20 page)

“No! No, that's not it.” I don't want to tell him I already saw that movie and kind of hated it. “You're definitely not taking up too much of my time.”

That's when it hits me. Time. Our time together has an expiration date. I grab him in a fierce hug. “I—I want to spend as much time as possible with you,” I say, my voice suddenly cracking.

“Wh-what's wrong?” he asks. I can't answer; I can only shake my head. His body tenses. “Oh. Right.”

He peels me off him and takes a step back. “You're thinking about . . .” He rakes his hand through his hair. “I've been trying
not
to think about that myself.”

I can't look at him. “But don't we have to think about it?” My voice squeaks like a mouse's.

“Why?”

He catches me off guard with that one, and my head snaps up. “What?”

His face mirrors the misery and confusion I'm feeling. “Do we have to focus on the end? Can't we just . . . I don't know . . .” His shoulders rise, then drop again as he searches for words.

I blink back the threatening tears as I try to come up with an answer. “Stay with the micro?” I say softly. “Avoid the macro?”

A smile begins in his eyes and spreads to his lips. “Something like that, yeah.”

I have told myself time and again not to overthink.
Today
, the
micro
, is fantastic. I'd only ruin it if my brain kept going for the macro, the big picture, the future. Stick with what's in front of me. No matter how much it might hurt later. Do I really want to give up what's so fantastic now?

“It's a deal,” I say, and seal it with a kiss. I lean away from him, our arms around each other's waists, our hips pressed together. “I'd love to see
Far Far Away
with you.” Why spoil things by telling him the movie he's looking forward to seeing is a tedious bore? I'll just sit in the dark next to him and be happy to have both him and air-conditioning.

W
e fall into a kind of routine, if something that makes me feel different than I've ever felt before can be called “routine.” Each day he meets me at Candy Cane. Sometimes we go to the movies; sometimes we grab a bite to eat; sometimes we go to “our” place by the river. I confess, I make him pick the movies and the places to eat. Since he loved
Far Far Away
(gag) I know we have different taste. I don't want him to not like what I pick. I've sat through some clunkers, but it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make.

On my days off he shows up at my house and says, “So which Rocky Point should it be today?” remembering that first day at the river when I told him about there being multiple Rocky Points, all in biking distance. “You choose; you're the guest” is always my answer. After a week or so he stops asking. We just go.

Today he arrives at my door on his bike with a huge grin on his face and wearing an enormous battered backpack. A castoff of Freaky's, I assume.

“What are we up to today?” I ask.

“Hubbard Island! A full day of hiking, biking, bird-watching—­the whole nature experience. I read about it in my guidebook, and I figured what better way to see it than with a native, right?”

My insides fall to my feet. A whole day trapped on an island doing the outdoorsy. So not a good look for me. “Uh, I'm not a native of Hubbard Island. . . .”

“You know what I mean,” he says with a laugh. “Grab whatever you think you'll need and let's go. I checked the ferry schedule, and the next one leaves in about twenty minutes.”

Tell him,
my brain screams.
Tell him this is not something you want to do
. But somehow what comes out of my mouth when I look at his face all lit up with excitement and expectation is just “Sure.”

Oliver waits on the porch while I go and try to figure out what I should bring as a survival kit. I check the bathroom medicine cabinet and find some allergy pills. Should I take one now in a preemptive strike? But this is the kind that makes me drowsy. I tuck them into a pocket in my backpack just in case. A pack of tissues—an absolute necessity. Bug spray. Sunblock. I sigh. This is why I'm not a big fan of the great outdoors. I have to pack an arsenal to fight off whatever Mother Nature has in store for me.

I leave a note for Mom telling her where I am. She's going to be pretty surprised; like the lighthouse, Hubbard Island is another of those Rocky Point attractions I've never been particularly attracted to.

Of course, Oliver changed my mind about Candy Cane, so
maybe he can change my mind about Hubbard Island, too.

I push through the screen door and Oliver jumps up. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

I hope.

T
here are two ferries from Rocky Point, one that goes to Cranston, the peninsula just next door, and the other to Hubbard Island. The one to the island is a lot more touristy, and we're not the only ones walking our bikes onto the deck. I can tell today is going to be one of Maine's rare scorchers.

I have to admit the ferry ride over is nice, with the breeze from the water cooling us, and the boats bobbing on the bright blue water with the evergreens of Hubbard Island in the background. It's not exactly romantic to be packed in with dozens of other cyclists with our bikes between us, though.
Keep an open mind,
I tell myself.

We disembark with everyone else and push the bikes up to the rustic cabin serving as a visitors' center. “I'll be right back,” I tell Oliver, standing my bike near an information kiosk filled with brochures, maps, and scenic postcards. There's even the one of Candy Cane that I'm selling at the lighthouse. Before Oliver can ask me where I'm going, I scurry around the building to find the restroom. I don't know when the next chance to do this will be.

When I come back around, Oliver is sitting beside our bikes, studying a map.

“So where should we go?” Oliver asks.

“You're the one with the map; you tell me,” I say.

“Yeah, but you're the one from here.”

“The last time I was on Hubbard was probably in the fifth grade,” I say.

“Oh. Like people who live in New York never go to the Statue of Liberty. You don't do the tourist things.”

“I guess. . . .”

“Okay, so . . .” He squints at the map, then shrugs. “Let's just follow a trail.”

Thank goodness I've been biking to Candy Cane every day. I'm in much better shape than I was at the start of the summer. Even so, I'm sweating pretty quickly since the path Oliver picked is mostly uphill. I know somewhere on the island there are supposed to be spectacular views, a waterfall, and good spots to swim where the water is warmer than in the bay, but I have no idea where they are. Besides, views are views. I can see them most anytime.

Oliver can't,
I remind myself. It's why he's so big on all this.

The path is too narrow for us to ride side by side. This is not good. It means nothing distracts me from the driplets of sweat snaking down between my boobs, the stickiness of my hair on my neck, and how uncomfortable this dumb bike seat is. I totally wore the wrong clothes. I'm overdressed but underprotected. If he had let me know beforehand, and I didn't have to race for the ferry, I'd have been better prepared.

I try to take my mind off my discomfort by watching Oliver ahead of me. Only instead of getting my focus off the stupid gnats flying in my face, seeing his ease on his bike annoys me. I really really really want to take a break, but I don't want him to think I'm a total wimp. Besides, he's so far ahead of me that he'd
never hear me if I asked him to stop. He's not even checking to be sure I'm keeping up with him.

Is that good boyfriend etiquette? I don't
think
so!

Oliver finally slows to a stop when we reach a fork in the path. And for the first time since we started riding he turns around. His big grin irritates me. Is he not even sweating? Do boys from California not sweat? In Maine we're not very used to the heat, since we only have it a few weeks a year. I'd like to see him try to get through a Rocky Point winter. I'd definitely win that contest.

“Which way should we go?” he asks cheerfully.

I'm about to say “Whichever,” because seriously, I don't care, but instead what comes out is a giant sneeze. Then another. And another.

Uh-oh.

I sling around my backpack and fumble for my tissues. Just in time. “AAAAA-choo!”

Birds take flight, squirrels scurry, and Oliver still has that giant smile on his stupid face. “You okay?” he asks.

“Fine.” Only now that my allergies have kicked in, they're
all
attacking at once. My eyes itch and water. I swipe at a tear trailing down my cheek. Before I turn into a dripping mess, I tell Oliver, “Just pick a direction. Let's go.”

Oliver looks a little startled by my tone but starts riding again. I feel around in my backpack for the allergy pills. It may be too late, since they take a while to work, but I'm desperate. I realize that Oliver has the water bottles, so I pick up my speed.

Bad move. My streaming eyes make my vision fuzzy, and I miss seeing the root Oliver has just swerved around. I hit it hard and go flying.

I let out a shriek. The world blurs as I tumble up, down, and sideways. I land hard, scraping various parts, slamming others. I can hear the bike's chain whirring, and feel something poking my ankles. I lay stunned, staring up at the patch of blue between the thick pine trees.

Have I mentioned that I'm really not the outdoorsy type.
And
a klutz?

At least this got Oliver's attention. As I sit up checking for broken bones, he turns and rides back. “Are you all right?” he calls.

No. I'm embarrassed and bruised, and I have gravel burn on my hands. Along with pine needles and leaves in my hair. “Yes. I'm fine.”

Why do my brain and my mouth come up with different answers to questions?

He drops his bike and rushes over. “You sure?”

He reaches for my bike, but I yank out my foot and kick the bike away from me. “Yes, I'm sure,” I snap.

His head pulls back like a turtle's. “Ooo-kay.”

I sigh. “I'm fine. Just . . . feeling stupid.” I start to stand, and he instantly tries to help me. But I'm so sweaty and gross the last thing I want is for him to touch me. I step out of reach and again his head does the turtle thing. To cover, I bend over and brush the dirt off my knees and twist around to do the same to my backside.

“Can you check my bike?” I ask. “Make sure it's okay?” He's the micro guy, right? That should be a good task for him and give me time to pull myself together.

He picks up my bike and straddles it, checking the alignment, the handlebars, and the seat position. When he steps off
and kneels down to examine the chain, I go through his backpack. Water. Excellent. I take the allergy pill and wash it down, then use the water to clean off my scrapes. Nothing too serious, just some stinging.

By the time I'm done, he's given my bike the thumbs-up. “Ready to get back up on the horse?”

“Huh?”

“The old saying? If you fall off a horse, you're supposed to get right . . . Forget it.”

“Right.” I yank the handlebars away from him. “Lead on. To wherever it is we're going.”

He gives me another one of those quizzical looks, so I fake-smile at him, wondering about the condition of my face. Red and puffy eyes? Equally red and puffy nose? My allergies are making me itch from the inside out, and it's not a fun feeling. Come on, modern medicine. Work fast, please!

I follow Oliver, and now what had been minor discomfort has transformed into actual aches and pains from the fall. I just hope we come to a place to picnic soon. Is he planning to bike the entire island?

The path widens, and he slows down so I can pedal up beside him. We pass a clearing, surrounded by tall pine trees. “How about we stop here?” I suggest.

“No view,” he says. “We can do better.”

We bike a ways more and come out of the woods to actual picnic grounds. Although a family has claimed one table, and a foursome sit at another, there are still a few empties. “Here?” I slow down.

“Not special enough,” he says, and continues pedaling.

I push hard to catch up. My muscles are burning—that ride to Candy Cane hasn't gotten me in as good a shape as I thought. Realizing I'm going to have to do this ride all over again to go back just adds to the cranky. “Who are you? Goldilocks?” I ask.

“Huh?

“When are you going to find the one that's
just right
?”

“I just wanted . . . Fine. Let's stop here.” He abruptly stops by a large tree and leans his bike against it.

“Great,” I say.

Only not so great. He's right. There's nothing special or scenic about it. We could be in the woods near his house.

“Where's the other water bottle?” he asks, rummaging through his backpack.

“I took it when I fell,” I say as I pull it out and take another gulp.

“Don't swig it. That's all the water I packed.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Aren't there, like, concession stands?”

I gape at him as he spreads a picnic blanket. “At the dock, yeah. But this is a nature preserve. You know, where they preserve nature? Didn't the guidebook explain that there aren't any food booths here?” I shake my head. “Not exactly a completist now,” I mutter.

“You don't have to be so snotty about it.”

“Snotty?” I start laughing. “Yep, that's me. Snotty. And drippy. And sweaty. And scraped up and bruised.”

“Have a sandwich,” he grumbles.

I take it from him, but only because Freaky made it and anything Freaky makes is delicious. As soon as I'm holding it, the smell tells me it's fish. “I'm not hungry.” I drop the sandwich onto the blanket.