Page 2 of Plotting Summer

“Do you need to let your mom know?”

“My mom and grandma are at my brother’s golf tournament in Orlando. They won’t be home for a few more hours.” Or later if Walker convinces them to stop for dinner. Which he will.

He stands up and offers me his hand. “Here. Let me help you out, then.”

My gaze lowers from those gorgeous eyes to his outstretched hand. It’s just like in my imaginings. Except it’s real. With only a brief hesitation where I worry I might pass out from pure delight, I put my hand in his. Instantly, my fingers are alive with warmth, and the feeling shoots up through my arm until my whole body is consumed. I’ll definitely be documenting every last detail of this moment in my notebook later so I can relive it for ... I don’t know ... forever.

When my feet are safely on the dock, he releases my hand and starts toward his boat like he didn’t rock my entire world with a brief touch. I’m obviously still reeling and need a second. Without permission, my gaze shifts from his begging-to-be touched golden locks to the soft white t-shirt contrasting his tan skin and clinging to his muscular back. I nearly let my focus drop lower when I partially return to my senses. What would he think if he caught me admiring his mighty fine hindquarters?

Pull yourself together, Capri!

I hurry and shove my notebook in the storage compartment of the fishing boat and start after him with my lanky strides. To make sure I’m not dreaming, I discreetly pinch my inner arm. Ouch! I’m definitely awake. But maybe I hit my head harder than I thought? I won’t be the least bit shocked to wake up any moment still in dead-beetle position. Though, if that’s the case, I’m going to roll with this concussion-induced fantasy as long as possible.

It isn’t that Tristan and I aren’t friends; we just run in different circles. But we often chat when we’re both conveniently outside in the yard at the same time, and he always seems to seek me out at community or neighborhood get-togethers because he’s nice like that. And when it comes to boatpooling (like carpooling minus the car and add in a boat) to and from school every day, of all seven island kids Tristan takes, I’m the one he trusts with manatee watch. Granted, he originally asked Beau (his younger brother who’s my age) to make sure the water near the boat is manatee free, but Beau insisted I’m more fit for the task. Once I assured Tristan I didn’t mind, he allowed it. That’s trust.

I’ve held the position for the last three years. One, because I absolutely love manatees, and though it isn’t super common, manatees have been spotted in the canals that connect several of the island houses’ docks to the bay. To ever cause harm to one of the gentle giants would be beyond devastating. But also, manatee duty kept me from having to interact with my peers as much. It’s not like I don’t enjoy being around people. I simply prefer watching to socializing. That’s especially true when I’m in group settings with people a few rungs above me on the social ladder—which is basically everybody.

So, all of that to say, I would consider me and Tristan to be friends. Yes, I might be a bit more invested in our friendship, but that’s because Tristan has so many friends whereas I have Jane ... and sort of him. But I’ll take what I can get when it comes to Tristan.

I climb into the boat after Tristan and take a seat in the very front. It’s my usual lookout spot and apparently the one I feel most comfortable in. He doesn’t mention how far away I’ve chosen to sit but starts the engine. We putter along the canal, my gaze glued to the water, searching for manatees. Then we make our way out to the bay and eventually around the island’s southern tip.

“I’ve always wanted to see the view from the top of that,” he says.

I glance over my shoulder to find him pointing at the lighthouse. Since it’s high tide, the sandy walkway out to it is currently covered, so it looks like an island. “I bet it’d be awesome.”

We watch it pass, the boat moving into open ocean.

“Ready?” he asks, his eyes lighting with excitement so palpable it’s like his spark of electricity jumps to me.

I brace myself and nod, my grin stupidly big.

Suddenly we’re soaring over the water. The slight lift of waves are small bumps beneath us. My hair is whipping in my face, and I’m laughing and squealing in unexpected delight. Tristan is also beaming, his eyes on me, but I’m too nervous to meet them for longer than an occasional moment here and there.

The boat slows, then stops.

There’s no one else around us and only a glimpse of Sunset Harbor in the distance. My imagination begins churning out an impressive number of potential scenarios as to where this boat ride could go if my life were a romance novel. But it’s not. And with my quickened heart rate, I know it’s time to rein in my unhelpful thoughts.

Tristan drops on the cushioned bench connected to where I’m sitting before stretching out his legs toward me and leaning back with his arms behind his head. “This is where I go to think,” he says, sending me a conspiratorial look.

I glance at the pink-and-orange-tinted clouds that hint at a spectacular, upcoming sunset. The water is calm, the slight waves gently rock the boat, and the distant calls of seabirds add to the peaceful ambiance. “I can see why.” Though what I can’t understand is his reason for inviting me to come along.

We sit a while in silence, Tristan closing his eyes, and me using every strategy I can think of not to watch him. First, I work on untangling a few knots in the ends of my now wind-blown hair before moving onto chipping the remaining pink polish off my fingernails. It’s a mindless task, so it’s not until I see pink flakes scattered across the white bench seat that I realize my error. I’m about to brush it off but decide it probably isn’t much better to have it sprinkled on the white floor, so instead, I sweep it into a small pile with my fingers, pinch it, and stuff it in my pockets to clean out later. It takes me four attempts to get most of it.

Tristan bumps his foot into my thigh, making me startle. “You looking forward to Beau taking you to school this fall?”

With Tristan headed to college, his younger brother (by a whopping thirteen months) will be my new ride to school. It’s a fact I’m not the least bit excited about. Mainly because Beau isn’t Tristan, but also because he’s not quite as level-headed as his older brother, so having him behind the wheel of a speedboat seems a reckless way to start each day. Though it’s preferable to leaving the house an extra thirty minutes early to ferry over to the mainland and catch the bus.

But a small part of me wants to tease Tristan and tell him I’m thrilled for Beau to drive. Both Palmer boys have a healthy competitive side, so I know that answer would bring out a more playful reaction from Tristan. But that’s unfortunately not my relationship with him, so my attempt will probably miss the mark. Or worse, Tristan might think I have a thing for his brother. “It’ll be ... different,” is the response I settle on, tucking up my legs beneath me.

“I think that’s the phase of life we’re moving into—everything being different.” There’s something about the way he says it, like he wants to say more.

I haven’t spent much time with Tristan alone, but I’ve watched him enough to become a proficient reader of his cues. And Tristan definitely could use a good heart-to-heart. Well, his heart to mine, anyway. One direction. There’s no reason to ruin this rare moment by having him discover what’s going on in my heart. Hint: sailing off into the sunset together seems a reasonable solution to most any problem he’s facing. Which is a very strong indicator I make a better sounding board than a conversationalist at present. “You can talk to me.” I shrug. “If you want.”

He doesn’t say anything, and I try not to be disappointed I won’t be allowed into his confidence, but then he lets out a long exhale. “Bridget and I broke up a few days ago.”

What?! My heart attempts to free itself from my sternum and fall at his feet to proclaim its allegiance, but I clasp a hand over my chest to prevent it. This isn’t about me. This is about Tristan. And he’s obviously hurting. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

He swings his legs off the bench and leans his elbows onto his knees, his head down and his gaze darting around the floor of the boat. A floor that thankfully isn’t littered with remnants of pink polish. “It makes sense with us going to different colleges...” His voice trails off.