Page 3 of Plotting Summer

“It doesn’t make it easy though,” I offer.

He gives a slow shake of his head. “Maybe it’ll be a good thing. It’s just...” He stops again, and his gaze lifts to mine. “We’ve dated for so long, it feels like I’ve lost sight of who I am without her.”

I take in the doubt in his expression. Suddenly, a strange desire to do more than listen bubbles up from the depths of my soul. No! I’m a sounding board. An unbending, knows-my-place, sounding board. I don’t give advice. Especially not to Tristan.

But it technically isn’t advice I want to share. Simply a slight confidence boost. A miniscule reassurance that Bridget isn’t the one that makes him who he is—the wonderful, thoughtful, fun-loving, extremely attractive guy I’ve been secretly crushing on since my formative years. I’d obviously need to scale down that last bit a million percent if I say something. Actually, it’s best to not say anything.

“I know who you are.” The words spill out of me, and I’m positive I’m more surprised by their escape than Tristan.

“You do?” He smiles, though it’s likely to do with how apparent it is that I want to take back my admission.

“No. I mean, yes, but ... never mind.” I shake my head, pressing my lips together to stop any more condemning blurtations.

He leans forward ever so slightly in his seat. “I think I need to hear what you were going to say.”

“It’s nothing.” I shove my hands between my thighs in an attempt to help me get control of myself. “You’re a good guy. That’s all.”

His smile widens. “Wow. Thanks for that.”

I know he’s teasing, but the generic good guy comment likely did less to reassure him than if I’d kept quiet. My chest starts buzzing, and I already know I’m going to attempt to fix it. “At the end of last football season—that super close game against Century,” I say, and he nods. “Instead of celebrating with your teammates, you immediately went to talk with the kicker who missed the extra point. You’re always seeking opportunities to help—putting up chairs for assemblies, holding open doors for people, handing change to someone in need. Sometimes, when my brother hasn’t gotten around to mowing my grandma’s grass or pulling her weeds, you do it without saying anything. That’s who you are.”

The way his eyes rove over my features at a slow, intentional pace makes it difficult to breathe. Or think.

And then all at once my head clears enough to realize my error. Not only was my little monologue more than a slight reassurance, but it was extremely revealing of how often I watch Tristan. Stalker much, Capri? Now I need to make this better too. “I like to watch people. Not just you. Lots of other people as well.” Nope. I’m pretty sure that didn’t help my cause.

Tristan’s expression is now unadulterated amusement. “You watch me?”

I open my mouth to clarify but close it again. There’s no explaining my way out of that admission. “On occasion.”

The glory of Tristan’s full smile lights his face. “Speaking of watching people ...” He draws in a slow breath, making his broad chest rise. “What were you thinking about in the fishing boat when I first walked up?”

His question’s so completely out of left field, I not only didn’t see it coming, I didn’t even realize what game I was playing. It’s like I’m standing on home plate with a tennis racket in my hand and wearing roller-skates. Then without warning, like my menopausal mother, I’m experiencing a personal summer so intense, I consider jumping ship to cool myself down. “Nothing.”

He laughs. “Come on, Capri Sun.” He says Capri like the Italian island I’m named after (Ca-pree) and not the short pants variation of the word that’s used in the name of the actual kids’ drink (cuh-pree). “What brought a smile like that to your face? You looked so ... perfectly happy.”

With the warmth creeping up my neck, I can sense my skin starting to blotch. It’s like my own form of Pinocchio’s nose—a there’s-something-I’m-not-saying, reddening décolletage. But even the use of his little nickname won’t work on me. I’ll be buried with my secret. “I can’t remember.”

He chuckles. “That’s convincing.”

In desperate need of reprieve from the heat, I gather my hair and lift it to allow for airflow, completely forgetting the golf-ball-sized lump on the crown of my head until my hand grazes over it. I wince.

Tristan’s teasing brow lowers. “What’s wrong?”

I cup a hand over the tender spot. “It’s where I hit my head on the fishing boat.”

Tristan is directly in front of me now. “Here. Can I?” Unable to form words, I nod, holding my breath as his hands settle over mine. My skin is pulsating with energy from his touch. His face is inches away and his mesmerizing eyes hold my gaze. “You probably need to move your hand,” he says, a slight smile pulling at his lips.

I’m fully aware he doesn’t mean for me to intertwine my fingers with his like I want to do. In my seventeen years of life, I’ve never felt so alive. So entirely in tune with my entire body. What a sad existence I’ve endured until this moment, and I never knew it. But all reason isn’t lost in my hopelessly romantic notions, because I lower my hand to my side.

His fingers are gentle when they locate the lump, and his face crinkles with concern. “You really hit your head. Are you dizzy or anything?”

“No. I feel fine.” Honestly, I’m slightly dizzy, but not because of my head. I don’t think so anyway. I’m pretty sure it’s a wicked combination of Tristan’s proximity and my shallow breathing causing the world to feel off-kilter. Or maybe it’s the movement of the boat.

His hands move to my neck, and I go completely still. He tilts my chin upward, his attention focused. “Your eyes are so dark. I can barely see your pupils.”

I give a small laugh. “Are you checking for a concussion?”

“Something like that. I need a little more light though.” Tristan stands and gingerly pulls me to my feet. “Here, can you face the sunset?”