What I Thought Was True

Chapter Thirty-eight

The crash of thunder startles us apart, for a moment. Then he pulls me back as the rain begins, droplets spattering against the Field House roof. We get up off the couch, walk around slamming windows shut. More rumbles of thunder, lightning. Another stormy summer.

As I slam the front windows, the ones that look out toward the ocean, I catch sight of what I brought, set down in the bushes near the lawn mower before I climbed the steps. “Oh shit,” I say, hurrying to the door.

Cass is behind me in an instant. “No running away.”

“I’m not.” I laugh. “Really. I’ll be right back. Stay here. No, wait—go in the bathroom. Stay there until I tell you to come out. Maybe . . . maybe take a shower. Or something. Just give me five minutes.”

Cass studies me, then asks warily, “I need a shower? Do I—”

“No, no, it’s not about that. You smell delicious. I mean. Oh, God.” I cover my eyes with a hand, lower it. “I mean—”

The dimples make an appearance. “Maybe just go in and wait? You are planning to let me out, right?”

The rain is coming down harder. “Yes, yes. Get in there.”

And he does.

Mom’s books, Grandpa’s movies—I know all about the things that spell romance. Candles, roses, soft romantic music, gentle golden light coming through a window. All of it so carefully staged.

I can’t do anything about the light through the window, or the fact that I left what I brought outside in the rain. But this is in fact, carefully staged. And yet still nerve-wracking. Even though I’ve thought about it, planned it, know it’s right.

In Cass’s room, I embellish his bureau with candles, set them on the nightstand, line them on the windowsill. Luckily, the yard boy hasn’t been wielding his hedge clippers on the Field House shrubbery; the canvas bag I hid beneath the bushes was protected. Not much got wet in the downpour . . . except, of course, the matches. Great. I hurry back inside to the kitchen, adjust the sagging Dockside Delight bag I’d set on the counter. Then I light one candle at a burner, use that to light the next, then the next, and the next until the darkened room glows gently. I’m suddenly glad it’s rainy out.

His bed’s unmade, covers tossed around. Sheets . . . of course . . . pale pink.

I flip the comforter straight, fluff the pillowcases, then feel a little weird and want to switch them back to the way they were. I hover over the bed, unsure, when Cass calls out, “Can I—?”

“Not yet!”

The dress isn’t even damp, thank God.

“Okay, you can come out now.”

He opens the door, letting out a cloud of steam. He actually showered. And changed his clothes. His eyes flick to mine and he drops the towel he’s rubbing through his hair to the ground.

“Hey,” he says.

“Um,” I answer, as if that is an answer.

He looks me over, my hair, my black halter top dress, my bare feet. I curl my toes, raise my chin, act like this is all easy for me.

But he knows, Cass knows me.

“Well,” he says. “Wow, Gwen.”

“I think we need to get this over with,” I blurt out.

He starts to laugh. “Just what every guy wants to hear. We all want to be the Band-Aid you rip off fast.”

“You’re not. I want this. I mean . . . I . . . I . . . I brought candles,” I say.

“And a Dockside Delight,” he adds. He walks over slowly, sets his hands on either side of where I’m standing by the kitchen counter. I lean back against it. He just looks. “You planned this.”

“Yes. I did. I . . . did.”

He raises his hand, cups my face. Bends to tip his forehead to mine. Says the words I know he’ll say. “Thank you.”

“It’s not about a jumbo box of condoms,” I say.

“Never was,” Cass says simply.

He slants his hand against my jaw, tips his mouth to mine.