“Bea?” Chloe waves a hand in front of her face.
“Sorry. I’m going to get a beer.” Bea doesn’t actually want a beer; she thinks beer is gross; she just wants to escape Chloe. She digs through a cooler and snags a Diet Coke. It’s sweet and fizzy on her tongue. But the party is still too close, too loud. She’s not in the mood for making small talk, for being asked another dozen times where Erik is and pretending to care.
She does care, though. She wonders if he and his dad got the new camp stove to work, if they caught any fish, if they’re getting eaten alive by mosquitoes. If Erik’s reading by lantern light in his sleeping bag right now.
Bea loves him, even if she isn’t in love with him anymore.
She makes her way through the stubbly field down to the river and walks along the water till she reaches the rickety old fishing dock. She sits at the end and lets her legs dangle out over the dark water. The reassuring lap of it against the wooden pilings calms her. She takes a deep breath, and then she’s crying.
She stuffs a hand over her mouth and tries to stifle the sound, but trying to cry silently makes her throat ache. Her shoulders shake with the force of her sadness. She can’t stop. She hasn’t cried like this since she turned nine, her first birthday without her parents. Jesus, she misses them. She could really use advice from her mom right now.
Mom, I’m not in love with Erik anymore. I need to break up with him, but I don’t know how. I kept thinking after AP exams, and then it was after finishing the yearbook, then the last issue of the paper, then finals, then graduation… I’m such a coward. I don’t want to be with him, but I don’t know who I am without him. I don’t know if I even want to go to Georgetown anymore. I’m so tired all the time, but I can’t sleep. What should I do?
Bea tries to conjure up her mom’s face, her voice, her smell, but she’s left with only a hazy smile and soft red curls and the scent of fresh bread. Mom loved to bake bread. She said kneading it was relaxing.
Bea can’t remember the exact sound of her voice anymore, the tenor or rhythm of it. The realization makes her cry harder.
Behind her, footsteps slap against the weathered wooden dock.
Bea hastily scrubs at her eyes. She doesn’t want anyone to see her like this. Imperfect. Out of control.
“Hey, I thought that was you.” It’s Gabe. “How come you’re down here by yourself? Everything all right?”
“What are you doing here?” Her voice is all froggy. “How do you know Dylan?”
“I don’t. Savannah Lockwood invited me,” Gabe explains.
“Savannah Lockwood?” Bea echoes, disgusted.
Gabe peers down at her. “Seriously, are you all right?”
“Why? You want to take a picture? I hear I’m pretty when I’m sad,” she snaps, scrambling to her feet. Gabe takes a step back, hands up, and she softens. “I’m sorry, I—”
“No, I deserved that,” he says ruefully. “For what it’s worth, I bet you’re pretty all the time.”
Bea shakes her head. She’s not begging for compliments, but she knows she’s not a pretty crier. She’s sure that her eyes and nose are all red and her mascara has probably left wet black trails down her freckled cheeks. She can’t remember if she used the waterproof kind or not.
“I don’t really want to be here,” she admits. “I’m not in the mood for a party. But my sisters all wanted to come.”
“How many sisters do you have?” Gabe asks.
“Three.” She smiles a little as she remembers them bickering earlier. She’ll miss them if she goes to Georgetown. When. “Des drove, so I’m stuck till they’re all ready to leave.”
He fishes a set of keys out of his back pocket. “You want a ride?”
“I don’t want to interrupt your date.” It hits Bea that she’s jealous. Of Savannah.
Gabe grins, like he knows what she’s thinking. Jesus. How insufferable. “It’s not a date.”
Bea hesitates. “Have you been drinking?”
“Nope. Just got here,” he says. “I’m fine to drive. Promise.”
“Okay.” Bea bites her lip. She doesn’t want to be here, but she doesn’t necessarily want to go home. “Is that invitation still open? To see your boat?”
“Yeah. Sure.” He starts off toward the rows of parked cars. “You need to tell anybody you’re leaving?”
“I’ll text my sister.” Bea sends a quick text letting Des know she isn’t feeling well and is getting a ride back. She doesn’t specify with whom or that she’s not going straight home. In the unlikely event that Gabe does turn out to be a serial killer, there will be lots of other people down at the marina and over at Captain Dan’s Seafood Shack to hear her scream.
Gabe opens the passenger door of a gray pickup. “Thank you,” Bea says.
Country music plays low on the radio, and the windows are rolled all the way down. The wind rushes through the cab and through Bea’s hair, and the fields are full of fireflies, and she starts to feel better. She catches Gabe looking over at her occasionally, and she can tell he wants to ask why she was crying, but he doesn’t. He drives with one hand on the wheel and the other on his thigh, tapping along with whatever’s on the radio.
Gabe parks in the marina lot and then leads the way down the maze of docks to the Stella Anne. He steps onto the deck, taking Bea’s hand to help her down. His hand is big and warm and callused, and he doesn’t let go right away. Bea’s heart begins to beat faster.
“Come on in.” He lets go of her hand to push open the sliding glass door and flip on a lamp.
Bea looks around curiously. The walls are wood paneled, and the décor is definitely IKEA minimalism meets college guy. A couple of decks of red-and-white cards, a few dirty mugs and water glasses, and a yellowed Stephen King novel are scattered across the table. Beyond the table is a very small kitchen. There’s a two-burner gas stove, a mini fridge, a sink, and a couple of built-in cabinets.
“This is so cool!” she says. “It’s like a tiny floating dream house.”
Gabe grins. “Thanks. Jefferson and I spent all last summer fixing it up.” He points to the small, walled-off room behind the kitchen. “That’s the privy. Marine toilet and shower.” The boat rocks gently in its mooring, but he moves gracefully through the small space and throws open the door opposite the kitchen. “And that’s the bedroom. Sorry it’s a mess.”
Bea peers in quickly. There’s the double bed she glimpsed through the window, with the rumpled plaid duvet and tangled white sheets. There’s a narrow white wardrobe in the corner, but the wooden floor is a jumble of jeans and boxers and T-shirts. She blushes and turns away, trying not to imagine Gabe standing there shucking off his clothes.