Huntley Fitzpatrick - What I Thought Was True

He says all of this firmly, his logical voice.

After a minute or two, he adds, “I mean . . . unless I’m your picnic basket.”

I laugh. But he’s not even smiling. He seems to be waiting for something. And I don’t know what it is. Or exactly how to give it to him. Instead I say lightly, “I think of you more as a Dockside Delight.” I slide over, lean into him, my hand tight against his heart, wishing that how I feel could just flow between us that way, without getting tangled up in words.

On the way home after sailing we don’t say much. I’m yawning—a long day of being in the sun and the water—and so is he. We hold hands. It feels perfect.

It’s only after I’m home, scrubbing off in the outdoor shower, that I realize he never did tell me what he thought the right thing to do was.

Spence and Cass are on their way over to Sandy Claw, and Nic’s already swimming drills. He’s working on the one that helps your elbow-bending at the start of the pull, which involves swimming with his fingers closed into a fist. His eyes are tightly shut too, giving him this look of total absorption, complete intensity.

The sky’s sharply blue, summer at its shiniest, sun glinting off the waves, horizon bright with spinnakers, schooners, every size of boat at home on an ocean big enough to contain them all. As I’m squinting out at Nic, Viv slides into place next to me, her dark hair wind-blown and loose today, none of her usual contained styles. Our legs swing side by side over the edge, like old times. “He never forgets,” she says, touching the pile of flat stones next to the piling. “That Nic.”

“He was looking around to claim his kisses before he got started.”

She casts a quick look out at the water, then starts chipping at her nail, flicking at one of the little flowers painted on her ring finger. “Has Nic seemed . . . okay to you lately?”

I’ve never needed to be Switzerland, respecting boundaries and borders with Nic and Viv. When we were younger, we all told one another everything. When they became a couple, there were different retellings, from Nic to me, from Viv, but it was all the same story. Now . . .

I didn’t think, ever, that I’d have to scramble about which truth to tell. I never thought “other people’s stories” would apply to the three of us. We are one another’s stories.

“Tense,” I finally say. “With you too? I thought maybe he was being weird with me, because of . . . well, because of me being with Cass. Has he talked about that with you?”

She shrugs, chews her lip. I recognize the look on her face, the “torn between loyalties” one.

“He’s sort of macho-macho with Cass, giving him these ‘don’t lay a finger on my cousin’ looks . . .” I say, trailing off so she’ll talk.

“Yeah.” Viv sighs. “He’s pretty testosterone-heavy lately.”

I wait for her to make a joke about not minding that, but instead she asks, “You don’t think he’s . . . on anything, do you?”

“On . . . you mean drugs? Like steroids? God no. This is Nic, he would never . . .”

I know that’s not it. But . . . Nic’s moodiness, his darkness, his obsession with weight lifting, the tension with Dad . . . No. He wouldn’t.

Vivien doesn’t look at me, her eyes fixed on the water, on Nic. He’s now rolled over and is doing the backstroke, his form so perfect, it’s almost mechanical, like the wind-up scuba Superman who swims doggedly in Em’s baths.

“He would never,” I repeat again. “You know that, right? You know him. Better than anyone.”

I pull on her hand, bringing her gaze back to me. Then I realize it’s like I’m asking her for reassurance when I should be the one giving it. I put my arm around her, give her a little shake. “Nico doesn’t even take aspirin.”

She’s picked up one of the rocks, studies it, turning it over and over. Dark orange, worn smooth by countless waves, marked by holes. A brick. Probably from the steps of one of the houses on Sandy Claw, unwisely built on the beach, long ago swept out to sea in some forgotten hurricane. “You’re right. Ugh. Don’t pay attention to me. Al got the contract to some big political thing and was spazzing out all over me today. I kept calling Nic to talk and getting bounced to his voicemail. I thought maybe he was . . . I don’t know. Doing the same thing with me that he does with your dad. Mike was calling him the other day when Nico was helping me pack up for a clambake and he kept checking his phone but not picking up. I’m just being paranoid.”

“Yeah, Dad . . .” I shake my head. “Do you guys talk about that?”

Viv’s pretty green eyes are sad. “Not much.”

I reach out my pinkie, hook it around hers. “At least we’r e good. Right?”

She knots her pinkie with mine, pulls, still staring out at the water. “Yeah . . .”

“Viv. Look at me.”

She turns immediately, gives a reasonably accurate version of her glowing smile. “We’re golden.”

I pick up one of the skipping stones, spiraling it over and over in my hand. The mica in it flashes bright in the sun. I slant it and skip it out to sea.

Once, twice . . . It goes all the way to seven, touching down lightly, glancing up, winging out hard, far, far, far, the farthest I’ve ever skipped.

Viv nudges me with her thin brown shoulder. “ You gonna grant some kisses now? Come on, babe. I want to see how much you’ve picked up from Cass Somers.”

I roll my eyes. “Ever think maybe he’s learning from me ?”

Someone clears his throat, and—fantastic—there are Cass and Spence. Cass has his game face on, and Spence a similarly untranslatable expression. How the hell did they walk this close on the dock without us hearing? Nic climbs up the ladder from the water, scattering droplets as he shakes his head like Fabio after a bath.

Spence: “Getting a jump on us, Cruz? Hear you like to do that. Shave a few seconds off your time. Any way that works for you.”

Nic (deadpan): “Just more dedicated, I guess.”

Cass (neutral): “How many drills did you do already?”

Nic (shrugs, like he’s so fit it doesn’t matter): “Some.”

Cass: “A few more, then.” (Glancing at Spence) “What do you think, Chan, crossovers? Or single-arm drill?”

Spence: “Single-arm, since Cruz has this entering too early problem . . . so he’ll wind up driving down instead of extending forward and that’ll increase his drag and slow the whole team down.”

Impressive the way they can make drill techniques into insults.

“Boys,” Vivien says to me, loudly enough for the three of them to hear. “We’re so lucky we’re not male, Gwen.”

“At least two out of three of us agree with you, Vivien,” Spence says smoothly, then winks at her.

Viv looks at Nic’s somewhat thunderous face, makes a shooing motion toward the water, then claps her hands together briskly. “Get on with it, guys. I think you all need to cool off.”

“Hang on,” Cass says to the other two. He takes my hand and pulls me over to the corner of the pier, out of earshot of the others. Bends to my ear. “Let’s declare the ‘who’s teaching and who’s learning’ thing a tie. You can one-up me in other ways.”

“Hedge clipping?” I ask.

“Not my first choice.”

“Come on, Romeo,” Spence calls. “Vivien’s got it. We all need to relax here and do this.”

“Speak for yourself,” offers Nic.

“I do, Cruz,” he says flatly. “Always.”

Viv clambers to her feet and I’m right there with her. At least we can still read each other’s minds. She puts a comforting hand on Nic’s back and I place mine on Spence’s, and then Cass comes up next to us, and Viv and I shove all three of them into the water at once. I laugh. But Viv is pinwheeling, too close to the edge, eyes wide. She grabs at me—I flinch back—and we both go over in a tangle of arms and legs, until all of us are splashing and spluttering in the water, and it’s almost impossible to tell which slippery body is whose until you see their laughing face.