about. I mean, this guy was practically blackmailing me into associating with him, and I still thought he was hot?
There’s something wrong with me. Seriously.
At least I wasn’t the only one that there was something wrong with.
Because there has to be something wrong with someone who remembered such a mundane fact that I never go anywhere without Dramamine (non-drowsy formula) somewhere on my person.
And, true, it’s tough to live in a seaside town when you suffer from chronic seasickness. I can’t even set foot on the Run Aground —a boat so tightly lashed to the pier that it barely moves, and a seaside breakfast spot that’s incredibly popular with people like my mother, who love anything cute and nautical-themed—without thinking I might hurl.
But how had Tommy Sullivan managed to remember this, after all these years?
Scowling, I climbed down from my bike, lowered the kickstand, pulled off my bicycle helmet, and reached into my backpack—into which I’d crammed my still-wet swimsuit from The Point and my makeup and stuff—andpulled out one of the little yellow pills I’ve carried around habitually since the age of twelve. I tossed it back without even thinking about reaching for the water bottle I also had in my bag. When you’ve taken as many motion-sickness pills as I have, you don’t need liquid to swallow them anymore.
Then, still scowling, I swung myself onto my dad’s boat—years of long practice (everyone in Eastport has a dad who fishes) had made me an expert at climbing in and out of boats—and felt my stomach lurch, as it always did, when the floor rolled a little beneath my feet. It takes a while for the Dramamine to kick in.
“All right,” I said, dropping my bag and bike helmet to the boat’s floor, then lowering myself onto the padded bench across from where Tommy was sitting. I was trying to maintain a very businesslike demeanor. Because that’s all this was. A business meeting. Tommy Sullivan wanted something. And I was going to do my best to provide whatever it was, so that he didn’t rat me out to my boyfriend about my other boyfriend. “I’m here. Now what do you want?”
“I told you,” Tommy said, looking down at me from his perch on the bow. “I just want to talk.”
“Talk,” I echoed doubtfully.
“Talk,” he repeated. “You do remember, don’t you, that we used to talk quite a bit?”
“That was a long time ago,” I said. I found that it wasn’t very easy to meet his gaze—even though that is an important part of maintaining a businesslike demeanor.I know because I occasionally browse through my parents’ favorite trade publication, Realtor Magazine , and it said so.
But Realtor Magazine had never had any articles on how the heck you’re supposed to maintain eye contact with a guy whose irises change colors in different lights, and who furthermore looks so good in a pair of jeans that all thoughts of your boyfriend(s) fled at the sight of him.
Seth Turner , I said firmly to myself. You are the girlfriend of Seth Turner, the most popular guy in all of Eastport, besides his big brother. Seth Turner, the guy you had such a crush on all through middle school, and who you were so happy to snag the summer before your freshman year, when he finally looked your way. And okay, maybe he DID turn out to be a sort of boring conversationalist, but you don’t want to break up with him, because what would people think? It is bad enough you are cheating on him with Eric Fluteley. Do not make things even worse.
Except, well, the moonlight was kind of throwing the planes of Tommy’s face into high relief, making him look even handsomer and more mysterious than he had at the beach, when I hadn’t realized who he was.
And the sound of the water lapping against the side of the boat was way romantic.
God, what is wrong with me? I’m worse than Ado Annie, that girl in the musical Oklahoma! who gets so carried away with whatever guy she’s with that she can’t
There’s something wrong with me. Seriously.
At least I wasn’t the only one that there was something wrong with.
Because there has to be something wrong with someone who remembered such a mundane fact that I never go anywhere without Dramamine (non-drowsy formula) somewhere on my person.
And, true, it’s tough to live in a seaside town when you suffer from chronic seasickness. I can’t even set foot on the Run Aground —a boat so tightly lashed to the pier that it barely moves, and a seaside breakfast spot that’s incredibly popular with people like my mother, who love anything cute and nautical-themed—without thinking I might hurl.
But how had Tommy Sullivan managed to remember this, after all these years?
Scowling, I climbed down from my bike, lowered the kickstand, pulled off my bicycle helmet, and reached into my backpack—into which I’d crammed my still-wet swimsuit from The Point and my makeup and stuff—andpulled out one of the little yellow pills I’ve carried around habitually since the age of twelve. I tossed it back without even thinking about reaching for the water bottle I also had in my bag. When you’ve taken as many motion-sickness pills as I have, you don’t need liquid to swallow them anymore.
Then, still scowling, I swung myself onto my dad’s boat—years of long practice (everyone in Eastport has a dad who fishes) had made me an expert at climbing in and out of boats—and felt my stomach lurch, as it always did, when the floor rolled a little beneath my feet. It takes a while for the Dramamine to kick in.
“All right,” I said, dropping my bag and bike helmet to the boat’s floor, then lowering myself onto the padded bench across from where Tommy was sitting. I was trying to maintain a very businesslike demeanor. Because that’s all this was. A business meeting. Tommy Sullivan wanted something. And I was going to do my best to provide whatever it was, so that he didn’t rat me out to my boyfriend about my other boyfriend. “I’m here. Now what do you want?”
“I told you,” Tommy said, looking down at me from his perch on the bow. “I just want to talk.”
“Talk,” I echoed doubtfully.
“Talk,” he repeated. “You do remember, don’t you, that we used to talk quite a bit?”
“That was a long time ago,” I said. I found that it wasn’t very easy to meet his gaze—even though that is an important part of maintaining a businesslike demeanor.I know because I occasionally browse through my parents’ favorite trade publication, Realtor Magazine , and it said so.
But Realtor Magazine had never had any articles on how the heck you’re supposed to maintain eye contact with a guy whose irises change colors in different lights, and who furthermore looks so good in a pair of jeans that all thoughts of your boyfriend(s) fled at the sight of him.
Seth Turner , I said firmly to myself. You are the girlfriend of Seth Turner, the most popular guy in all of Eastport, besides his big brother. Seth Turner, the guy you had such a crush on all through middle school, and who you were so happy to snag the summer before your freshman year, when he finally looked your way. And okay, maybe he DID turn out to be a sort of boring conversationalist, but you don’t want to break up with him, because what would people think? It is bad enough you are cheating on him with Eric Fluteley. Do not make things even worse.
Except, well, the moonlight was kind of throwing the planes of Tommy’s face into high relief, making him look even handsomer and more mysterious than he had at the beach, when I hadn’t realized who he was.
And the sound of the water lapping against the side of the boat was way romantic.
God, what is wrong with me? I’m worse than Ado Annie, that girl in the musical Oklahoma! who gets so carried away with whatever guy she’s with that she can’t
Similar Books
