Run Away with Me

  “What?” I ask, my face turning the color of a ripe beetroot.

  “It sounded like you were.” He winks at me.

  Oh my God. What is he suggesting? They’re all grinning at Jake now. I even see the one with glasses, the one we’ve nicknamed Clark Kent because his skinny frame belies a secret athletic prowess and abs of steel, give Jake a sly thumbs-up. I spin on my heel, bumping into Jake in my haste to get away. They clearly think we were just . . . oh God . . . I rush toward the kayaks, ignoring the laughter that follows me.

  A few minutes later, as I’m readying the kayaks, still fuming with embarrassment, Jake comes over. He helps me tip the kayak over to empty out the rainwater that’s collected in it overnight. “I set them straight,” he says, without looking at me.

  I make a mumbling sound at the back of my throat.

  “So you still want to paddle with me today?” he asks.

  “Um,” I say. I’m not sure anymore. I do and I don’t. There’s that contradiction thing again.

  “It might be better,” Jake says, finally meeting my eye. “That way you can rest if your neck starts to bother you.”

  I raise my eyebrows. As if I’m letting him paddle for the two of us. “I’ll be okay,” I tell him.

  Jake nods and moves to the second kayak, rolling it onto its side.

  “But yeah,” I say. “Maybe it’s best we stick together.”

  Jake

  There are bikes ready for us at the rental place near the harbor. It’s a twenty-minute ride from there over to the campsite where we’re staying on Vashon. The men all seem in fairly good spirits thanks to the coffee they’ve just drunk, which I suspect they may have laced with something stronger than milk.

  Em and I ride along at the front, side by side. It reminds me of old times, when we were kids and Bainbridge Island was our adventure playground.

  “You remember Toe Jam Hill?” I ask her.

  Em looks over at me, grinning, and the sight of that grin makes me almost swerve into a ditch. “I remember the blood.” She smirks.

  We’re holding each other’s gaze, and I find myself weaving toward her across the road on my bike, almost knocking into her.

  “Watch it, Slick,” she says, braking to avoid me.

  “Slick?” I ask as she pedals back alongside me again before speeding past. I smile to myself. She always had to be in the lead. She grins at me once more over her shoulder.

  “I’m going to kill Toby,” I say, standing up on the pedals to increase my speed. Damn him for kick-starting that whole nickname.

  “It has a good ring to it, though, don’t you think? Slick.”

  “No,” I say, pushing level with her. “I never want to hear it from your lips again.”

  “Or what?” Em asks. Now we’re racing each other. Beads of sweat appear on Em’s shoulders and neck, and I’m instantly swamped with images of pinning her to the ground and tickling her until she declares she’ll never say that word again. “Or I’ll put you in a kayak tomorrow with the bachelor.”

  She laughs. Finally. She laughs. Not quite a braying donkey sound, but I’ll take it. “How many dares are there left to go?” she asks, nodding her head at the buck.

  “About eight.”

  We both shake our heads. The poor guy is the color of an Oompa Loompa after the fake tanning session last night. He’s orange all over except for the patch on his lower back where they used masking tape to spell out the words KICK ME.

  “Do you think he’ll make it down the aisle?” Em asks.

  “Yeah, but I’m not sure his fiancée will agree to marry him if he’s still that color. Does that stuff wash off?”

  We keep talking, laughing about the dares they’ve made him do and speculating on what more possible humiliation lies ahead for him. Then we get to chatting about the dares we used to put each other through: swimming across Eagle Harbor in January without a wet suit, riding down the almost vertical Toe Jam Hill Road on our bikes—first to hit the brakes the loser. Em laughs as I point out the scar on my knee. I argue that I still won the bet.

  She asks me how I got the scar through my eyebrow, and I tell her I had a run-in with a stick last year on the ice. A stick attached to the number two on the draft prospect list—a Finnish guy called Koskela. Things at college level get way more violent than they used to when she and I both played for the Eagles. But then I remember the way Em tackled Reid that time and reconsider. Maybe Koskela could learn a thing or two from her.

  The conversations we had yesterday seem to have changed something between Em and me. Even though she still hasn’t said anything or acknowledged my apology, she’s looser, more open. She’s smiling! And laughing. This is progress.

  Maybe I’m imagining it, but I also feel like there might be something more there too. I know I haven’t stopped feeling it: this faint buzzing around my sternum, a bruising kick to the gut every time I catch her looking at me, a sharp hit of adrenaline straight to my bloodstream each time she gives one of her rare smiles. I’m not going to risk ruining things by trying to talk to her again about what happened.

  She told me she broke up with Rob, and that has to mean something. I don’t want to get my hopes up, and I really don’t want to mess things up with her just as our friendship is starting to heal . . . but the fact remains that whenever Em and I are within reaching distance of each other, all I want to do is pull her into my arms. All I’m aware of the entire time she’s around me, is her. She’s not even a distraction, she’s the sole object of my attention. And a day ago, I thought it was just me who felt this way, but now I’m not so sure. It’s like being fourteen all over again, wondering if I should kiss her, tell her how I feel, risk . . . everything.

  “I’m going to check on the tent situation,” Em tells me when we get to the campsite.

  As I watch her walk toward the reception area, blowing her hair out of her face and wiping at the sweat on her forehead, I get that same gut-twisting feeling I catch right before a game: a mix of excitement and apprehension about what’s possibly to come.

  “So are you guys, you know, an item?” the fifth member of the bachelor party asks. This guy we’ve nicknamed Thor because even though he’s not particularly tall and not in the least bit godlike, at the last campsite he spent a long time trying to impress a group of female campers by hammering in their tent pegs with a wooden mallet.

  “What?” I ask, turning to him.

  Thor nods his head in the direction of Em.

  “Er . . . ,” I say.

  “Because if she isn’t your girlfriend, then you need to up your game,” he tells me, slapping me on the shoulder.

  “Thanks for the advice,” I tell him, walking off before he can offer any more suggestions on my game.

  The campground covers over a hundred acres: teepees and cabins dotted throughout woods and meadows. It would be the ideal place for a romantic weekend away. I laugh under my breath and think back to last night and being squeezed into a damp tent with Em. At least tonight I should get some sleep—that’s one thing.

  But within two seconds of seeing Em return from the reception area, I have a feeling that that’s not going to be the case. She strides toward me wearing a face like thunder. When they see her marching toward us, even the bachelor party, who are all busy raiding the store’s snack bar selection, fall silent like school kids caught stealing.

  “Don’t tell me,” I say when Em stops in front of me, hands on hips. “Toby forgot to book enough tents.”

  She nods, grimacing, and I take her elbow and steer her away from the bachelor boys.

  “What the hell is he up to?” she hisses.

  I bite my lip. I think it’s pretty clear what Toby’s up to. He’s done this on purpose. And the reason is so obvious I wonder how Em can’t have figured it out.

  “They can’t be fully booked,” I say, making a move toward the reception area. There has to be a way to fix this.

  “I checked and double-checked,” Em says, stopping me. “Apparentl
y, they had two last-minute bookings.”

  I turn back to her, all out of ideas. “Why don’t you catch the last ferry back to Bainbridge?” I say. “I can get the group back tomorrow by myself. Your shoulder’s hurting anyway.”

  Em frowns and shakes her head at me. “It’s fine,” she says, and I’m not sure if she’s talking about her shoulder or the tent situation.

  “The bachelor party has the cabin,” she says. “We’ve got the fire teepee.”

  “A fire teepee?”

  Em looks at me with an expression I remember from when she was a kid and was deeply unimpressed by something—usually a losing result at a hockey match, a bad draw in the opposing team, or Reid Walsh’s existence.

  “It’s the honeymoon teepee,” she mumbles, not meeting my eye.

  “What, do they scatter rose petals across the bed?” I ask, laughing. “Do we get a fruit basket and a bottle of champagne?”

  “I don’t want to know,” Em says, her hands fisted at her sides. “I’m going to kill Toby.”

  “Em, I can sleep outside,” I say. “It’s fine—”

  “Jake?” she interrupts.

  “Yeah?”

  “Shut up.”

  I nod, trying not to smile. It’s the old Em. Right there. Standing in front of me. At long last.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll show the guys where the cabin is and get them fixed up for the afternoon. Tell me, Toby did at least organize that part?”

  Em nods. “Yeah. The wilderness expert will be here at three.”

  I shake my head. “Good, because I do not feel like standing in and teaching these guys how to make fire.”

  “Don’t they need opposable thumbs for that anyway?” Em asks.

  I glance sideways at her. “Did you just make a joke?”

  Em looks away, a flush creeping over her sunburned cheeks.

  “I knew the old Em was in there somewhere,” I say.

  “Don’t get too used to it,” she mutters, and walks off. But she’s still smiling. I can tell.

  Emerson

  I watch Jake’s eyes widen as he enters the tent. He stops dead in the doorway and takes in the bed, scattered with red silk cushions and a half-dozen throws, including a faux fur one. His gaze falls next on the twinkling lights they’ve strung around the inside of the tent, before moving on to the fire pit in the middle where logs have already been laid in preparation for the night. He doesn’t, however, look at me, which is good because I’m struggling very hard to strike a casual yet cool pose.

  “Wow,” Jake says, his eyes settling again on the double bed. There’s a shadow of alarm on his face that he hurries to hide.

  “I tried calling Toby,” I tell him. “I can’t get through. There’s no signal.”

  Jake gives me a look. I know what he’s thinking. Because I’m thinking it too. Toby set this up. And I’m going to kill him when I get back.

  Jake tosses his bag to the ground and then bends to pull something out of it. It’s a bag of marshmallows. He gives me a tentative half smile, one meant to break the tension, and I can’t help but smile back.

  “You remembered,” I say.

  “Of course,” Jake murmurs.

  He hands me the bag and for a brief second our fingers touch and I wonder if he feels it too—the small jolt of electricity that zings up my arm. Does the lightning feel the shock in the same way that the earth does? Or is it all one-sided?

  * * *

  While the bachelor party is off on their foraging and wilderness skills course, Jake takes a nap.

  I sit outside the tent and try to write while he sleeps, though my attention won’t stay on the page and every so often I look over my shoulder through the open door of the tent and catch myself staring at him. He’s sleeping on his front, with his head turned in my direction, his hair flopping into his eyes. He isn’t wearing a T-shirt, and I let my eyes linger for way too long on his bare shoulders and back. I still can’t get used to seeing this new Jake—all muscle, tight sinew, stubble—and I can’t stop myself from thinking about what it would be like to stroke my hand over his skin.

  My phone vibrates, startling me, and I quickly pull it out of my pocket. It’s Shay.

  How’s it goin’? she asks.

  Good.

  How r things with Jake? she asks, and I know she’s digging. We had a conversation last week where I told her everything, including my breakup with Rob, which as predicted, made her break out the happy dance.

  I hesitate, unsure what to tell her about Jake and me. I settle on OK.

  ?

  My stomach squirms. My fingers hover over the keys. I turn my phone off and shove it back in my pocket. I don’t want to lie to my best friend, but I don’t know what to tell her. Shay was never a fan of Rob, but she’s not exactly a fan of Jake’s, either.

  I wish I could allow myself to fall for him. Too late, I think to myself ruefully. Permission doesn’t come into it. I already have fallen for him. I fell for him a long time ago, years ago, in fact, and when you fall that hard, you never really get back on your feet.

  My eyes scan the few lines I’ve managed to write in my notebook, determined to focus on that, but it’s all a blur. It may as well be written in Mandarin. Writing has always been my escape. Though I always struggle to formulate the words I want to speak out loud to people, somehow when I pick up a pen and put it to paper, the words appear, as if the pen is some magical catalyst that’s doing the thinking for me.

  But not today. The words won’t fall onto the paper. The sheet stays blank, and when I try to focus, I can’t. All that fills my head is Jake. All I’m aware of is him lying behind me asleep, and the growing desire I have to walk over there, lie down beside him, and just rest there with my head on his shoulder.

  Jake

  (Then)

  I don’t sleep, and I’m early to school the next day. My stomach has shrunk to the size of a raisin. I couldn’t even manage a slice of toast for breakfast. My mom almost kept me home, she was so concerned at this unusual loss of appetite. I wonder if maybe I am sick. My stomach doesn’t feel too good and my palms are sweating as if I have the plague.

  However, I also recognize these symptoms. I get the same way before a big game. Which means it’s likely nerves. Or excitement. Possibly both.

  I wait by the gym, where I always meet Em before first period. I’ve got my basketball with me, and I lean against the wall with it tucked under my arm, but I feel self-conscious all of a sudden. Awkward. I rearrange my stance, straighten my T-shirt, and run through what I want to say to Em when she gets here. I was awake most of the night rehearsing it, when I wasn’t running action replays of the kiss, that is.

  I get a lurch in my chest as my brain does yet another replay. It’s followed swiftly by another lurch—this one more like the feeling I had when I failed to score a penalty in our last game and we lost. What if she didn’t like it? What if she was just being polite? What if she told me she’d forgotten her skates just to get away from me? What if she doesn’t want to be friends anymore? I’ll be straight-up honest, tell her how I feel but give her an out. If she just wants to be friends, then we’ll just be friends. I can do that.

  I think.

  I glance at my watch, anxious. She’s late. Em’s never late.

  Denton and Shay round the corner of the gym as I’m frowning at my watch.

  “Hey,” Denton says, nodding at the ball in my hands, “you want to shoot some hoops?”

  I shake my head at him, wondering how I can get them to leave without being rude. I can’t talk to Em with an audience.

  “Okay,” Denton says, looking at me oddly.

  “Why are you standing like that?” Shay asks, giving me side-eye.

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re posing for a Calvin Klein ad.”

  “I’m not,” I say, shifting positions as casually as I can.

  Shay smirks at me. “Are you waiting for Em?”

  She knows. Damn. She knows. Blood rushes to m
y face. I shrug, aiming for nonchalant. Did Em talk to her last night and tell her what happened?

  Shay starts rooting through her bag. She doesn’t say anything else. Maybe Em didn’t tell her after all. I’m fairly sure that if she had, Shay would be ribbing me about it.

  “I gotta go,” she says. “I have a book to return to the library.” She pushes her glasses up her nose and rushes off.

  “Bye!” Denton shouts after her. “See you at lunch.” There’s a note of hope in his voice that makes me narrow my eyes at him for a moment, but then I’m back to staring at the road, scanning the mass of kids, trying to find Em among them. I know she isn’t inside already because I was the first kid here this morning. I made sure to be.

  The bell rings. I jump.

  Denton heads to the door. “You coming?”

  I frown. There’s still no sign of Em. Where is she? Did she decide to play hooky because she’s too embarrassed or worried about facing me? My insides squirm at the thought.

  “We’re going to be late,” Denton calls over his shoulder.

  Reluctantly, I pick up my bag. The parking lot is empty. Everyone’s inside, apart from a few late stragglers, none of whom are Em.

  I follow Denton inside, shoulders slumped.

  Where is she?

  * * *

  The gossip at first is just a murmur, a faint stir that I don’t even notice because I’m too caught up in my own worries about Em and me and why she isn’t at school. But by the afternoon it’s a full-on hurricane.

  “Did you hear?” Reid Walsh blurts in the middle of the cafeteria. “Em’s saying Coach Lee assaulted her after the game last night.”

  I look up from my lunch tray and catch Shay’s eye. Next second I’m on my feet. “What did you say?” I demand.

  Reid snorts. “Em’s saying Coach Lee attacked her in the locker rooms.”

  I blink at him before lunging. “You lying piece of shit!”

  Denton grabs me by the arm and drags me back. Reid laughs. “I’m not the liar!”

  I swing around and come face-to-face with Tanya Hollingsworth in her cheerleading outfit. “She’s making it up.”