Chapter Eight
Another day, another ferry. This one shepherds us from Crete to Paros after a few days on the big island, and we spend the ferry trip performing our speeches as our next decathlon competition.
If I thought the vibes were tense at the art show, they’re nothing compared to the applause we’re giving one another now.
Everyone’s written a two-minute speech about their research.
I fumble through mine, so the smattering of tepid applause isn’t a surprise, but everyone’s turn is met with similar lukewarmness.
When Liam is declared the winner, I hear George and Bodhi grumbling to themselves. We spend the rest of the ferry ride buried in our books. Getting off the ferry and onto sweet, steady land is a relief.
We’re stopping by the Archaeological Museum of Paros, as well as a historic church, but Ms. Barlowe has promised that the next few days are our designated beach-and-chill time.
“We’re going to give you some independent work and explore time” is how she actually phrased it. But we’re all well-trained in the fine art of translation.
So as soon as we check into the hotel, we dump our stuff and head straight for the beach. Lucy and I spend the day side by side, asleep on beach towels, and I’m rewarded with a smarting sunburn across the backs of my shoulders by the end of the day.
Worth it. Best sleep of my life.
I’m rooming with Amalia in this hotel. Ms. Barlowe thrives on keeping us on our toes by reconfiguring the rooming arrangements now and then.
Amalia, who actually spent the day working on her project, conks out moments after dinner.
I’m restless from my blissful day of napping, though, and before long I find myself wandering the hotel lobby. Totally aimlessly.
The fact that I’m wearing my favorite sundress and glancing up hopefully every time I hear footsteps coming down the hall is a total coincidence.
Eventually, she shows up. I can feel my face brighten when I see her, and the realization makes me blush. She smiles when she sees me, and I will the red blotches to drain from my cheeks.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask, a rush of nerves fluttering through me as she takes a seat next to me.
She shakes her head. “Hoping for a more fun evening than that.”
I bite my lip, dropping my gaze to hide it from her eyeline. The idea that an evening with me sounds like fun to her makes my head spin.
Not that she necessarily came here in search of me. Not everyone is as embarrassing as I am. But at the very least, she doesn’t seem to mind folding me into her plans.
“Anything particular in mind?” I ask.
“I have a friend who lives on the island. His dad is a fisherman. Which means…” She trails off, giving me a secret smile.
“He has a boat,” I realize aloud.
She nods. “He has a boat.”
—
The boat is tiny and smells of fish. The blue-and-white paint cracks along the side, and the wood along the railing threatens splinters at every turn.
I immediately fall in love with it.
“He said we could use this one,” Melanie says as she hops aboard. She gives me a nervous glance. “I’m sure you can see why he’s willing to risk it.”
“It’s perfect,” I assure her, meaning it. Floating with her in the Mediterranean aboard this rickety boat full of old charm is peak romance.
Platonic romance, I mean. To be clear.
I think.
The thoughts swirl so much, they threaten to rock the boat.
They don’t even feel like they belong to me or that they come from me.
They come to me from somewhere else, like a swarm of bats descending on my brain and obscuring the parts of me that know how to think, how to interpret my own feelings.
All I can do is let the questions chase themselves into exhaustion.
Do I like her? Is it pointless to fight it? Will it ruin everything if I don’t? What am I supposed to do? How do I know what’s right?
All this courses through me relentlessly, but I’m just sitting quietly on the wood bench carved into the wall.
I force myself to smile at Melanie as she starts the motor.
“When did you learn to drive a boat?” I ask, not even trying to hide how impressed I am.
“Spending summers here with Nick,” she says. “Our dads were childhood friends, and they basically forced us to be childhood friends too. Not that it took much forcing,” she adds with a grin. “He’s really cool.”
We drift away from the dock, the water rippling in our wake.
“So, you spent your summers here growing up?” I ask. I’m curious about her life, how mini-Melanie spent her days. All the things she experienced that led her here. I realize I want to know them. I want to know her, all the way.
“Not all summer every summer,” she says, “but we usually made the trip for at least a couple of weeks. It was always a highlight of the summer, though. I’d help on the boats. Well”—she laughs—“probably I got in the way. And we’d eat our weight in loukoumades every night.”
“Loukoumades?” I ask.
“Oh my god, we have to get some while you’re here,” she says as she steers the boat out of the little harbor. We’re still staying close to the island, navigating around the lit-up port. The small town twinkles in the night. “They’re sort of like honey doughnut holes, and they’re magical.”
“That sounds magical.” I sigh. “The food here is really living up to Ms. Barlowe’s extensive hype.”
She grins. “Tell that to my mom. She grew up in New York, and sometimes I think she’d kill for access to Chinese food.”
“How did I not know she grew up in New York?” I ask. She’s Zoomed with us weekly all year, and it’s never come up that she was a fellow New Yorker.
Melanie laughs. “I think she wants to preserve an aura of authenticity for your class. Imposter syndrome runs in the family.”
“What’s your strand of it?” I ask.
The dull sound of the motor rousing the water fills the space between us. Melanie shifts her weight in the driver’s seat so she can cross her legs beneath her.
“I guess, since I have so many older friends, it’s easy to feel like I’m falling behind, in addition to being left behind.” She glances at me. “You said…I don’t know. Does it ever feel that way to you?”
I’ve always felt awkward describing my feelings of inadequacy as imposter syndrome. Because that’s for people who are good and just don’t know it. I’m actually worse at this than all my classmates. There’s no syndrome; I’m just an imposter.
“It’s definitely been weird being the only freshman this year,” I admit. “And I don’t think there are any incoming freshmen joining the program next year, so I’ll still be the baby. As per usual.”
“How’s your sister’s wedding planning going?” Melanie asks with a coy smile.
I roll my eyes. “It’s managing to haunt me even all the way over here. I’m going to be wearing blue.”
“You’ll look amazing,” Melanie says, her voice low. I meet her eye and immediately find myself pulled into the intensity of her gaze. I want so badly to let myself be drawn into her, to follow this moment wherever it could lead.
But this time she’s the one who pulls away from it first. She blinks, and her eyes land back on the steering wheel.
“We should head back,” she says quietly, almost to herself.
I glance at the town as she brings the boat around. This shift in Melanie’s demeanor brings a whole new set of fears crashing through me. Have I waited too long to decide, and now the option is off the table? Does she feel like I led her on, and now she doesn’t want to even be my friend?
Plus, Liam is still mad I ditched him for her, probably, so it’s suddenly feeling like there’s a good chance I’m going home with no friends at all.
It doesn’t help when I realize, with a sinking feeling in my gut that has nothing to do with the lurching of the boat, that stealing a boat ride was on his bucket list. Something we were supposed to do together. If there’s a decathlon event for worst friend of the summer, I’m winning for sure.
The motor keeps sputtering as Melanie turns the boat, spinning a wide arc back toward the harbor.
I bring my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around my lower legs, trying to keep myself together somehow.
My thoughts spin and spin and have lost their spot, rendering me a dizzy mess.
I know I have to get it together, but I have no idea how.
Paige loves to make all these suggestions, but they always make me feel like she has no idea what she’s talking about.
How is telling myself that maybe I’ll have no friends when I go home supposed to help me right now?
“You okay?” Melanie asks.
I jump, startled by the reminder that there’s someone else here. That I’m still on the boat, the cool night air rushing past my cheeks and the water propelling us forward under a blanket of stars, that I’m not in a dark vortex of panicked incoherency.
“Yes,” I manage to get out. “I’m fine.”
Melanie nods, but I can feel her eyes on me as we reach the harbor and I help her retie the boat to the dock.
Once she’s satisfied that the boat is secure, we make our way to the hotel.
I’m itching to get back to the way things felt on the boat, when it seemed like anything could happen.
Like it was just the two of us, held close by the warm darkness of the night.
But I’m afraid of how quickly she shifted.
I’m not sure how to read it except to think that all my worrying has made itself a moot point because any potential for romance has been taken off the table.
The hotel comes into view before I’ve figured out how to put my scrambled brain waves into coherent thoughts, let alone words.
When we reach the lobby, she surprises me by pulling me into a hug.
For one brief moment, I am engulfed by her.
She smells like cinnamon conditioner and salt water, and her warm exhale fans across my shoulder.
It’s enough that, for the time I’m in her arms, my brain turns off, and I can just let myself be.
But then she pulls away, and the noise of the day comes rushing back into focus.
“Good night,” she says with a sleepy smile. “Thanks for coming out with me.”
“Are you kidding?” I ask. “Thank you. That was incredible.” My eyes linger on hers, wanting to let myself melt into them but struggling to read her expression.
What is she thinking? It’s impossible to make out any kind of explanation in the depths of her irises.
I swallow and take a step back toward my room. “Good night.”
When I get back to my room, I realize I missed a text from Liam—first to me and then in the group chat.
Liam: wanna hang tn?
No-Murder Secret History
Liam: Anyone up for a night out?
Lucy: always
I’m relieved he was able to hang with Lucy, but I can’t evade the pinpricks of guilt that crawl spidery in my gut. It only doubles when I remember that riding a boat was on his—our—bucket list. I’ve ditched him twice in just one night.
And he’s already angry with me.
Our friendship feels like it’s clinging to the edge of a cliff, its fingers slipping off the rocky rim. I text him back, leaving out where I actually spent the evening. It’s not technically a lie, but it only makes me feel worse.
Natalie: So sorry, just saw this!! I’m the worst. Hope you had fun with Lucy!
Liam: I did! But I miss you!
Natalie: Miss you too
Natalie: Let’s hang tomorrow?
Liam: Yes please!
The guilt prickles at the corners of my eyes. I swipe at them as I change into my pajamas and tuck myself into bed. Amalia’s light snores fill the darkness of the room, but even with the reminder of her company, I’ve never felt more alone.