Chapter 67
Tyler
The ferry pulled into the quiet, weathered dock of Shelter Island’s narrow shore just as that first hint of morning began
to rise—a low stripe of yellow-white that softened the water and backlit the endless canopy of dense green trees. The whole
town was shimmering.
We grabbed our bikes, walked them onto the pavement, then made our way toward an early-to-open bakery a commuter had told
us about on the ten-minute boat ride over. There, with the rest of the island still fast asleep, we ordered boysenberry Danishes
and huckleberry scones, and—with Katie laughing—I washed it all down with six shots of particularly strong, just-roasted espresso.
After that, we pedaled for miles through a virtually empty nature preserve, where creeks ran, marshes swayed, and the forest
shone. Tired and sweaty and desperate to rest our legs, we kicked our brakes at a farmstand for late-season nectarines, neon
orange and outrageously sweet.
By eleven, we’d rented a kayak—an ambitious choice, considering Katie refused to paddle and spent the full two hours snapping
pictures of me chauffeuring her around the inky waters of the harbor instead. When that was through—my shoulders, spasming—we
returned our life jackets and moseyed toward a wide clearing of wild, itchy grass where I lay down and attempted to recover
from both the exercise and my all-nighter for a very long time.
When Katie got bored, she poked me awake, and we were back on our bicycles, searching for a highly specific seafood stand she was only 60 percent sure she hadn’t created in her mind.
By the time we managed to find it, the clock had turned to three.
We ordered lobster rolls, ice-cold lemonades, and two bags of chips, then headed to the shore to scarf it all down.
After lunch, and another of my little catnaps—this one, with Katie’s ankle hooked to mine—she rose to her feet, took a step toward the water, and began to pull her dress over her head.
“Come on!” She tossed it to the sand. “Let’s swim!”
I laughed, then threw a towel over our things, added my shirt to the pile, and chased her straight into the bay. The water
here, cold and crisp, but calm and shallow. We waded until the waves hit my hips and Katie’s waist, and then, with nothing
but a quick inhale, she dove right in. When she emerged, dripping wet in a white bikini that tied in a bow at her goose-bumped
chest, I had to bite down on my bottom lip.
“Fucking perfect, Katherine. Always have been.”
She grinned, then disappeared for a moment under another wave. The sun sparkled off the shore, and with rays so bright they
bleached the whole scene. She turned back to me, her head tilted. Her smile, wide. She was the only thing I could see.
“What’re you doing, Carraway?” she asked, squinting.
“Just watching you.”
“Yeah? Kind of creepy, no?”
“Probably. But I can’t help it. You’re, like, this speck of glitter that I want to talk to all the time, but also want to
fuck, and . . . it’s just a lot for me, all right? How good you look. The fact that we’re here. How much you shine.”
Her eyes crinkled even more. “Well, that’s very cute. And I appreciate the vulgar sonnet, really. But this isn’t high school. You’re not supposed to stand there. You’re supposed to follow me!”
The sun set on the ferry ride home. It was cinematic timing, really. That the fading sky had become a swirl of raspberry,
apricot, and peach. That Katie and I had gotten the perfect spot behind the railing all to ourselves. That her head had fallen
onto my still-aching shoulder, and that her hair smelled like lavender and sunscreen and seaweed.
I pulled her closer and shut my eyes.
“Thank you,” I said.
“For what?”
“For being you. For waiting for me.”