Page 85 of The One
I squeezed the visor of my hat with both hands. “Stop.”
“Stop what? Confessing my love? Don’t deny it—you love hearing it.”
I shook my head. “I don’t.”
“Now, you’re just lying to me.” She nodded toward the duffel bag I’d packed my clothes into. “You wouldn’t happen to have anything in there that’s stronger than booze, would you?”
“Just some weed.”
She waved me off. “I’m not talking about weed, Rhett.”
“Then, you’re shit out of luck.”
She laughed. “No, you’re shit out of luck because I don’t share.”
I had no idea what she meant, but I wasn’t going to ask. I didn’t need anything she had or wanted or was or wasn’t willing to share. Weed and alcohol were good enough for Lainey and me, and I knew my girl, and she probably wouldn’t do much of either at Timothy’s beach house.
“Are we getting out of here anytime soon?” Penelope asked. “I’m ready to hit the water.”
I scanned the boat to see if everything was in place and what was left to do.
My dad had gotten the forty-two-foot center console about two years ago, around the same time I’d gotten my driver’s license, so while I was learning the rules of the road, I was also learning the rules of the water. She had four 400s on the back and a decent-sized cuddy that was under the bow—a place I’d slept a few times over the years, especially before Lainey came back into town—along with a head that came in handy whenever Lainey was on the boat since the girl drank more water than anyone I knew.
“I just have to untie the lines,” I told her, “and we can get going.”
She used her hand to block the sun out of her face even though she had a pair of sunglasses on her head. “Whatever you need, I’ve got you, captain.”
“I’ve got to call Lainey first. I promised her I would before we took off.”
“Yes, get my sister on the phone. I’m dying to tell her how much of a snore you are.” She grinned.
I wanted to chuckle; I just didn’t have it in me.
I took my phone out of my back pocket and hit Lainey’s number, holding my cell up to my ear.
“Hi,” Lainey answered.
“Hi, baby.” I peeked at Penelope, who was now doing something on her phone, and I turned my back to her, walking toward the stern.
“Are you on the boat with Pen?”
“Yep.”
“How’s everything going? Are you all packed up and ready to go?”
I tapped the top of an engine. “Once I hang up with you, we’ll get going. It should take me about thirty minutes to get to Timothy’s. We’ll be there waiting for you.” I watched a twenty-five-foot bowrider pull out of the marina, its wake far larger than it should be.
“I’ll be leaving here in about an hour,” she said. “Hopefully, the traffic won’t be too bad, and it won’t take me long to get to the beach house.”
“Will you call me when you leave?”
“Of course. In the meantime, will you take some pics of you and Pen on the boat? I want to document every second of the next couple of months before we leave for USC.”
I gripped the edge of the plaster, next to one of the cleats, and attempted to keep my voice down. “You want pictures of me with Penelope?”
“Is that okay?”
Jesus, I could only imagine how much Penelope would love that.
