Page 89 of Rhodes

"I'm good." I lift my water.

A coil of dock line by my foot catches my eye, and I have to bite down on a laugh, because it puts me right back on this boat yesterday. Libba came clomping down the boards out of nowhere, and Rhodes and I went flat on the floorboards, dead silent, his hand clamped over my mouth because I was about to lose it, her flip-flops slapping past three feet from our heads. We held our breath the whole time, and when she left, we lay there shaking with it.

"You're burning," a voice says, and I look up. Cera's holding out a bottle of sunscreen, wavy brown hair coming loose from its knot, brown eyes on my shoulders. "Your left arm is already turning pink."

"Story of my life. Left side neglected." I take it. "Thanks."

"Wells burns in eleven minutes flat if I don't stay on him about it."

"I do not," Wells says, eyes staying shut as he lounges on the chair in the shade.

"You're translucent."

"I'm indoors by design."

Cera flicks water at him, and he almost smiles, which, from what I've seen, is a full parade. I like her. There's no performance to her.

The engine drops off, and Wade swings us into a cove tucked between two cliffs. The water goes glassy and turquoise underneath.

"Anchor's down," he calls, and everybody moves at once, shirts coming off, towels flying, Birdie already at the rail. "Our last Italian boat swim. Make it count."

I run two steps and jump, nothing under my feet. "Last one is a rotten egg," I yell.

The water comes up cold at first, swallowing me whole. Down here it's all green light and my own bubbles going up. This is the one part of me nobody's ever had to manage. The water just holds me.

I break the surface grinning and shove my hair back. Libba does a proper cannonball off the swim platform, tucked and screaming, and the splash reaches me twenty feet out. Somebody's music plays tinny and small over the water.

"Race you to the rocks," she says, already paddling.

I let her have a head start because she needs it, then catch her easily with the shoulders our mother gave us both. We slow near the cliff face where the water goes deep and dark. The boat noise falls away behind us, just the slap of it against the stone and our own breathing.

Libba treads water, wipes her face, and looks at me with that particular sister smile.

"So," she says. "You want to explain the way Rhodes hands you drinks?"

"I guess he's always near the cooler."

"He looks at you like you hung the moon, Til." She's not accusing. She's almost delighted. "I've been watching all week. He watches you like it's his job."

I float onto my back so I don't have to arrange my face. "It's a vacation thing. I guess we've become closer since I've been living in his spare room."

"Hmm. Is that it?"

"We're having fun,” I say lightly, because it is fun. I flip back upright.

I wait for the rest of it: the "are-you-sure," the "is-this-good-for-you," the "can-you-handle-this," the whole gentle interrogation I've been fielding for the last two years.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"I'm off duty." She splashes me. "You're on your own, disaster."

"Rude."

"Loving."

"TILLY! LIBBA!" Wade yells, cupping his hands off the bow. "Cera wants to snorkel the far side, so we're moving the boat. Get your asses back!"