But I don’t have time to ask him what he’s doing out here because Lon is suddenly in his face, shouting about what an asshole he is and how he’s going to get his face punched in for having the nerve to shove Lon into the water like that. But the boy doesn’t even flinch. His gaze looks down at Lon—who is a good six inches shorter than him—and even though the muscles in his neck tense, he seems wholly unconcerned by Lon’s threats of an ass-kicking.
When Lon finally takes a breath, the boy raises an eyebrow, like he wants to be sure Lon is done babbling before he responds. “Forcing a girl to do anything she doesn’t want to is reason enough to kick your ass,” he begins, his voice level. “So I suggest you apologize to her and save yourself a trip to the ER for stitches and a raging headache in the morning.”
Lon blinks, opens his mouth to speak—to spew some rebuttal that would probably involve more cuss words than actual substance—but then thinks better of it and snaps his jaw shut. Standing beside the two of them, it’s obvious Lon is outweighed, outmuscled, and probably outexperienced. And he must see it too, because he turns his head to face me, swallows his pride, and mutters, “I’m sorry.” I can tell it pains him to say it, his expression twisting in disgust, the words sharp and foreign in his mouth. He’s probably never apologized to a girl in his life . . . maybe never apologized to anyone ever.
Then, he turns and slogs up the beach back to the group, trailing seawater from his soaked clothes.
“Thank you,” I say, wading out of the shallow water. My shoes and the lower half of my white jeans are drenched.
The boy’s shoulders relax for the first time. “That guy wasn’t your boyfriend, was he?”
“God, no,” I snap, shaking my head. “Just some self-entitled prick from school. I’ve never even talked to him before.”
He gives me a half nod and glances past me to the party in full swing. Music thumps; girls squeal and skip along the edge of the waterline; boys wrestle and crush empty beer cans between their palms.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, squinting up at him, tracing the arc of his eyebrows where they pinch together.
“I came down to sleep on the beach. I didn’t realize there was a party.”
“You’re sleeping out here?”
“Planned to, up beside the rocks.” His eyes flick up the shoreline to where the cliff rises, steep and jagged—an abrupt end to the beach.
I assume he checked the bed-and-breakfasts in town but there were no vacancies, or perhaps he couldn’t afford to rent a room. “You can’t sleep out here,” I tell him.
“Why not?”
“High tide will be in at two a.m., and that whole stretch of beach by the cliff will be underwater.”
His dark green eyes taper at the edges. But instead of asking where he should move his makeshift campsite to, he asks, “What’s with the party? Something to do with June first?”
“It’s the Swan party, for the Swan sisters.”
“Who are they?”
“You’ve really never heard of them?” I ask. I think it’s truly the first time I’ve met an outsider who came to Sparrow with no clue about what goes on here.
He shakes his head then looks down at my waterlogged shoes, my toes swimming in seawater. “You should get dry by the fire,” he says.
“You’re soaked too,” I point out. He went into the water just as far as I did.
“I’m fine.”
“If you’re sleeping outside tonight, you should probably get dry so you don’t freeze to death.”
He glances up the beach to the dark cliff wall, where he’d planned to sleep, then nods.
Together, we walk to the bonfire.
*
It’s late.
Everyone is drunk.
The stars sway and slip out of alignment overhead, reconfiguring themselves. My head thrums; my skin itches from the salt water.
We find a place to sit on an open log, and I untie my shoes, leaning them against the ring of rocks encircling the bonfire. My cheeks already feel flushed, and my toes tingle as the blood circulates back through my feet. The fire licks at the sky, licks at my palms.
“Thank you again,” I say, looking at him from the corner of my eye. “For the rescue.”
“Right place at the right time, I guess.”
“Most guys aren’t so chivalrous around here.” I rub my palms together, trying to warm them, my fingers cold to the bone. “The town might be required to give you a parade.”
He smiles full and big for the first time, a softness in his eyes. “The hero requirements in this town must be pretty low.”
“We just really like parades.”
Again he smiles.
And it means something. I don’t know what, only that I’m intrigued by him. This outsider. This boy who glances at me from the corner of his eye, who feels both familiar and new all at the same time.
Down near the water’s edge, I can see Rose still talking to three boys who’ve taken a sudden interest in her after her swim, but at least she’s safe and out of the water. Half of the crowd has wandered back up to the bonfire, and beers are handed around. My head still feels swimmy from all the whiskey, so I set the beer in the sand at my feet.
“What’s your name?” I ask the boy as he takes a long sip of his beer.
“Bo.” He holds the can loosely in his right hand, casual, noncommittal. He doesn’t seem uneasy in this foreign social setting, in a new town surrounded by strangers. And no one seems to think he looks out of place.
“I’m Penny,” I say, glancing at him, his eyes so green it’s hard to look away. Then, twisting my hair over my shoulder to ring out the small amount of seawater from the ends, I ask, “How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
I press my hands together between my knees. Smoke from the fire swirls over us, and the music continues to blare. Olivia and Lola stumble up to the edge of the bonfire, hugging each other around the waist and looking completely trashed.
“Are those the Swan sisters?” Bo asks. Olivia and Lola do look alike, with their jet-black hair and matching piercings, so I can see why he might think they’re related.
But I let out a short laugh. “No, just friends.” I dig the toes of my right foot into the sand. “The Swan sisters are dead.”
Bo turns back to me.
“Not recently,” I amend. “They died two centuries ago—drowned in the harbor.”
“Drowned on accident or by intention?”
Olivia, who is standing on the other side of Bo, laughs hard and sharp. She must have overheard his question. “It was murder,” she answers for me, peering down at him. Her coral lips arch into a smile. She thinks Bo is cute—who wouldn’t?
“It wasn’t murder,” Lola counters, swaying left then right. “It was an execution.”
Olivia nods in agreement then looks across the bonfire. “Davis!” she calls. “Tell the legend.”
Davis McArthurs, who has his arm around a girl with pixie-cut dark hair, grins and walks closer to the fire. It’s tradition to recount the story of the Swan sisters, and Davis seems rather pleased with himself to be the one to do it. He finds an open stump and stands on top, peering down at everyone around the bonfire. “Two hundred years ago—” he begins, voice booming, far louder than is necessary.