Chapter 10

The sky darkens, and lightning strikes in the distance. A second later, thunder rumbles, and then the rain comes in hard, relentless sheets. I shriek and cover my head with my arms, as if that will keep me dry. Wind whips violently, and waves rock the boat.

“Get below deck!” Spencer screams at me.

I make a mad dash for the stairs, then hesitate. Is Spencer safe up there alone? I shouldn’t have left him. I turn to go back up, but a gust of wind slams the door in my face. I stumble back and almost fall down the stairs.

A second later, the door flies open, and Spencer barrels downstairs. He’s soaked, and his hair sticks up in all directions. “I dropped anchor. We’re going to have to stay here and ride this out,” he says, out of breath.

Shivering, I wrap my arms around myself. “Will this boat hold up?” My teeth chatter.

“Yes.” He rushes around the room closing windows and securing locks. Then he flips up the booth seat, grabs a blanket, and wraps it around my shoulders. “You need to get out of your wet clothes.” He nods at the bedroom. “I promise not to peek.”

With a nod, I retreat to the bedroom, strip out of my wet clothes, and rummage around until I find the warmest clothes I packed—a single pair of sweatpants. The hoodie Spencer let me borrow our first night sits in a ball on the floor. I scoop it up, yank it over my head, and slide my arms through the sleeves. I’m instantly warmed by the feel and scent of his sweatshirt.

I slide the curtain open to find Spencer standing in the middle of the main room in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts, dripping wet and shivering. I cup my hand over my mouth, but I can’t stop from laughing at how pathetic he looks. I refuse to let myself acknowledge how good he looks, too.

“If you’re done, I’d like to change now,” he says.

I clear my throat and force myself to stop laughing; then I step out of his way. He grins at me as he walks by, and my traitorous heart skips a few beats. I roll my eyes, but heat rushes to my cheeks. Outside, the freak, unexpected storm rages, and the boat continues to rock so hard I fear we’ll capsize.

Spencer emerges dressed in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt that stretches taut across his chest. “Hopefully this storm won’t last too long,” he says.

“Does this happen a lot?”

“No.” He moves around me and rummages around in the cabinets.

I close the lid on the bench seat and plop down, watching as Spencer searches for God knows what. My stomach rumbles, but the lurching boat and uncertainty of this situation makes me not want to eat.

“Should we wear life vests, just in case?”

He laughs, turns, and leans against the counter. “If you want to wear one, sure, but I don’t think it’s necessary.”

I nod, but his reassurance doesn’t calm my nerves. The boat sways again, and I grip the edge of the table so tightly my knuckles turn white. Spencer’s expression shifts from amused to compassionate.

He slides onto the bench beside me, nudging me so I move over to give him room. Then, he gently pries my fingers from the table. “It’s going to be okay, Ev. I promise I won’t let anything happen to you.”

His voice is so sincere, and his words have the power to bring me to tears. How can he care so much when my own parents don’t? When my best friends don’t? Not even Reid—the guy I thought loved me—cares as much as Spencer seems to.

“Storms usually don’t bother me like this.” I laugh nervously.

“Normally you’re on solid ground. Being on a boat during a storm like this is a totally different experience.”

“Tell me about it,” I mutter.

He chuckles, then stands. “Hungry? I packed some microwave meals we can heat up.”

I scrunch up my nose. “You still eat that crap?”

“It’s not crap.” He pulls two boxes from the ice chest and holds them up. “Macaroni and cheese or meatloaf?”

Groaning, I drop my head to the table. “You’re like a child,” I say with a laugh and lift my head.

“Suit yourself.” He shrugs, drops the meatloaf back into the ice chest, and tears open the box with the macaroni and cheese. Popping it into the microwave, he sets the timer for three minutes. “Oh, I have these, too.” He retrieves individual microwavable cups of spaghetti-o’s and ravioli.

All I can do is smile and shake my head. “Did you bring anything that’s not processed?”

He glances around as if seriously contemplating my question. “Hmm…” He taps his chin. “There might be an apple rolling around in here somewhere.” He grins. “Eating like we’re twelve again won’t kill you.”

The microwave beeps, and Spencer pulls out the steaming tray of macaroni and cheese. The smell makes my stomach rumble again, and my mouth waters. Maybe those meals aren’t as terrible as I remember.

“Sure you don’t want some?” Spencer asks.

“Fine, I’ll have one, but if I die, it’s on you.”

Laughing, he slides the meal in front of me, then gets a second one for himself. I stir the watery meal until it looks somewhat edible, then take a tentative bite. The cheese flavor is strong, and the noodles are overcooked, but oddly, the food hits the spot.

I’m halfway finished when Spencer once again sits next to me with his own food. He digs in and takes a large bite. I can’t stop myself from watching him eat—something I usually find weird and annoying when Reid did it to me—but there’s something calming about watching Spencer. He’s so at ease, like he’s found an inner peace others can only dream of knowing.

“It’s not bad, right?” he asks, then shoves the last bite into his mouth.

“Well, I’m not dead yet, so…” I shrug.

“You used to love these things.” He pushes the tray away and leans back. “Remember the ones with the chicken nuggets and that brownie thing?”

I gag. “I still have no idea how you ever ate that thing. It always tasted like burnt pudding.” I tuck my leg beneath me and shift so I’m facing him with one arm propped along the back of the booth.

“Are you kidding? That stuff was the best.” He dramatically smacks his lips. “Definitely better than that chocolate poop on a stick you eat.”

I stare at him. “You mean a fudgesicle?”

“Poop on a stick,” he confirms with a nod.

I swat at him, and we both laugh. “Everyone loves fudgesicles,” I say.

“Not me.”

“Well, no one ever claimed you were normal.” I stick my tongue out at him.

“Of course not. If I was, I wouldn’t be Spooky Spence, would I?” His tone is free of judgment, but his expression tells a different story.

“I’m sorry.” I fold my hands in my lap and pick at my cuticles.

“Why?”

I shrug, unsure how to answer that. I’m sorry I’m no longer his friend, that I dropped him the moment Whitney decided to be my friend. I chose popularity over loyalty, and if given that choice again, I’d probably make the same decision. Being a nobody sucks.

A loud crack of thunder booms around us, and I cringe. “I really wish we weren’t in the middle of the lake right now.”

“As soon as the rain eases up, we can make it to the next town. It’s less than an hour away,” he says and stretches his legs out beneath the small table. “If you’re that scared, though, you can always go hide under the covers. That always seemed to work for you in the past.”

I elbow him, and he laughs, rubbing at his side.

“I’m just trying to help,” he says.

“Right.” I nod. “You going to climb under the covers with me and offer to fight off the monsters like you used to?”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize how they sound and what they imply. Flames of embarrassment flicker up my neck and erupt on my face. I’m such an idiot.

“Only if you ask nicely,” he says without missing a beat.

I let out a sigh of relief. “You should know me better than that, Spence.” I pat his arm, stand, and stretch my arms over my head.

The boat lurches, and I lose my balance. My arms flail as I struggle to find something—anything—to break my fall, but my efforts are wasted. I land squarely in Spencer’s lap, and he has no issues catching me and holding on, so I don’t topple to the floor.

“Are you trying to hurt yourself?” he asks, a hint of amusement in his tone.

“No.” My chest heaves with each labored breath, and I try—and fail—to focus on anything other than the proximity of our bodies. “I lost my balance.”

“Mm-hmm.”

I smack him and wiggle free from his hold, not that he tries to stop me. For some reason, that sends disappointment shooting through me. When I’m sure I’m steady on my feet, I cross my arms and take a step back.

“Maybe I will go hide under the covers.” At least there I won’t fall or otherwise hurt myself. Or be tempted to throw myself at Spencer.

“I’m going to go check the anchor, make sure everything above deck is holding the way it should.” He slides gracefully out of the booth and stands to his full height.

Something about that simple motion has my mind wandering down a strange path of Spencer and me together, his arms around me at a school dance, snuggling on the couch in the guest house as we binge watch our favorite movies and TV shows. Everything about Spencer screams safety, and right now, I crave that.

“Be careful,” I say, then race into the bedroom.

I climb into the bed and yank the covers over my head. A shiver racks my body, but not from the cold. If I close my eyes, I can easily picture Spencer lying in this bed with me, his arm draped protectively around me. Reid never wanted to just snuggle with me unless he knew it would lead to something more.

My eyelids grow heavier by the second, and I’m almost asleep when the sound of sloshing water snaps me awake. I bolt upright to find Spencer in the room, once again soaking wet. Water pools around his feet.

“It’s still raining that hard?” I ask.

“No.” He shakes his head, and droplets of water spray my face. “A wave hit the boat, and I happened to be in the way.”

I let out a surprised laugh, then clamp my lips shut. Now is not the time to laugh. I fling the blankets off and get out of bed. “I’ll leave so you can change into dry clothes.”

He clutches my hand as I pass him. His fingers are ice cold, and the shock of it sends my body into a full shudder. “Whatever you do, do not go above deck. Promise me, Everleigh.”

“Okay, I promise,” I say.

“Thank you.”

I snatch the blanket he gave me earlier and wrap it around him. “Don’t you dare get sick on me. I am not operating this boat on my own. And I’m not taking care of you, either.”

He laughs, but he’s shivering so bad the sound is strangled. “Aw, c’mon, Ev. I let you give me chickenpox just so you wouldn’t be sick alone, and you won’t take care of me if I get a little cold?”

I can’t believe he remembers doing that—I hadn’t until now when he brought it up. I was seven when I got the chickenpox, and I was miserable. Every inch of my body itched, and I had to miss the Easter egg hunt at school that year. Spencer, despite our parents’ stern instructions to stay away from me, snuck over to see me. Days later, he came down with the chickenpox, too, and we were quarantined together.

Even though I was sick and grumpy, being with him through that was one of the best memories I had of our childhood friendship. And remembering it now makes me sad. What would have happened between me and Spencer if I hadn’t turned my back on him?

“Get changed,” I say, then walk out of the room.