What I Thought Was True by Huntley Fitzpatrick Read Free Book Online

All charm—the
    kind that pulls you in as surely as a hand in yours, and can
    hold you back just as firmly, leaving you wondering which is
    real, which Cass is true. As I think this, he glances over at me,
    straight into my eyes this time, and I’m taken aback by the
    expression in his. Readable for once, not guarded the way it’s
    been since March.
    Direct.
    Deliberate.
    Challenging.
    I turn away, open the refrigerator, take out the bag of lob-
    sters, pulling it close to my chest. He reaches for it and I hold
    on tighter. He pulls, gently, looking at me quizzically to see if
    I really will challenge him for possession of a bag of shellfish.
    38
    BOM2_9780803739093_WhatIThougtWasTrue_TX.indd 38
    9/4/13 8:02 AM
    I let go.
    “Thanks, Gwen.” His voice is casual. “So, yeah, some people
    put the lobsters in the freezer for a while to numb them out.
    But that doesn’t seem all that much more humane than the
    heat, does it?”
    He disentangles Grandpa Ben’s rope-mesh sack and sets the
    wrinkled brown paper bag that was inside it on the table. One
    huge claw immediately gropes out, clunking on the wooden
    island. Despite a stint in the Sub-Zero, Lobster A has not lost its mighty will-to-live.
    “They say,” Cass continues, dipping his hand into the bag,
    “that if you kill the lobster too far ahead of time, it gets all
    tough and then it’s no good for eating.”
    He twists Lobster A right and left to avoid its clinging claws.
    “Look away, Gwen.”
    I’m not used to the note of command in that laid-back voice
    and instantly fix my gaze out the window on the beach plum’s
    fuchsia blossoms, then shake myself. “I can handle this,” I
    repeat to Cass. Then, trying to sound brisk and casual: “It’s in
    my blood, remember?”
    “There,” he says, ignoring me. “Just a quick knife to the
    brain and then into the very hot water. No time to feel a thing.”
    Mrs. Ellington claps her hands. “That does relieve my mind.
    It seems to work. No waving claws. None of that awful sound.”
    “I’m done now, Gwen. You can look.” It’s an aside. Quiet,
    not mocking.
    “I am looking,” I mutter, feeling suddenly adrift.
    “These guys are, what, one-and-a-half-pounders? So four-
    teen minutes or so.” He reaches for the egg-shaped timer on
    39
    BOM2_9780803739093_WhatIThougtWasTrue_TX.indd 39
    9/4/13 8:02 AM
    the stovetop, deftly twists it. “I can stay and take ’em out if you like.”
    I clear my throat. “You can go. I’m fine. I’ll take it from
    here.”
    “You are a marvel, young man!” says Mrs. Ellington. “I am
    delighted by Seashell Services’ new policy. Dare I hope you also
    clean fish?”
    “I do whatever needs doing.” Cass flicks me a quick glance,
    then grins at her again, that wide, slightly lopsided smile that
    creases the corners of his eyes. “Thanks for the iced tea. It was
    the best I’ve ever had. See you later, Mrs. Ellington.”
    He crumples the soggy brown lobster bag and tosses it to
    the trash can. It bounces off the side. Without looking at us,
    he scoops it up, drops it directly in, then turns down the hall.
    His “Bye Gwen” is so quiet it’s barely a whisper. But I hear it.
    “What a kind young man,” Mrs. Ellington says. “Handsome
    too.”
    I examine the lobsters bobbling in the water, now vivid red
    and motionless, and stare at the ticking timer. With ten min-
    utes to go, I pour Mrs. Ellington more tea and start on Grandpa
    Ben’s sauce. She watches, bright-eyed and interested, murmur-
    ing occasional comments. “Oh yes, of course. How could I
    have forgotten the sour cream? Dear Ben Cruz had this down
    to a science.”
    I’ll have to ask Grandpa Ben how it is that Mrs. Ellington
    knows his secret recipe for lobster salad. Sauce finished, I dump
    the rosy lobsters into a colander, running cold water over them
    and hoping it’ll cool me down too. I feel weirdly off balance.
    “These will be perfect for lunch tomorrow,” I tell Mrs.