Chapter 10: Can I take you to the ball?
The house had gotten quiet in that deep, late way where even the refrigerator’s hum seemed to hesitate. Conrad padded through the living room, the floorboards cool under his bare feet. He was about to head upstairs when he saw her.
Susannah was sitting on the bottom step, her head leaned back against the banister, eyes closed. In the dim light of the single sconce left on, she looked like a sculpture of herself, everything a little softened at the edges.
“Mum?” he said, his voice low, not wanting to startle her.
She didn’t move. He crossed the space slowly, the silence feeling suddenly fragile. He knelt on the carpet in front of her. “Mum.” He said again.
Her eyelids fluttered open. It took a second for her gaze to find him, to pull back from wherever it had been. Then she smiled, the familiar one that crinkled the corners of her eyes, but it was a slow-motion version.
“Big day today, huh,” he said. He reached out and took her hand. It was light, bird-boned in his.
She let out a soft laugh, more breath than sound.
“Come on,” he said, his voice dropping into a gentle coax he hadn’t used since he was a boy helping her bring in groceries. “Let’s get you upstairs.”
He stood, keeping her hand in his, and she let him pull her up. She was unsteady, just a slight list to the left, and he slid his arm around her shoulders, taking her weight without comment. They climbed the stairs one at a time, a slow procession. Each step was a coordinated effort, her body leaning into his. He could feel the sharp ridge of her shoulder blade through the thin silk of her robe.
The water was the only thing that made sense. It held her. It didn’t ask questions. Belly moved through the pool with slow, methodical laps, the black silhouette of her cutting through the electric blue glow of the underwater lights. The coolness was a shock that had long since faded into a numb embrace.
The slap of her own strokes was the only sound. Then, a shadow fell across the water’s bright rectangle. She halted, treading water, pushing her wet hair off her face.
Jeremiah stood at the edge, a towel slung over his shoulder. He was in his boardshorts, his torso pale in the moonlight. “This one of your solo night swims,” he asked, “or can I join?”
His voice was easy, laced with its usual warmth, but she heard the hint of something else beneath it. The loneliness from earlier, by the pool. How come nobody ever wants to play with me.
“Sure,” she said. The word felt insufficient, but it was all she had.
He didn’t cannonball. He sat on the edge and slid in, graceful, causing only a mild surge of water. He surfaced close to her, slicking his hair back. For a minute, they just floated in silence.
The water lapped gently against the tiles, a sound both huge and intimate in the dark. Jeremiah let out a long breath, sending bubbles skittering across the surface. He looked at her, his face half in shadow, half in the eerie blue glow.
“You sad you and Cam aren’t gonna see each other much?” he asks. His voice was careful, like he was testing the temperature of the water all over again.
“No,” she says, the answer coming quicker than she expected. She meant it. “It was the right thing.”
He nodded, looking down at where his hands moved like pale fish beneath the surface. The silence stretched, but it was a different kind now, charged and waiting.
“You’re my best friend,” he says, still not looking at her. “But there’s times I’ve wanted it to be more.” He finally raised his eyes to hers. The admission hung there, stark and simple.
Belly’s breath caught. The water suddenly felt colder. “Really?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper. A jumble of memories flashed—his arm around her at bonfires, his laugh, the constant, easy sun of his presence. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Well, there’s always Conrad,” he says with a weak shrug. “And this summer it was kinda Cam. I guess I was just waiting.”
“For me?” The words felt foolish the moment she said them.
“Yeah.” He took a small stroke towards her, closing the distance. The water rippled between them. “Do you think you could ever?” he asks. There was no smirk, no practiced charm. Just a raw openness that made her chest ache.
Her mind was a blank, white static. Susannah’s voice floated through it, a memory from a lifetime ago: You were always destined for one of my boys. She had thought, with every fiber of her being, that it would be Conrad.
“Uh, yeah,” she says. The sound was foreign, but it was hers.
Jeremiah looked at her, coming closer. He didn’t smile. He just searched her face for a second, a question in his eyes. Then he kissed her.
She froze for a heartbeat, suspended in the cool water. Then she kissed him back. His lips were soft, warmer than the pool.
Belly wakes, rolling over in the tangle of sheets. The faint, grey light of pre-dawn filters through the blinds. She sees Jeremiah looking at her, his head propped on his hand, a small, sleepy smile on his face.
“Jere, what’re you—” she starts, her voice thick with sleep.
He cuts her off, kissing her. It’s gentle, familiar. As she leans back, jere’s gone she sees him instead.
“Conrad, what’re you—” she gasps.
He cuts her off, kissing her. His kiss is searing, intense, everything. “It’s okay,” he says against her mouth. His ocean-blue eyes hold hers. “You and I are meant to be.”
A wave of dizzying rightness washes over her. She smiles, closing her eyes, giving in to it. When she opens them, she sees Jeremiah. Conrad is gone. “Belly,” Jeremiah says, his smile gone, replaced by a pleading intensity. “Wait. It’s always been us.”
Belly wakes up breathing hard, the sheets strangled around her legs. She looks next to her. The pillow is indented, but no one’s there. The room is utterly, completely empty. She pushes herself up, her heart hammering against her ribs. The first true rays of sun are slicing through the room, exposing the dust in the air.
Even my dream life is complicated, she thinks. The taste of the kisses, both of them, feels impossibly real on her lips. She brings her fingers to them, as if she could find proof. There is only the dry silence of her own room, and the terrifying, wide-open day ahead.
There is only the dry silence of her own room, and the terrifying, wide-open day ahead. She pushed back the damp sheets, the ghost of the dream clinging to her skin. A shower did little to rinse it away.
Conrad walked from the beach, his surfboard under his arm, damp hair dripping saltwater down his neck. The sunset session had been pointless, every wave he’d taken failing to deliver the clarity he’d paddled out for. He saw his mum on the deck, wrapped in her blanket despite the climbing sun.
“Morning.” He said, propping his board against the railing.
“Morning, hon.” Susannah’s voice was thin but bright. “Hey, do you have a second?”
“Yeah, I gotta go though. Cleveland needs my help with the nets.” He started to move past her, leaving wet footprints on the warm wood.
“It’ll just take a sec.” She reached out, her hand brushing his wrist. “I want you to ask Belly to be her escort for the deb ball.”
He froze. The request landed like a physical blow. “Mum, I can’t.” He didn’t look at her, focusing on the horizon where the ocean met a hard blue sky.
“Why not?” Her insistence was soft, but it had edges.
“Just tell Jere to ask her.” The name tasted bitter coming out.
“Connie, you know how much it’ll mean to her if it’s you.” She paused, her gaze intent. “You’re her prince charming, and we all know it.”
“No, that’s not—” he goes to say, a flare of panic in his chest.
“You’ve always been so good to her. Remember when you were the only one who let her tag after you and the boys?” Her eyes grew wistful, a little pleading. “I just… I want it to go perfectly for her. Please?”
He stared at his feet, the weight of her hope an anchor. “I’ll think about it.”
“Okay. That’s my Connie.” A satisfied smile touched her lips.
“I didn’t say I would do it.” He shot back, desperation tightening his voice.
“Oh, and don’t be late for the tournament this afternoon. We need help setting up.” She said, as if the previous conversation had already concluded.
“I know.” He grabbed his board and headed inside, the shadow of the house swallowing him.
In the hall, Jeremiah knocked on Belly’s door. She opened it, already dressed, her hair in a ponytail.
“Morning.” He said, leaning against the doorframe. His smile was easy, but there was a new hesitation in his eyes, a question.
“Morning.” She said, her own voice strangely formal.
“You excited about the volleyball tournament today?” He asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
“Yeah.” She nodded, too quickly.
“I don’t wanna rush you or anything,” he said, his voice dropping to a near-murmur. He glanced down the empty hall, then back at her. “But I would like to eventually talk about what happened last night.”
Belly’s throat tightened. She could still feel the cool water, the surprising warmth of his lips. “Yeah,” she said, forcing a casual tone. “But uh, you know with Taylor coming down and the tournament and everything.”
“Gotcha.” A flicker of something—disappointment, understanding—crossed his face. He recovered with a small smile. “Maybe after everything?”
“Yeah.” She said, the word feeling like a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep.
He nodded, shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, and headed downstairs.
The dock smelled of hot tar and rotting fish. Conrad drove the pry bar under a strip of trim, the wood groaning in protest. Cleveland held the other side, his steady hands a contrast to Conrad’s ragged force.
“It’s wood rot,” Conrad grunted, as a long, spongy section peeled away like wet cardboard. “God, this is bad, man. We have to pry off bits until we reach clean wood.”
“Just take it easy,” Cleveland said, his voice a low rumble. “It’s not going anywhere.”
Conrad ignored him, jamming the bar in again. A piece of wood splintered with a sharp crack, and a shard shot back, slicing across the meat of his palm. “Fuck! Ow.” He dropped the bar, clutching his hand. Blood welled instantly between his fingers, dark and vivid.
“You’re a little on edge.” Cleveland observed, passing him a rag.
Conrad pressed the stained cloth to his hand, the pain a clean, sharp focus. “Yeah,” he hissed through his teeth. “It’s been a bad week.”
“Is your dad back in town?” Cleveland asked, starting to work on the next section himself.
“No.” Conrad’s answer was too quick, too final. “Other stuff.” He picked up the bar again with his uninjured hand, attacking the rotten wood with a renewed, furious rhythm. The marina was quiet, just the lap of water and the sound of wood being murdered.
“How are things looking with that girl?” Cleveland asked without looking up, his question landing in the quiet like a stone.
The pry bar slipped, tearing off another rotten chunk. “Not good.” Conrad’s voice was flat. “And this thing isn’t looking good either.” He gestured violently at the boat’s exposed ribs, a damp, black cavern of decay. “I mean it just keeps going and going. The whole goddamn thing is infected and I didn’t notice.”
He swung the bar again, the thwack too loud. “It’s everywhere. And I didn’t notice.”
“Conrad, woah.” Cleveland stood up, putting a hand on his arm. Conrad shook him off. “What is going on?”
Conrad stood up and dropped the bar. It clattered on the dock, a jarring sound. He held his chest, his breathing suddenly hard and shallow, as if the rotten air from the boat had filled his own lungs. He couldn’t get enough of it. The world tipped, the bright sky and steady water dissolving into a blur of panicked static.
A vise was tightening around his ribs, each attempt to draw air a shallow, ragged failure. He stumbled back a step, the rough wood of the dock the only solid thing in a universe that was suddenly liquid and tilting.
“My heart’s beating really fast and it’s uh really hard to breathe,” Conrad said, gasping for air. He clutched at the front of his shirt, his cut hand smearing a faint pink streak across the fabric.
“Hey.” Cleveland was there in an instant, dropping his tools. He put a firm hand on Conrad’s chest, not pushing, just anchoring, and guided him to sit on a coiled pile of rope. “It’s normal. You’re having a panic attack, it’s okay.”
Conrad’s breath got quicker. He clutched his chest, his eyes wide and unfocused, staring past Cleveland at the ugly, gaping hole in the boat. “Look at me. Deep breaths.” Cleveland said, holding his gaze. He took an exaggerated, slow inhale through his nose, his shoulders rising, then let it out through his mouth.
Conrad watched him, his own chest heaving. He tried to copy, the air catching in his throat at first. He tried again, a shuddering imitation. “Conrad, what’s going on?” Cleveland asked after a while, his voice low and steady, a rock in the churn.
Conrad just looked at him, the words lodged somewhere beneath the constriction. The truth felt too big, too dangerous to let out. It would make it real. “It’s my mum,” he finally said, the admission tearing out of him raw. “I think she has cancer again.”
The gulls cried overhead, indifferent. Cleveland didn’t flinch. “Maybe you should tell your mum,” he said, his hand still a solid weight on Conrad’s shoulder.
“I know. I want to, I swear, but every time I try I don’t know how.” Conrad’s voice broke. He looked at his bleeding hand, now shaking in his lap. “I mean, she doesn’t want me or my brother to know. Finding out would crush her. It would ruin everything.” He dragged a hand over his mouth. “I feel like maybe if I just keep it inside, maybe that’s what keeps her alive.”
Cleveland was quiet for a long moment, letting the water slap the pilings. “You’re afraid to step on a crack,” he said, his words measured. “You’re afraid you’ll be the one to make it real. It’s not something you can control. It’s happened whether you say it out loud or not.” He squeezed Conrad’s shoulder. “Conrad, it’s not on you.”
Conrad stared at the bleached-white boards between his feet. He repeated the words, a hollow echo. “It’s not on me.” He was trying to convince himself, to feel the truth of it in his still-racing blood. He sat there, breathing slowly, the sharp edge of the panic slowly retreating like a tide, leaving him wrecked and exposed on the shore.
Conrad walked back to his house.
Belly heads downstairs after a while. The house felt different, the air thick with unspoken things.
The house felt different, the air thick with unspoken things.
Belly went to the sink, filling a glass with tap water so cold it made her knuckles ache. She tore open a packet of electrolyte powder, the fake orange scent hitting her nose. The granules fizzed and swirled, turning the water a toxic, vibrant shade.
She felt his presence before she saw him. A shift in the light, a subtle change in the pressure of the room. She turned slowly.
“Hey Belly.” Conrad said. His voice was gentle, scraped raw.
“Oh, hey.” She said. She gripped the cold glass, the condensation wet against her palm.
“What’s that?” He asked, nodding at the neon drink.
“My secret weapon.” She said, giving the liquid a final stir. It created a tiny, furious vortex.
“Feeling good about the tournament?” He asked. He leaned against the doorway, hands in the pockets of his jeans. There was a new tension in him, a wound-up stillness that hadn’t been there before.
“Yeah, I’m ready.” She said. She took a sip. It was too sweet, cloying.
“If you stay ready, you won’t have to get ready.” He said. The words came out stiff, like he was reading them from a card.
She laughed, a short, surprised burst of air. “That was cheesy.”
“Yeah. You try coming up with a motivational phrase with no cheese.” A faint, weary smile touched his mouth, then vanished.
“Hmm, I’m thinking.” She said, playing along out of habit, the way they always had. She tapped her chin, looking at the ceiling.
Conrad looked at her, the false humor draining from his face. “Belly.” He said. His voice sounded almost broken.
“Yeah?” She said, her own smile fading.
“I’m sorry.” He said.
“For being cheesy?” She asked, trying to deflect, to keep it light. Her heart was starting a slow, heavy pound against her ribs.
“For being a jerk the other day. And pretending like I don’t remember, when I remember everything.” He looked directly at her, his ocean-blue eyes clear and terribly earnest. “I just keep replaying it over and over again in my head.”
The admission hung in the kitchen, louder than the hum of the fridge. She blinked, looking down into her sinister orange drink. “I don’t know what to say.”
“I know it’s too little, too late. I get it.” He pushed off the doorframe, took half a step closer, then stopped himself.
She looked away, out the window where a gull swooped past. The silence stretched, filled with the memory of his lie and the chilling, final words she’d given him in return.
“Can I take you to the ball?” he asked.
Her head snapped back to him. “What?” The word was pure disbelief.
“I mean, I already know all the dances. It’s no problem.” He said it like it was a practical offer, a simple solution to a logistics issue, but the intensity in his gaze betrayed him. This wasn’t about the steps.
She looked at him, really looked. She saw the faint purple smudges under his eyes, the new sharpness along his jaw. She saw the boy from the dock who’d told her she had an effect on people. The doorbell rang, a sharp, intrusive chime that fractured the moment.
She flinched, her body responding before her mind. “I’ll think about it,” she said, the words automatic.
“Yeah,” he said. It wasn’t an argument. It was resignation.
She set the glass down with a click and moved past him, her shoulder nearly brushing his arm. She could feel the heat coming off him. She pulled the front door open, the bright afternoon light blinding her for a second.
Taylor stood on the porch, duffel bag at her feet, wearing huge sunglasses and a brilliant, unwavering smile.
She threw her arms wide, the sequins on her top catching the light. “What have you gotten yourself into?” Taylor said, hugging Belly tightly, her perfume a cloud of vanilla and salt.
“I’m so happy you’re here.” Belly said, the words muffled against Taylor’s shoulder.
She felt a sudden, overwhelming relief at the sight of her friend’s familiar, uncomplicated face.
“Get in here,” Belly laughed, pulling her inside. The heavy door swung shut, sealing them in the cool, dim foyer. Taylor dropped her bag with a thump, her eyes immediately scanning the space like a detective.
Taylor planted her feet, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Where’s my shirt? We’re gonna kick all of their asses.”
Conrad emerged from the kitchen doorway, a glass of water in his hand. He gave a short nod. “Hey Taylor.”
“Hey.” Taylor said.
His shoulders were a tense line as he disappeared down the hall toward the kitchen. The floorboards sighed under his weight.
Belly smiled, a reflex that felt thin and papery. She dragged Taylor’s duffel bag toward the stairs.
“What’s the latest with you two?” Taylor asked quietly, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper as they climbed.
“There’s so much to go over.” Belly heaved the bag onto the landing, the effort a welcome distraction.
They went upstairs. Taylor got changed into a volleyball shirt like Belly’s, it saying ‘TEAM BELLY’ on the back in bold, blocky letters. She spun around, showing it off. “So? Weaponized team spirit. Now talk.”
Belly sat on the edge of her bed, the crumpled black one-piece still a puddle on the floor. She focused on it. “He asked me to the ball.”
Taylor stopped spinning. “Oh my god, really?”
“Yeah.” Belly picked at a thread on her shirt. “He was kinda nervous.”
“This is exciting because you get to tell him no.” Taylor plopped down beside her, the bedsprings creaking.
Belly looked at her, pulling a face. She didn’t wanna say no. How could I say no, Belly thought. The memory of his apology in the kitchen, the raw sound of his voice, blotted out the harsh words from the side yard.
“Belly you are telling him no. Need not I remind you of the bullshit he pulled a few days ago.” Taylor nudged her shoulder.
“Yeah, I know.” Belly said, her voice small. I can’t say no, she thought. The contradiction was a live wire in her chest.
“And need not I remind you of the other brother who is waiting for you.” Taylor’s tone shifted, became pointed and practical.
“You girls ready to go?” Laurel walked in asking, her sunglasses perched on her head. She surveyed the room, her gaze lingering on Belly.
“Yeah, let’s go.” Belly said, standing up too quickly. Action was easier. The tournament was a script, a series of predictable reactions. Nothing like the chaos waiting for her after the final point.