What I Thought Was True Read Online Free PDF

your step, Gwenners.
    Be careful with yourself.” Her fierce expression is so at odds
    with her sweet face and my childhood nickname that I want to
    laugh, but there’s a little twist in my stomach too.
    We all can’t be Vivie and Nic.
    My cousin and my best friend have been an item since we
    were all five, when I ceremonially performed their wedding
    service on Sandy Claw Beach. Since we were more familiar
    with boat launchings than weddings, I bashed them both on
    the knees with a bottle of apple juice.
    How many people, honestly, get the guy they’ve loved all
    their lives treating them like they’re rare and precious and
    deserving of adoration? Hardly anyone, right?
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    Still, there’s a big gap between that and some unseemly
    scuffling in the sand.
    Or a bunk bed.
    Or a Bronco.
    “Gwen!” Vivie snaps her fingers. “Stay with me, here.
    Remember your promise. Want your dad to catch you rolling
    around on the beach again, like with”—she hesitates, lowers
    her voice—“Alex?”
    I cringe, turn my back on the Partridges’ lawn. Then I hold up
    one hand, resting the other on an imaginary Bible. “I remem-
    ber. From now on, I will not, no matter how tempted, get even
    close to a compromising position with someone unless I love
    them and they love me.”
    “And?”
    “And unless we’ve passed a lie detector test to prove this,” I
    finish obediently. “But I have to say, that’s going to be awkward.
    Carrying around all the equipment, setting it up . . .”
    “Just stay out of the sand dunes. And far away from those
    parties on the Hill,” Vivien says. “When it’s real love, no equip-
    ment necessary. You just look in their eyes and it’s all there.”
    “Go apply for that job at Hallmark right this instant !” I swat her on the shoulder. She ducks away, kicking the bike back into
    gear, laughing.
    I wouldn’t pass the lie detector test myself if I didn’t say that, oh, I want what Vivien and Nic found without even having to
    search. I give one last look over my shoulder at the back of
    Cass’ uptilted head, as Mrs. Partridge once again bellows at him
    from the porch.
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Chapter Five
    The Ellington house is the last one on the beach—big, turn-
    of-the-last-century, graceful, stretching along the shore like a
    contented cat in the sun. It’s got weathered dove-gray shin-
    gles and gray-green trim, two turrets, and a porch that sweeps
    three-quarters around, like the tail of a cat cozying close.
    Taken with all that, the carport where Mrs. E.’s Cadillac is
    parked looks so . . . wrong. There should be a carriage house
    there, an eager groom in livery waiting to take the reins of
    your horse.
    I walk up the side path to the kitchen door, wondering if
    this is the correct thing to do. You never know on the island.
    Half the houses Mom cleans welcome her in the front and
    offer her a drink, the other half insist she go around back
    and take off her shoes.
    Toeing off my flip-flops, I look down at my feet, wishing
    for a second I had dainty ones like Viv, or that my nails were
    decorated with polish and not a Band-Aid from stubbing my
    toe on the seawall.
    Mrs. Ellington’s glossy oak side door is propped open by
    a worn brick, but the screen door is closed. “Hi . . . ?” I call
    down the shady hallway. “Um, hello? . . . Mrs. Ellington?”
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    A television murmurs in the distance. A porcelain clock
    shaped like a starfish ticks loudly. From where I am I can see
    the gleam of a silver pitcher on the kitchen table, a tumble of
    zinnias glowing in it. I put my hand on the screen door, poised
    to push it open, then hesitate and call out again.
    This time, the TV is immediately silenced. Then I hear click/
    thump , click/thump coming down the hardwood floor of the hallway, and there’s Mrs.