CHAPTER 3: The Midnight Ferry

CHAPTER 3: The Midnight Ferry

​The problem with being invisible is that you get used to the quiet. So when the quiet is shattered at eleven o'clock on a rainy Thursday night, you assume the universe is finally launching its final strike against you.

​"Oh my god. Oh my god, Eloise, wake up!"

​Lizzy burst into my tiny bedroom without knocking, her eyes wide, hands shaking as she clutched her phone. She was vibrating with a level of excitement I usually only saw when she was tracking Allie Grace’s social media updates.

​"What?" I groaned, pulling my faded green hoodie over my head as I sat up in bed. "Did the mall run out of lip gloss?"

​"No! Look outside!" Lizzy hissed, dragging me toward the window by my arm. "Mike Weller’s car is parked in our driveway. The Mike Weller. Why is his car here? Do you think Jake told him I was at the beach party last week? Oh my god, my hair is a mess—"

​My stomach didn't just drop; it plummeted straight into the earth's core.

​I looked through the rain-streaked glass. Sure enough, the sleek, custom sports car was idling near our rusted front gate, its headlights cutting through the dark, rainy night. The deep, silver-white scratch on the passenger side gleamed under the streetlights like a taunt.

​"He's not here for you, Liz," I muttered, my voice completely flat as the realization hit me.

​"What do you mean he's not here for—"

​I didn't wait to finish the conversation. I shoved past her, grabbed my worn-out sneakers, and hurried down the stairs before my mother could wake up from her post-shift sleep. I threw open the front door and stepped out onto the porch, the cool summer rain immediately misting against my skin.

​The driver’s side window rolled down. Mike Weller leaned his elbow against the frame, his blonde hair damp from the rain, his striking blue eyes locking onto me with that effortless, infuriating arrogance.

​"Get in, ginger," he called out, his voice cutting through the sound of the downpour. "We’re running an errand."

​"It's eleven o'clock at night, varsity!" I yelled back, stepping down the porch stairs, my inner drama queen taking the wheel. "I am in my pajamas. I am literally off the clock!"

​"The clock doesn't stop until my car is fixed," Mike sneered lightly, tilting his head toward the passenger seat. "Get in the car, or I call your boss right now and tell her why the arena rake is missing three prongs."

​I let out a harsh, defeated sigh, cursing his entire lineage under my breath as I marched over and yanked the passenger door open.

​The interior of the car smelled like leather, rain, and his expensive, woody cologne. In the back seat, Jake Bill was completely dead to the world, a heavy varsity jacket pulled entirely over his face, snoring softly. He looked exactly like a golden retriever that had played too hard at the park.

​"Nice pajamas," Mike noted carelessly, his eyes glancing at my mismatched plaid bottoms and oversized green hoodie as he shifted the car into drive and sped out of our neighborhood.

​"They're a vintage statement," I snapped, crossing my arms tightly over my chest. "Where are we even going? And why couldn't Jake do it? He’s literally right there."

​"Jake is useless when he's tired, and my dad left a highly confidential legal folder on our yacht anchored at the marina across the bay," Mike said, his tone entirely too calm for someone committing legal extortion. "The keys to the cabin are in the glove box. Grab them."

​I leaned forward, opening the glove box to look for the keys. As I reached inside, my fingers brushed against his phone, which was sitting on the console. The screen lit up, displaying a lock screen of a generic sports graphic—not a picture of Allie Grace, which caught me off guard.

​"You don't even have my number," I muttered, pulling the keys out. "You literally had to drive to my house like a stalker."

​"I asked Jake who the ginger at the stables was. He asked some sophomore, who told him where you lived," Mike shrugged, his large hands gripping the steering wheel effortlessly. "It took two minutes. You aren't that hard to find."

​"I'm a ghost, varsity. People aren't supposed to find me."

​"Clearly, you're a loud ghost."

​Ten minutes later, we pulled into the deserted, dark marina. The rain was coming down harder now, dancing violently against the windshield. The yachts in the distance bobbed heavily on the black water of the bay.

​Mike killed the engine, leaving us in a heavy, suffocating silence. The sudden lack of the engine's purr made the space inside the car feel microscopic.

​"We have to take the small motorized dinghy out to the slip," Mike said, turning his head to look at me.

​"In the rain? Are you insane?" I stared at him, my eyes wide. "We are going to dissolve."

​"I don't dissolve, ginger. Come on."

​We stepped out into the pouring rain, the cold water instantly drenching my hair. Mike led the way down the slippery wooden dock, his broad shoulders cutting through the storm. He untied a small, white motorized boat, stepping into it with perfect balance before turning around and holding his hand out to me.

​I looked at his hand. His palm was large, calloused from basketball, and completely steady.

​"I don't need your help," I grumbled, my stubborn Millie pride rising up. I stepped down onto the wet fiberglass of the boat.

​Naturally, my universe-cursed clumsiness chose that exact second to strike.

​My sneaker slipped on the slick surface. With a sharp gasp, my arms flew out, and I went crashing forward. But I didn't hit the floor.

​Two large, incredibly strong hands caught me by the waist, freezing my momentum instantly.

​The breath caught entirely in my throat. Because of the height difference, my face was pressed directly against the center of his chest. I could feel the hard, solid muscle beneath his wet shirt, the rapid, steady thrum of his heartbeat against my cheek. Mike didn't let go immediately. His grip on my waist tightened, his fingers digging into the soft fabric of my oversized hoodie, pulling me just a fraction closer to stabilize me.

​For a terrifying, agonizing second, the sarcasm died. The banter vanished. There was just the sound of the rain crashing around us, the heavy rise and fall of his chest, and the sudden, suffocating warmth of his body heat cutting through the freezing storm.

​Slowly, I tilted my head back.

​Mike was looking down at me. The arrogant, careless smirk was completely gone from his face. His jaw was clenched, his blue eyes dark and unreadable as they scanned my wet face, lingering for a fraction of a second on my mouth before snapping back up to my eyes. The proximity was dizzying. I could see the individual drops of rain catching on his eyelashes.

​Neither of us moved. Neither of us breathed. It was a terrifyingly loud, unacknowledged shift in the atmosphere—a sudden pull that neither of us wanted to admit was there.

​"You're... really bad at walking," Mike finally murmured, his voice lower than usual, a rough edge to it that hadn't been there before.

​He slowly released his grip on my waist, stepping back, though his eyes didn't leave mine until he sat down by the small motor.

​"The boat shifted," I lied, my voice shaking slightly as I sat on the opposite bench, my hands trembling as I gripped the edge of the seat. My skin felt like it was on fire where his hands had just been.

​Mike didn't fire back with a sarcastic comment. He just started the small motor, his eyes fixed firmly on the dark water ahead as we cut through the rain toward his family’s yacht. But as I looked at him through the downpour, I noticed the tight grip he had on the steering handle, his knuckles turning white.

​The bubble of the summer hadn't popped yet, but the air inside it had just become completely electric.