Page 19 of The Bully's Dare

Because he doesn’t show up at Healing Touch after that.

Which should be nice—no loud music playing all night, no constant cheering, as though we’re docked next to a football stadium.

But it’s not nice. It’s boring. I find myself sitting on the bow of Sweet Serenity staring mournfully at the uninhabited cockpit, almost—

—No, don’t say it—

Well, I almost miss the guy. Complete with his six-pack abs and arrogant smile.

Even Donovan and I are running out of things to talk about when we can’t complain about Jason and his Merry Band of Jerks.

I’m starting to get that sinking feeling in my stomach…like maybe I went too far at the beach. I have a bad habit of not knowing when to draw the line. In trying to out-jerk the jerk…have I become the jerkiest of them all?

Ugh. The thought keeps me up at night more than I’d like to admit.

It’s been about a week, not that I’m counting, since I’ve seen hide or hair or cocky grin from Jason King.

As if to compound the problem—karma kicks me in the ass.

“We’re going on a sailing trip!” Pearl explains over breakfast at The Blue Heron—they do brunch specials for boaters. “Isn’t that exciting?”

I break the yoke on my Croque de Madame. “Huh?”

“Three nights on the old blue,” Four says, grinning. “Just you, me, your mom, and the stars. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

Double ugh.

The only thing worse than being without Jason is being without Donovan.

“It’s only three nights,” he says when I tell him, feeling close to crying for no reason at all. “I think you’ll live.”

I don’t feel like I’m going to live, though. I pout even as Donovan and his dad cast us off, Sweet Serenity’s motor purring.

“Heads up,” Donovan says as he unhooks the rope from the cleat and tosses it my way. I catch it.

We’re officially cast off. Ready to leave the marina.

Donovan, however, grabs the siding before we can get too far. “Hey, Kenzi. For the road.”

He reaches into his back pocket, pulls something out, and hands it over.

It’s a flat CD case. Inside, a CD with sharpie written on it. “For Kenzi.”

A mixed tape. Donovan made me a mixed tape.

I bite my lip to keep my smile from overwhelming my face. “Thanks, bud.”

“You’re welcome, bud.” He releases the side and the boat chugs out of the slip, leaving Donovan standing on the pier. His form gets smaller, but it’s still there as Four steers us out of the mouth of the harbor and into the open waters.

I slip on my headphones. The boat vibrates underneath me, the engine making the whole thing hum. There’s a folded up piece of paper in the CD case, where Donovan listed all the songs and bands. The first song is by a band called the Pixies and, immediately, their dark, chaotic sounds sweep me away. It’s all very Donovan and I close my eyes to enjoy it.

We’re sailing up Long Island to Block Island. It’s about a five hour trip by sailboat, give or take, depending on the “knots”, says Four. Four comes out, takes off the sail cover, and hoists the sail up. I help him a bit, but I’m pretty sure it’s just his attempt to “bond” with me. Besides, Pearl is far too busy downing daiquiris in the cockpit.

Pearl makes guacamole and we munch on chips as we sail. Sailing, like fishing, swimming, and everything else in the water, is slow and tedious. All about the journey, not the destination, blah, blah, blah.

I listen to Donovan’s CD twice, read a few chapters, and play about twenty hands of Black Jack with Pearl and Four. Four even lets me take the helm, which is, admittedly, more fun than I expected.

I feel so short behind the huge wheel, but he points to a small blinking green dot ahead. “Just make sure to keep that on your left,” he tells me. “Otherwise, we’ll end up in the rocks.”

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