Abby Road by Ophelia London Page B

bravado. So not my style. I would never be Molly.
    “I’m not normally . . .” I started to explain, but stopped, not knowing how to finish without making it worse. I attempted to run my fingers through my wet hair, but had to settle for twisting it into a loose, dripping tangle down my back. Todd was still looking out at the water.
    “Have you ever seen a shark?” I asked, choosing to totally ignore the proverbial elephant in the room.
    “All the time,” he answered, “when I’m diving.” He sat on the rock next to me, but not as close as before. He’d learned his lesson. “They won’t hurt you unless you give them a reason.”
    “You’re brave.”
    He shook his head. “Hardly.”
    It was all too awkward and stupid, and the hot summer air felt heavy and thick and choking all around me. I didn’t have time for tense silence, so I pulled forward Abby’s most comfortable panic defense mechanism: The irrepressible blab. “My favorite color’s brown,” I blurted from out of nowhere, and Todd’s brows pulled together like he was missing something. I blinked, a little startled myself. “You know, ’cause it reminds me of dirt, and I like dirt— love dirt, always have, as long as I can remember.” I hoped I was making sense but couldn’t slow down to make sure. “I like to plant things, too,” I went on, “and water them, and watch them grow. Hands digging in the dirt, dirt between my fingers, caught in my nails. That’s something I really miss about home. Arizona’s dry and dusty and dirty and . . . and—”
    “Brown?”
    “Exactly!” I laughed, finally taking a breath. “I love wearing brown, too, even though apparently it’s not the right tone for me anymore. I used to be an autumn, but now I’m a spring.” Todd was staring at me with a funny look. I realized I’d derailed myself again. “I don’t know.” I sighed. “Wearing brown makes me feel . . .” I wrapped my wet arms around my wet legs and continued. “Protected and warm, so . . . yeah.”
    Winded from talk and fresh out of ideas, I set my gaze on the bright blue water, waiting for my next brilliant streak of conversational inspiration to strike. It didn’t, and it became quiet again, only the sounds of the wind, the lapping waves, and an occasional bird.
    “Well, I heard,” Todd began a moment later, “that your favorite color is pink. I read about it in a magazine once.” When our eyes met, his expression was both guilty and inquisitive. He leaned his face closer to me. “Or,” he whispered, wearing no smile now, “should we continue with this little charade of my not properly acknowledging who you are, Abigail Kelly?”
    My stomach fluttered, feeling both grateful and terrified. “No.” I finally said. “Whatever we do, let’s not pretend.”
    Todd nodded in unspoken concurrence. As we smiled across at each other, all of that stupid awkwardness evaporated like so much sticky sea water on my skin.
    “So, pink?” He lifted his eyebrows and leaned back.
    “Are you sure you want to hear this?” I asked. “You might lose all respect for me.”
    “Eh-hem.” His eyes flashed to the front of my wet clothes. “I believe we’re way past that, Abby.”
    I looked down, then quickly pulled and shook out my damp yellow tank top, which had been rather see-through and molded to my purple bra.
    “Pink,” Todd prompted, looking only at my eyes now, like a gentleman.
    Appreciating the distraction, I theatrically cleared my throat. “My favorite color in all the world is pink ,” I recited, turning toward my audience (the water), gesturing with jazz hands. “Any season, any reason, it’s such a pretty, cheerful, dreamy color, and pink’s a girl’s best friend.” I winked flirtatiously at the invisible camera over my right shoulder. “I’m always in love when I’m in pink .” I blew a kiss into the air.
    Breaking character, I chortled, feeling the full stupidity of it.
    “I had to say that,” I explained,