Ten by Gretchen McNeil Page B

viciously she could feel their impact, though oddly, she couldn’t hear them. She couldn’t hear any individual sounds, actually. The wind and the rain created a kind of white noise backdrop that drowned everything else out. Meg opened her mouth and yelled into the storm, then laughed to herself. She could barely hear her own voice.
    Meg quickly realized it wasn’t funny. No one could hear her scream. That was the truth. As she stood, lashed by rain and straining against the wind to even stand upright, the whole island took on a more sinister feel.
    Meg shivered. How long had T.J. been gone? Surely long enough to run back up to the house and get back to her. Still, she didn’t want him to rush. One misstep on those slippery wooden walkways and he’d go crashing headfirst onto the rocks below. Why would anyone build such a dangerous path? It was almost as if—
    A hand grabbed Meg’s shoulder. She screamed, her heart leaping to her throat, and spun around to find T.J.
    “You okay?” he yelled through the rain. He had two orange-handled flashlights sticking out of each of his coat pockets. He wasn’t smiling.
    Meg nodded.
    “Your teeth are chattering,” he said.
    “They are?” Meg took mental stock of herself. She was drenched from head to foot and yes, her teeth were indeed chattering. She was so lost in T.J.’s kiss and the weird ambiance of the island that she hadn’t even noticed.
    “Come on,” T.J. said.
    Meg blindly stumbled behind him. Just above the rocky shore, the walkway stopped at a set of steep wooden stairs. The railing was wobbly, but T.J. took the steps one at a time, slow and careful. Then together they pushed open the rickety door of the Lawrences’ boathouse.

SIXTEEN
    DRIPPING WET AND CHILLED TO THE BONE, T.J. and Meg trudged inside. There were cracks in the roof allowing beams of dull, muted light to filter in, illuminating a million particles of dust kicked up as they shuffled across the wooden floor. Rain dripped steadily from two dozen spots in the roof, but at least the wooden walls blocked the wind. Meg sneezed as T.J. latched the solid, cross-beamed door behind him.
    T.J. whipped the cap off his head. “You okay?” he asked, wringing the water out of it.
    Meg fought the urge to shiver. Her flannel pajama bottoms were soaked and clung to her thighs in a way that could not possibly be flattering. Beneath the waterproof layer of her teal-green raincoat, her skin was goose-pimpled with the cold, and she silently cursed her airheadedness in forgetting to put on a bra.
    “Yeah.” Meg pulled the hood off her head and shook out her hair. “Totally fine.”
    “Good.” He shoved his beanie into his coat pocket and handed Meg a flashlight. She switched it on and scanned the interior of the boathouse.
    They stood on a wooden platform that stretched the length of the floating building. A large blue tarp covered a pile on the far wall. Meg traced its outline with the beam of her flashlight and saw where a corner of the tarp had been folded, exposing a stack of gasoline cans beneath.
    “At least there’s plenty of gas,” she said.
    T.J.’s beam joined hers on the pile. “So we can start a bonfire?”
    “No.” Meg snorted. “If we have to drive a boat out of here, at least we’ll have fuel.”
    T.J. stepped in front of her and smiled. “Oh, yeah? And are you going to pilot the boat?”
    His dimples—the left one slightly deeper than the right—taunted her. So many times she’d dreamed about running her fingers over them, feeling the soft indentations with her fingertips, then tracing the strong, square line of his chin. She’d even journaled about it, much to her own personal embarrassment. Nothing like reading over your own diary entry and realizing how pathetic it sounded.
    T.J. took a step toward her and Meg caught her breath. Was he going to kiss her again? Oh my God. She hadn’t French kissed a guy since she’d cut her tongue on Tim Eberstein’s new braces when he kissed