I smile when he says my name, taking his hand and nodding. Then I catch him staring at the top of my head.

He must realize it because he snaps at attention. “Sorry for staring. Did you know you have gray hair?”

“Wait, I do!?” I say in jest, and his cheeks get rosy. “I’m actually surprised you’re the first to comment. I usually get the jokes right away.”

Jack’s cheekbones become more pronounced as he smirks. “Never met anyone not in a nursing home with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair.” He winks. “Like that?”

I snort-laugh. “Nice. Never heard that one before. I was born blond, like you. But it started to change around, you know—” Puberty, I think, but how awkward is that to say to a cute boy? Instead, I say, “My mom says I’m an old soul.”

“I like it,” Jack says. “It’s distinguished.” He leans back, and his stomach glistens in the sunlight. He squints, and his smile ties me up in knots. “Where you from?”

“Downstate New York,” I answer. “You?”

“Vermont.”

“I love it there,” I say. “My dad used to take me skiing there when I was a kid.”

“You ski?” he asks.

“I dabble. Mom made me pack my ski clothes, just in case. But I doubt I’ll use them here.”

Jack laughs, and it sounds like a symphony. The sunlight hits his blond stubble, and he shines like a beautiful golden statue. I notice just one dimple on the left cheek, and when I say I’m weak, my legs are suddenly boneless. “Same. We should ski this winter. I hear there’s a mountain nearby. CIA has a bus that goes there, I think.”

“I hate busses.” I immediately regret saying that. Out of everything, every sentence in the English language I could have said, I told this beautiful boy that I hate busses. Like, what? If Rae were here, she’d slap me.

He grins. “They’re terrible. I’m going to have to beg randos for rides back to Vermont during breaks. It’s like an eight-hour drive, and my family can’t do it.”

“That’s rough.”

That’s rough? Who am I right now, a straight bro?

Jack nods toward the river. “You wanna?”

Yes. Yes, I do.

He gets to his feet and pulls me to mine. His hands are rough and large, and when he touches me, my entire body is on fire. We walk, a few feet between us, to a raised mini-cliff where, he says, the water is deep. He cannonballs in, Red Sox cap and all, and the cool water splashes on my skin and sizzles. Wading close to shore, he waves me in.

I hesitate. I’m not one for jumping into large bodies of water without thoroughly vetting the surrounding areas. Especially when I can’t see the bottom and the river has an elusive brownish color to it that doesn’t exactly inspire confidence in what lies beneath the surface. When I was younger, Taylor and I used to make Dad dive in and swim around for a while, assuring us that nothing murky or goopy or spiky or fishy lurked nearby.