He grins and pours me a cup before I can reach for one.
“Am I gonna see you this weekend?” he asks, handing the coffee to me.
“Sure, I don’t think I have any other plans,” I say, shrugging my shoulders.
He looks at me, puzzled. “Did you forget this weekend is the Fourth of July?”
My eyes widen. I most definitely forgot what this weekend was.
“Ugh. I did. The thing at James’s family lake house? Are you gonna be there?”
“Yep. It’s a firm-wide thing every year. You going?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“Didn’t you just say you didn’t have any other plans?”
“I did.”
“Great. Then I’ll see you there.” He turns to leave the lounge. “Bring a swimsuit,” he says with a wink.
***
The drive to the lake house is a two-hour trek, the landscape changing from strip malls to back roads only lined with pine trees. The road curves and widens, the air shifting from smoggy to something fresher. I crack the windows and let it in.
Despite Nash’s instructions, I decided against wearing a swimsuit in front of my coworkers.
I told myself I’d treat this like any other work event, but the truth is, I’ve spent a week rehearsing casual hellos in my head, preparing for the collision of James and Nash and the rest of the office, with me as the pinball.
The Sterling lake house is not a house so much as an estate. All glass and cedar beams, with a dock that looks like it could moor a small yacht. There’s a circular drive with cars already lined up, a mix of luxury and more modest vehicles, and one motorcycle.
I pull in behind an aggressively red sports car and kill the engine. I step out of my car, the July heat hitting my skin before I ever get the door closed.
My sunglasses slip as I walk toward the house, the bridge of my nose already slicking with sweat.
Inside, the entry is enormous. The living room is cozy and calm, but beyond the windows the backyard is pure chaos: kids bombing into the water, partners and associates in various states of undress around the pool, drinks in hand and voices loud. People from the firm are scattered everywhere, cliques arranging themselves on Adirondack chairs on the covered deck.
In the kitchen, there’s an entire countertop lined with salads and desserts and multicolored Jell-O shots. I spot Teresa over by the fruit tray, carving a watermelon with the focus of a woman who has three children and no patience for nonsense.
I say hello to her in passing as I make my way to the back deck.
When I step outside, Nash spots me from across the pool immediately.
He’s with a group of other paralegals, shirtless and barefoot, spearing a strawberry with a toothpick and grinning like he’s in his element. He starts toward me, not bothering to towel off the beads of pool water slicking down his chest.
A couple of the associates turn to look, following his line of sight, and I feel their eyes flick from Nash to me and back.
“Look who finally showed,” Nash says, sliding up next to me.
He smells like coconut sunscreen and the sugary punch they’re serving in Solo cups.
“I was starting to think you weren’t coming.”
“With the free food and open bar? Not a chance,” I joke.
He leans in, lowering his voice. “You look good. Like, ‘get-fired-from-my-job’ good.” His eyes dip down, then back up, and he bites his lip.
Before I can admonish him, I hear an announcement from behind me that it’s time for dinner.
