"The very same. She holds court from her chair like a benevolent lake goddess. Dispensing wisdom and beer and probably judging everyone's swimming form." Finn leans forward again. "Oh, and there's usually this group of teenagers who think they're being sneaky with their terrible weed, but everyone knows and everyone pretends not to know. It's a whole thing."
"Small town theater," I say.
"Exactly. You're catching on."
The turnoff appears ahead—a dirt road marked by a hand-painted sign that says "SWIMMING HOLE" with an arrow, the paint faded and peeling but still readable. Holt takes the turn without slowing much, and the truck rumbles over washboard ruts, kicking up dust behind us that hangs in the air. The suspension creaks, everything rattles, and Finn grabs the door handle to steady himself while wearing that grin that says he's having the time of his life.
"Fair warning," Finn says, his shoulder bumping mine with every rut, "Betty's gonna offer you beer and also probably try to set you up with her nephew."
"I thought her nephew was married."
"He is, but that won't stop her from trying. She's got vision." Finn grins. "Also everyone's gonna ask how you're liking living with Holt, and they're all gonna have Opinions with a capital O about it. Which—" He looks between us with exaggerated interest. "How IS that going, by the way? Any developments? Scandals? Should I be taking notes?"
"Finn," Holt says, low and warning.
"I'm just asking! As your friend and business partner and the person who has to listen to both of you pretend you're not—"
"We're not pretending anything," I interrupt, feeling my face heat. "We're just—"
"Coexisting," Holt finishes.
"With GREAT SUCCESS," Finn adds in a fake announcer voice. "Tune in next week for more Avoiding The Obvious Theater."
"Let them have opinions," Holt says, pointedly ignoring Finn and addressing me instead. "We know what's what."
There it is again—that squeeze in my ribs, warmth spreading through my chest like spilled coffee. The simple certainty in his voice, the way he's just decided that our business is our business and everyone else can think whatever they want. Like it's that easy. Like he's already decided I'm worth defending.
"Aw," Finn says, pressing a hand to his chest. "That was almost sweet. I'm gonna cry. This is beautiful. Can you feel the moment? I'm feeling the moment."
"Finn."
"Shutting up now."
We round a bend and suddenly the swimming hole opens up before us—a natural pool maybe fifty yards across, water so blue-green it looks photoshopped, too perfect to be real, surrounded by red rock and cottonwood trees that provide actual shade, actual relief. A cliff face rises on one side with aworn path leading to a ledge, and scattered around the shore are families on blankets, teenagers in clusters sharing speakers, a few trucks with tailgates down and music playing, creating this layered soundtrack of different songs.
This is what I ran toward.
Holt parks near a cluster of other trucks, and before the engine's even fully off, Finn's out the door, already pulling his shirt over his head in one smooth motion. "Last one in has to buy beer!"
He takes off running, all long limbs and zero grace, and I watch him launch himself off a rock into the water with a cannonball that sends up a massive splash. People yell in protest but they're laughing, everyone's laughing.
"He's like a golden retriever," I say, watching him surface and shake water from his hair.
"Accurate," Holt agrees, cutting the engine, and the silence after feels suddenly significant, just the two of us in the truck cab for a moment before we have to join the world outside.
I grab my bag from the floor and slide out of the truck.
There are kids shrieking, music playing, someone laughing, a dog barking.
"Scout!" Betty Cordero waves from her throne—a fold-out chair with a cup holder and a sun umbrella, positioned in prime viewing territory near the water's edge. "Get over here, sweetheart!"
I grin, because of course Finn was right, and make my way over. Betty's probably in her sixties, skin tanned to leather, wearing a one-piece with a Hawaiian print and oversized sunglasses.
"Hey Betty."
"You surviving the boys?" She leans in conspiratorially, lowering her sunglasses to peer at me over them. "They giving you any trouble?"
"They're mostly annoying," I say, and she laughs—this bark of delight that makes me smile wider.
