Wally wipes his hands on his jeans and folds his arms across his chest. “You ever actually been on a rolling log before, or were you hoping charm was gonna carry you across the lake?”
Harris puffs out his chest. Walks to the edge of the dock and gazes down into the water, where logs bob up and down from the wake. I watch as he bends over and drags one closer to the pier.
He plants one foot on the log.
The log respondsimmediatelyby shifting beneath him. Rolling. Wet. Harris wobbles, arms shooting out to the sides for balance, and I swear, the entire group collectively holds their breath.
“Careful now,” the crabby guy grumbles. “Don’t make me jump in and rescue you.”
I can hardly bear to watch, peeking between my fingers.
“He looks real steady to me,” Wally calls, voice heavy with sarcasm. “A true professional.”
“Shut up, Wallace!” Harris snaps, doing his best to adjust his footing on a soaking wet log.
Everything about this is all wrong: his swim trunks, his boots. His attitude.
One foot on the log.
He steadies it, holding it still.
“The kid is about to baptize himself,” Bill announces.
“Stop calling me kid, William,” Harris grits out. From here, I can see him leaning too far to one side to remain stable. “I’ve got this.”
“Five bucks says he’s down in three seconds,” Wally mutters.
“Two seconds,” Bill corrects.
“One.” I laugh.
As if on cue, Harris’s feet slip out from under him, his arms flailing wildly before he hits the water with a spectacular splash.
The entire dock goes silent for a beat; the only sound is the rippling of water and the faint squawk of a seagull overhead.
Bill lets out a booming laugh. “Called it! Two seconds.”
Wally doubles over, clutching his stomach. “Ten out of tenon the dismount! The boy cannot stay out of the water!”
Harris resurfaces with a sputter, blinking lake water out of his eyes. He pushes his soaked hair back with both hands before leveling the group with an unimpressed glare.
“You’re sooohilarious.”
With a grunt, he hauls himself onto the dock, boots squishing as water pools around him. His drenched T-shirt clings to his chest, his swim trunks sag a little lower, and his pride?
Fully submerged somewhere at the bottom of the lake.
Bill claps a hand on Harris’s soaked shoulder. “You’re a natural, bro.”
Harris glares at him. “Shutup, Bill.” He plants his hands on his knees, water still dripping off him in steady streams. “Enjoy the show?”
I quirk a brow, crossing my arms. “You mean the show where you flailed before face-planting into the lake? Highlight of my day.”
Wally snickers. “I’d pay to watch that again.”
Hair soaked and plastered to his forehead, lake water dripping from his shoulders, his shirt clinging to every muscle like it was painted on. The swim trunks? A mistake on his part, but a gift to everyone else.
And byeveryone elseI meanme.
