Laughing, Callie turns to me. Then hesitates. “Oh, you have... Dot’s lipstick on your face.”
“Ah.”
“Do you want me to...?”
Before I can answer she’s removed her glove, raised her hand to my cold cheek. Slowly, she rubs the mark away with a warm press of thumb. “There you go.”
Inside me, something swings. I fight the urge to grasp her hand as she lowers it, tell her how beautiful she is. “Thank you,” I manage.
From the group, a voice shouts Callie’s name. We start making our way back up the grass slope toward the boathouse.
“Joining us?” Dot asks, striding purposefully forward.
“For what?”
She indicates the water. “Firing up the Jet Skis.”
Callie coughs on her punch. “You’re joking. It’s freezing.”
“That’s what wetsuits are for.”
“Dot, you’ve been drinking. Are you sure that’s safe?”
“Of course,” Dot says. “Nathan’s a fully trained instructor.”
Callie wrinkles her nose. She’s probably thinking, like me, that Nathan must in fact only be part-qualified, given he clearly skipped the module on not being an irresponsible jackass.
Dot waves a hand. “Oh, don’t worry, he’s been on the lemonade all night.” She turns to me. “Fancy joining us, Customer?”
“Ah, no, thanks. You don’t want to see me in a wetsuit. Believe me.”
Dot chortles. “We’re all friends here.”
“I think we’ll sit this one out,” Callie says.
Dot throws one arm around Callie’s shoulders, kisses her hair. It makes me strangely envious. “What am I always telling you?”
Callie shrugs. Dot jogs off back toward the boathouse, presumably to recruit more people to the cause of her open-water death wish.
I take another sip of punch. “What is she always telling you?”
Callie hesitates. “Fancy a walk?”
•••
“Sorry about Dot. She thinks I’m old and boring.”
We wind along the footpath leading into Waterfen, the nature reserve. The moon seems brighter somehow, a giant hole punched into the dark card of sky.
Though she’s by my side, Callie’s leading the way. She’s as familiar with the route as a bird on migration, the constellations her compass.
“How old is Dot?” I’ve been curious about this.
“Twenties,” Callie says, like most people would sayMonday, orin-laws.
“So ‘old’ would make you...”
“Thirty-four.” She glances at me. “You?”
