Kristen immediately perks up. “Dibs on first shower.”
Kate snorts. “Like hell. I called it an hour ago.”
They’re already halfway up the dock, laughing, bickering, easy with each other in a way I very much am not.
The guys unload coolers and grocery bags, talking about grilling, about burgers and early dinner before going out later. The smell of charcoal already seems to exist in my imagination.
Then Sage slips her arm through mine.
The gesture is casual. Possessive. Familiar in a way that makes my shoulders tense before I relax them.
“Come on,” she says brightly. “We’re not letting them steal all the hot water.”
She steers me away before I can protest, leaving Ethan with the guys. I glance back once—just once—and catch him watching us go, his expression unreadable.
The house is classic coastal New England—gray shingles, white trim, wide porch already scattered with shoes and coolers. Inside smells like lemon cleaner and ocean air. Towels are stacked neatly in the bathroom. Music hums softly from someone’s speaker.
When it’s my turn to shower, I’m quick. Thinking about conserving the hot water for everyone else.
I clutch the shower curtain and shriek.
“Sage?!”
She’s grinning, waiting for me inside the bathroom, perched on the counter reading Glamour. Her hot pink nails, skimming along a glossy page.
“Just give me five to get dressed and the showers yours.”
She replies by taking my neatly folded pile of clothes, opens the window and they go flying out.
“Oopsie.”
My brow lifts.
I’m fucked.
She’s up to something now.
I grab a towel before that also goes out the window and wrap it around myself.
“Don’t worry , Beth. You won’t be needing that tired, sad outfit—I’ve seen you in every weekend. Tonight, we are going to make Sean regret not being here. With you.” She eyes me, appraising. “Okay. Sit.”
“I can get ready myself,” I say weakly.
She ignores that completely. “You can. But you won’t.”
She blow-dries my hair first, fingers skilled and confident, lifting at the roots like she’s done this a thousand times. She curls it next, loose waves that somehow make my whole face look different. Better. More intentional.
She rummages through her bag. “You’re borrowing this.”
She holds up a dress.
It’s short. Not scandalous, butdefinitelynot mine.
“Sage—”
“Trust me.”
Then comes bronzer, warm and light. Lip gloss that smells faintly like vanilla. Mascara, eyeliner, her hands steady as she tilts my chin up.
