I grab a packet of marshmallows, bamboo skewers, chocolate, and graham crackers from the pantry and stuff them all in my tote.
I’m really counting on Hunter to deal with the fire aspect of our after-party. I can do s’mores, but fires are above my pay grade.
“Lucy,” Katherine calls. “Where did you go? Are you ready?”
“In here,” I call. We meet at the door to the pantry. “I’m getting snacks for the beach.” I open my tote, and Katherine pokes her head in.
“S’mores?” she says. “You’re the best little sister in the world.”
“The bar has been lowered tonight,” I say, and we both dissolve into giggles. All through dinner, our bitchy cousins directed their bitchiness at each other. Katherine and I placed ourselves at the opposite end of the table from them, Mom, and our aunt, and as a result, we had a great evening. At least twice, Genny, the oldest of the bitchy cousins, flounced off from the table because Gretchen said something unpleasant.
Our side of the table had been nothing but love and great food and way too much wine. Now our family members have left, and I feel a little less tense. The three martinis I’ve had definitely help.
“What are you two doing in the pantry?” Ed appears from nowhere.
“You’re back!” Katherine squeals and loops her hands around Ed’s neck. “We’re going to do s’mores on the beach. Can you make a fire?”
“I have that covered,” Hunter says. My heart lifts in my chest a little at his voice. No doubt due to the fact that I haven’t had to nag him three hundred times to organize the fire.
We all make our way down to the beach. The men argue about the best way to make a fire while the women of the group choose throw blankets from the basketful I placed down there earlier. We don’t get involved in the fire-making process—not because we couldn’t do it, despite having zero experience. No, we watch because there’s not a better show on Netflix. These guys trying to assert their dominance by arguing about log arrangement is ridiculous and hilarious, and I’m absolutely here for it.
When the fire is finally going, the flickering flames turn the air a little magical. Everyone is smiling and laughing as I pass around skewers and marshmallows. And it doesn’t matter even a little bit that someone gets sand in the bag of marshmallows.
“Did you get me one?” Hunter asks as he comes and takes a seat next to me.
I hand him a skewer with two marshmallows on it. “All prepped and ready for the fire.”
I pull my knees up to my chest and hold out my skewer, the flames licking the sugar like they’re starved.
Hunter sits close enough that we touch. He’s cross-legged, his knee is slotted in under my legs. His shoulder grazes mine.
I glance over at him, shooting him a look that says,You’re taking this couple thing very seriously, but he just grins.
Fisher pulls a guitar from God knows where and starts playing the chords of a song I can’t quite place. He begins to sing.
Everyone’s hazy with alcohol and sea air. I feel so ... comfortable. So free. So relaxed. For the first time since we got here, I feel like I can switch off a little bit. I don’t have to field jabs from one of my cousins or my mother. I don’t have to fight with Hunter.
The marshmallow goes gooey and golden on the outside. I stack chocolate on a graham cracker, sandwich the marshmallow betweenthe chocolate and another cracker, and pull it off the skewer. It’s a nine point two for execution, if I do say so myself.
“That’s impressive,” Hunter says.
“Thank you for appreciating my s’mores game. It’s a lifetime of dedication to my craft.”
He chuckles and I offer him the confection. “Wanna swap?” I reach for his skewer.
“Sure,” he says. I don’t know why, but I like that he agreed. I like that he’s not holding grudges. That he’s accepting my peace offering. Maybe he’s poked a small hole in my armor, and he sees something he can like.
I glance from the fire and his uncooked marshmallow back to Hunter, who’s biting into the s’more. I hadn’t noticed before how nice his teeth are. How big his mouth is. How masculine his hands are. I suppress a shudder and turn back to my skewer.
I busy myself making my own s’more with the same practiced skill. There’s a lot I’m not good at—like wearing yellow—but I can make a s’more like I invented them.
I sink my teeth in and my eyelids flutter shut. Bliss.
I open them to find Hunter looking at me.
“You look like you’re enjoying that,” he says.
“What can I say? I make the best s’mores.”
