“It’s hydration,” Danica insisted.
“Gatorade is hydration. This is sadness on a stick.”
Gwen found herself laughing before she could stop it, the sound slipping out quieter than the others’ but still real. For a moment, surrounded by plates and snark and sunlight pouring through the cabana curtains, the ache in her chest loosened.
Beside her, Maggie let out a soft huff of amusement too — eyes still closed, but a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth like she’d been listening the whole time.
The table turned into a free-for-all within minutes, all hands reaching and plates clinking. Pete began narrating every choice like she was commentating a sporting event. “Danica’s going safe with the melon — classic rookie mistake,” Pete intoned, spearing three sausage links for herself. “Izzy’s building a Bloody Mary tower. Mad respect. And Gwen… what do we have here? Gwen’s going balanced, classic defensive play, fruitandcarbs. She’s in it for the long haul.”
“Pete,” Danica groaned. “Please just eat.”
“Iameating,” Pete said through a mouthful of pancake.
Gwen let their noise wash over her as she fixed a plate — some fruit, a folded pancake, a few of those ridiculous hangover fries piled with cheese and bacon. She slid it onto thelow table next to Maggie, who still hadn’t budged from her horizontal sprawl.
“Eat something,” Gwen murmured, quiet enough that it got swallowed by Pete’s next monologue.
Maggie cracked one eye open, suspicious. “Is this… bribery?”
“Just breakfast,” Gwen said simply.
For a beat, Maggie just looked at her, then let out a sigh that sounded almost like surrender. She propped herself up on one elbow and snagged a fry from the plate, biting into it with a noise that was entirely inappropriate for polite company.
“God,” she muttered. “Okay, fine. Worth living another day for.”
By midafternoon,the cabana had emptied itself into the plunge pool. Izzy and Kiera were attempting some half-choreographed twirl routine to whatever EDM remix was pounding through the speakers, Pete was attempting to do handstands, which she had explicitly been banned from doing, and Danica was still trying to keep her hair dry.
Gwen stayed back, perched on the edge of the couch, watching the chaos. She could feel the thump of bass in her ribs, hear Pete yelling, “Ten out of ten, Olympic form” after surfacing again.
Beside her, Maggie had melted deeper into the cushions, sunglasses slipping low, the curve of her shoulder pink from the sun. She looked exhausted and adorable.
Gwen poured a glass of water from the sweating pitcher and nudged it toward her. “Drink,” she said softly.
Maggie huffed but took it, tilting it back in slow sips. When she set it down, Gwen couldn’t help herself — she reached out, brushing a strand of hair off Maggie’s damp forehead, fingers grazing warm skin.
Maggie stilled, then tipped her head just slightly into the touch. And for a moment they just looked at each other, Gwen’s hand hovering, Maggie’s lips parting like she wanted to say something but couldn’t.
“Thanks,” Maggie whispered, her voice rough, meant for no one else.
The sound went straight through Gwen, sharp and unsteady.
And then, thanks to the chaos muppets Maggie called friends, the chorus rose from the pool, loud and merciless:
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
Izzy led the chant, Kiera howling beside her, Pete smacking the water in rhythm like a drum. Even Danica, blushing, had her hands cupped around her mouth, adding her voice to the racket.
Gwen froze, hand still half in Maggie’s hair. Maggie’s mouth curved — somewhere between a smile and a dare.
And suddenly the whole cabana was vibrating with the sound of their friends, demanding the one thing Gwen had promised herself she wouldn’t give.
Gwen lifted her free hand, waving toward the pool like she could shoo them off. “Enough,” she called, trying for stern but landing somewhere closer to flustered schoolteacher.
Of course, that was when Lillian appeared, cutting through the chaos like a knife. She strode up to the cabana in a sleek black one-piece that made Gwen want to do a double take, golden skin gleaming, sunglasses perched low on her nose.
“Hey,” she said, casual as ever, and Gwen dipped her chin in acknowledgment.
The group only got louder. Izzy had abandoned chanting in favor of wolf-whistling. Pete slapped the water again, chanting, “Cowards! Cowards!” in a terrible British accent.
