“Whataboutme?” I asked.
“How long was your last relationship?”
Okay, wait, I thought.This is getting very personal, very fast.
What happened to us just hanging out?
I didn’t respond at first. Back in high school, I’d hang out with guys for a few weeks or couple months before we stopped texting each other so we could devote time to texting otherpeople. Things with my prom date had beena littledifferent, since Trevor and I ended up hanging out through the summer…
But everything grew complicated when he left for college. Once I began dodging his FaceTime calls and dreading his visits, my friends suggested that the relationship had run its course. When Trevor didn’t fight to stay together, I was relieved.
“A little over three months,” I told Connor. “But I don’t know if I’d categorize it as acommitted relationship.”
Connor looked incredulous. “He cheated?”
I shook my head. “It’s more like we didn’t want to commit to the relationship itself.”
“Hmm.” A pause. “Does that bother you?”
“No,” I said truthfully, but I knew I sounded irritated. And I didn’t really know why. I also didn’t know why I was suddenly telling Connor all this. “I mean, some of us aren’t serial monogamists.”
“Oh, soyouplay the field?”
I shifted in my seat. Man, was he quick. “I prefer hanging out.”
Connor was quiet, as if weighing whether he wanted to poke that. “What are you doing tomorrow?” he eventually asked.
“Not sure,” I said. “Maybe the beach again? I think Erica’s playing tennis, and then she and my dad are taking the twins kayaking.”
“Not your scene?”
“It’s notnotmy scene. It’s just…”
No matter where I go with my family, I feel like a spare tire.
Under the blanket, Connor’s knee nudged mine. “Come with me when I drop off Teddy and Finn,” he said. “Wear a swimsuit.”
“Why? What are we doing?”
He smiled, and leaned close to whisper in my ear. “Something fun.”
I rolled my eyes to ignore the two words rippling up my spine.
* * *
When I got back from my run the next morning, Nick was at the stove again. “Here you go, Bryce!” he said as I snagged a spot at the island. “Your nine-cheese omelet. Sorry it looks more like scrambled eggs…”
“You still get an A for effort,” Sage remarked, in between bites of something that resembled a deconstructed take on a veggie omelet. She blew him a kiss.
Nick lightly slapped it on his cheek with a dimpled grin. “I worked at Dock Street during the summers in college,” he told me. “I mastered everything but flipping an omelet.”
“Then how’d you get this gig?” I joked.
“I know, right?” He chuckled and cracked an egg in a bowl. “Our omelet guy sadly skipped town at sunrise.”
“Luke?” I guessed. Life as an FBI agent must not have been as glamorous as it was on TV.
Sage nodded. “But he’ll be back before the Foxes’ Fourth party tomorrow night.”
