“That was before you knew me,” Heller said, holding out his hand.
I don’t know if it was because we had downed a few nips of vodka in between guests or if it was because he was looking at me with those deep brown eyes, the ones that stayed focused on my smile, my mouth. But for whatever reason, I said yes.
---
“You made it, asswipe!” Dylan Adler slapped Heller on the back as he led me by the hand over to the bar, past a keg, a dart board, and a few beaten-up couches. Dylan wore his hockey uniform and a mullet wig that distracted from his pockmarked skin. I’d always been scared of him, thanks to his towering frame and his usual surlyexpression. But that night he clocked my hand wrapped in Heller’s and nodded, friendly. “ ‘Sup, Goldie.”
I nodded, too, even though it was the first interaction we’d had since he cheated off my second-grade math test. “ ‘Sup.”
“You still working with those Alpine Lake snobs?” he asked.
Heller must have sensed my nerves because he held my palm tighter, rubbing his thumb against the back of my hand.
“Heading back this summer,” I said.
“I guess it’s good we have one of our own there,” Dylan said. “Keep all the staff in line when they come into town. Piece of shit richies.”
“Those assholes never tip.” I swiveled my head to find Cal Drummond looking at me with curious eyes, peeking out from under a neon beanie. “That’s what my dad says, at least. When the counselors come into the diner on days off.”
His jawline had gotten more defined over the years, and his dark facial hair had grown in, coating the lower half of his face in a neat beard. He looked so much older, so different than he had when we were best friends in elementary school. Before his mom died of an overdose.
I knew I should defend the counselors—the lifers—but it was easier to nod and smile and agree by omission that yeah, the Alpine Lake staffers were leeches.
Heller leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Wanna dance?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he led me to the living room, which was dark and sweaty, pulsing with the heat, the need of my peers. He wrapped his arms around my waist and held me at a respectable distance.
But I was feeling bold, hungry.
As the music picked up and the lights stayed low, I pressed my body to his, ran my forefinger down the back of his neck. I sensed him smile, smelled his skin.
Heller closed the gap between us and I felt his mouth on mine, firm and still, and with such purpose, my legs shook.
Heller paused for a second as if to catch his breath. “Finally.”
CHAPTER 5
Now
Ava’s naked from the waist up, standing in front of the full-length mirror in the empty main room of Bloodroot. “Imo’s sequined halter top or my linen sundress?” she asks, holding the two items in front of her.
“Sequined halter top,” says Imogen. “Definitely.”
I nod my agreement and sip on a too-strong rum and Coke, which Imogen mixed and poured into water bottles. It’s day three of maintenance week and my muscles are sore from hours of threading buoys and cleaning the motors on the boats. Ava got stuck on kayak duty, while Imogen had to scrub the lifeguarding shack. But no one dares speak of exhaustion because day three also means it’s our first night out.
Meg peeks her head out from the counselor room. “You lot never change, do you?” She laughs and shakes her head. “When you were fourteen, you’d do this wholefashion showthing for hours before the DJ socials.”
I let out a laugh. As a camper, I adored Meg, not just because of the secret sweets, but because one night when Ava and I got into one of our big blow-out fights, Meg traded beds with me so I could sleep in the counselor room and cry into a pillow in private. She never asked me about it. Let me be.
“That’s half the fun of coming here,” Ava says. “Your wardrobe triples.”
I look down at my threadbare tank top, which I plucked from Imogen’s dresser an hour ago. “You have to wear it for our first night out,” she said. “I got it at a sample sale in SoHo.” That distinction meant nothing to me, but when I saw how excited she was to see me wear it, I knew I couldn’t take it off.
“Sequined halter it is,” Ava says, wriggling into the shirt. It fits snug around her chest and shows just a sliver of torso above her high-waisted denim skirt.
The loudspeaker crackles overhead and the first notes of Prince’s “Little Red Corvette” begin to blare through the air.
“Ah,” Imogen says. “Our signal.”
