But I don’t. I set the phone facedown on the floor.
The air mattress wheezes under me as I shift, the plastic smell competing with the scent of pine needles drifting through the screen window.
A fling.The girls make it sound so easy. Like Nate is just a snack to tide me over until I get back to my real life.
I close my eyes and try to think about exposed brick and marble islands. Instead, I keep thinking about the way Nate looked at me tonight on the deck—seeing right through me, but not reaching forthe spackle to patch up my cracks. He almost seems topreferthe version of me that’s a little bit of a disaster.
It’s a terrifying thought, but also weirdly… comforting. I close my eyes and let the thought of Nate’s lopsided smile and the sound of crickets pull me under.
WHENIWAKE UPthe next morning, I take one quick glance at the apartment listing Sybil texted to me—the placeisgorgeous—then shut off my phone, pull on my running clothes, and jog downstairs, straight out the back doors into the fresh air. I can’t believe I’ve been home five days now already and am totally off my routine. I’m starting to feel sluggish—and agitated. The tension between me and Cara just keeps ratcheting up, with no end in sight. The wedding seems to have an internal engine of its own, sucking the oxygen out of every interaction, and my chances of escaping this reality are dwindling to none.
As I make my way around the farthest part of our property—toward the rope swing—I’m careful to avoid the wild strawberry patches that cluster along this part of the shore. Once I pass them, I pick up my pace, feeling my heart rate slam in my chest. Determined to put all these obsessive thoughts about family, weddings, and the house out of my mind.
It’s another gorgeous morning—birds flitting in and out of the branches of the willow trees that line the shores of the lake, the water sparkling in the sunlight. What I could really use is a swim, though I doubt there’ll be enough time before we have to go dress shopping.
Annnnnd there we have it once again, folks: All roads lead back to this stupid wedding.
When I get back to the house an hour later, drenched in sweatwith hair plastered to my face, Nate is sitting at the kitchen table, polishing off a stack of pancakes.
Of course.
Because for some reason he has a sixth sense for catching me when I’m at my dankest.
“You look hot,” he says, as if reading my mind.
“Well, it’s going to be a scorcher,” I say, fanning my face, which is definitely flushed, like it always is after a run.
“Not what I meant.”
If my face wasn’t bright red before, it is now. A furious blush rushes to my cheeks as I cross to the fridge to grab a bottle of water. “I, I—” I stutter, feeling the heat in my face increase even more.Oh lord.Just then, Cooper and Cara walk into the room, and I physically leap away from Nate. “Coop, is the yellow bathroom free? I have to shower,” I blurt out.
Then I take the back stairs two at a time.
I’M FEELING MUCH MOREmyself after I’ve showered off and refreshed with a cute floral sundress—which is conveniently also effortlessly sexy in the way it shows off my toned legs. Not that I’m hoping Nate will notice…
Since he needs to hit the hardware store for more nails anyway, Nate has offered to chauffeur us into town. “Given how much champagne you ladies are likely going to down at that dress shop, I’d say piling into the pickup is our safest bet,” he says. His eyes linger on mine a second longer than they need to.
“Safety first,” I say, and watch Nate’s face break into a grin.
It’s probably pathetic, how excited I am for these little momentsof being together with Nate, knowing that our “friendship” is sizzling with all this unspoken tension, and keeping it a secret from everyone else.
But that fluttery feeling quickly vanishes when I realize how small the back of the truck is. Mom will obviously get the front seat with Nate, which means Linney, Cara, and I will all have to squish into the back. And there’s no way I’m sitting smushed up next to Cara.
“Here, you first,” Cara says when Nate opens up the door behind his seat.
I stare in at the bench. “Oh no, you first,” I say.
Cara shrugs and slides in, and I gesture for Linney to climb in next.
“Seriously?” she says.
“What?”
Linney rolls her eyes. “Are you twelve?” she hisses. “Just sit in the middle.”
“Girls?” Mom calls from the front seat. “What’s the holdup?”
“Linney,” I beg.
