“What?! You’re so wound up. It’s not healthy.”
“I amnot,“ I insist through clenched teeth, unconvincingly.
She smacks my arm excitedly. “We should hit that gay bar in Salwal again.”
“Oh, you mean the one where I met a literal serial killer?” I recall, laughing humorlessly.
Aliyah groans. “You’re so dramatic. He wasn’t a serial killer. He was cute!”
“His house was full of taxidermy. He gave me a blowjob while mounted deer heads stared at me with beady eyes,” I remind her, cringing at the memory.
She shrugs. “Hey, when you’re living out in the sticks, you take what you can get.”
“I don’t need help getting laid,” I grumble. “I’m fine.”
Aliyah raises her hands in surrender. “Fine. Suit yourself, Mr. Blue Balls,” she teases, licking the salt off the rim of her margarita glass. “But if you ever change your mind, I’d be happy to be your wingwoman.”
Heat flushes my cheeks. “Shut up. You’re such an asshole.”
“But you love me,” she sing-songs, throwing an arm around my shoulder and kissing my cheek.
I wipe off her lip gloss with a grimace. “Unfortunately.”
***
Memorial Day is still a week away, which means tourists haven’t yet descended like locusts. The beach is quiet, almost deserted. A few swimmers wade in the shallows, the occasional jogger cutting across the shore. I don’t mind the calm. It gives me space to think—or more accurately, space to overthink.
As I glance toward the dunes, there’s no sign of Hunter. He’s probably wandered off to the roped-off stretch of lakeshore in the state park, tucked away with his research.
Not that I care where he is. Or was hoping to run into him.
Definitely not.
After my shift ends, I spot his car parked along the chain-link fence at the far end of the lot. I know it’s his—the bumper is plastered with the same pride and activist stickers as his notebook. It’s an expensive looking electric vehicle with a sleek, gray body frame.
Of course Hunter drives a luxury EV. He’s so pretentious.
I linger beside it, eyes drifting over the bumper stickers.
Protect the Great Lakes
Trans Rights are Human Rights
Plant Trees, Not Hate
I’m So Gay, I Can’t Even Drive Straight
That last one makes me chuckle under my breath. But the humor sticks in my throat, snagged on something tighter in my chest—admiration, envy, and worry all tangled together. Hunter’s unapologetic self-expression is bold, almost reckless in a town like Claremont Shores, where messages like this don’t always get kind responses.
“Are you just going to stand there, or are you planning to key my car?” asks a timid voice behind me.
I turn to see Hunter standing there, pigeon-toed, in the otherwise empty parking lot. He’s wearing a pair of denim shorts with frayed edges falling just above his knobby knees. An oversized Rolling Stones T-shirt hangs loosely on his thin body, the collar slipping halfway down his shoulder.
“No,” I reply after a moment of awkward silence.
“Cool, thanks,” he replies, exhaling like he’d been bracing for a punch.
I can’t tell if he’s joking. Did he really think I was going to vandalize his car? Then again, I’m gripping my keys in my hand and standing a little too close to his car. I’d be suspicious, too.
