When he pulls back from the kiss, he reaches for my chest, loofah still in hand. I look down and instantly hate the way the suds run down my torso, cutting through the ridges of my ribs, sliding into the dip of my stomach. The weight of his eyes on me is too much—too intimate. I clasp my hand firmly around his wrist.
He blinks at me, confused.
“I can do it,” I say quickly, tugging the loofah from his grip. “You should go. Don’t you need to get back to your sister?”
He frowns. “It’s not even her bedtime yet. I can stay a little longer.”
“No, it’s fine. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
Hestudies me for a moment, concern etched across his face, but finally nods. “Alright. Have a good night, Hunter.”
He leans in for one more kiss, and I let him. The warmth of his mouth quiets the storm in my head, just for a moment, drowning out the voice that won’t stop telling me I’m not good enough.
“You too,” I say when he pulls away.
Then he steps out, leaving a trail of wet footprints across the shower mat.
I stand under the spray, alone, until the water runs cold.
***
I glance at the rainy forecast on my phone’s weather app and frown.
Icouldtug on my raincoat and brave the downpour with an umbrella in hand, but the idea of standing in wet sand all day makes my skin crawl. Having to deal with damp notebook paper and water seeping into my boots is a major turn off.
Instead, I retreat to the couch and wrap my body in a blanket burrito. I immerse myself in my guilty pleasure: trashy reality television. By midafternoon, I’m deep into my third episode of a tropical island dating show.
My phone buzzes beside me, screen lighting up.
For a second, my heart skitters. Maybe it’s Mason. We haven’t talked since last night’s shower—aside from the brief text he sent to say he got home safe. It’s been radio silence since then.
But the name on the screen isn’t Mason. It’s Landon.
I sigh and let my head flop back against the couch before swiping to answer.
“Hey, Land. What’s up?”
“Hey, bro! Haven’t heard from you in a while. Just wanted to make sure you’re still alive out in—what’s it called again? Clemson Shores?”
“Claremont Shores,” I correct with a tired exhale. “And yeah, I’m fine. Just busy.”
“Busy,” Landon mocks. “I guess those plants aren’t gonna count themselves, huh?”
My grip tightens on my phone. Landon often dismisses my work as if it’s a quirky side hobby I’ll eventually outgrow. If you’re not wearing a tailored suit or a white doctor’s coat, he doesn’t think your job matters.
“How’s your internship going?” I ask, desperate to shift the conversation away from myself.
With Landon, that’s always easy. Helovestalking about himself.
He happily rambles about his law firm internship. He launches into a monologue about paperwork and reviewing case files. I zone out as I stare through the window, watching the rain drizzle in the street, collecting in potholes.
“Anyway,” he says, snapping me back to attention, “I wanted to ask if you were planning on coming home for our birthday next month. Mom and Dad want to throw us a party.”
My stomach sinks. Our birthday is July thirteenth, and growing up, my parents always made a big deal about it. I suppose it was because we’re twins, and they wanted to make us feel special. Like they could bottle up the excitement of two birthdays and combine it into one spectacular extravaganza.
This year, though, I planned on ignoring my birthday entirely. I knew I’d be busy with the fieldwork and preparing for my research presentation.
“I dunno. Maybe,” I say noncommittally.
