Embers spark and spiral up from the fire, twisting into the dark like tiny shooting stars. The wind rolling off the lake has teeth tonight, sharp enough to slice through my hoodie and leave goose bumps prickling along my arms. I drag my chair a few inches closer to the flames, letting the heat soak through denim and cotton until my shivering eases.
Laughter carries over the crash of the waves. Someone’s got a country playlist going from a Bluetooth speaker nestled in the sand. The crackle of the fire cuts through the air, filling the pauses between overlapping conversations.
Luke is sprawled two chairs down from me, mid-story, gesturing wildly with a half-empty beer. A couple of guys I don’t recognize—friends of Ethan’s, I think—laugh a little too hard at hispunchline. I nod along when it seems appropriate, but I don’t know half their names. I’m not even sure they know mine.
Across the fire, separated from me by flames and a wide stretch of churned-up sand, Troy leans back in his folding chair. The firelight carves shadows into his face, highlighting his cheekbones and glinting off his piercings. His forearms are bare despite the cold, crossed loosely over his stomach.
I take another sip from the Black Cat beer in my hand. He handed it to me earlier without a word, just a brief brush of fingers as I reached for it from the cooler. That was the closest we’ve gotten all night.
The flavor settles on my tongue—citrus and a hint of oak with a crisp bite at the end. It tastes like long afternoons at the brewery. Like smoke and stainless steel and Troy’s shoulder bumping mine as he reaches for a valve. It tastes like him.
I let it linger before I swallow.
Ethan shifts forward, elbows braced on his knees as he flicks a stick into the fire. “Hey, Luke—you invite Mason tonight?”
Luke drags his gaze from the flames. “Yeah. He’s in Shelby Harbor this weekend, though.”
“Shelby Harbor?” Ethan arches a brow. “What’s he doing out there?”
Luke shrugs. “Think he’s visiting a friend.”
Ethan snorts. “The guy he was fooling around with?”
The words land like a splash of cold water. My spine goes rigid. My fingers tighten around the neck of the amber bottle until the glass presses hard into my palm. The fire pops, loud in the sudden stillness.
Luke lifts one shoulder. “Maybe. I dunno. I didn’t ask.”
Ethan makes a face, half grimace, half smirk. “You think this is just a phase, right? Like an experiment or something? He’s not actually gay, right?”
The conversation around the bonfire thins to nothing. Even the guys I don’t know stop mid-murmur. The only sound is the wind dragging across the lake and the steady crackle of burning wood.
Across the fire, Troy goes perfectly still.
Luke’s gaze flicks to him for a split second. His features soften, like he’s aware of the line Ethan just crossed. Almost apologetic, even though he’s not the one who said it.
Then he looks back at Ethan.
“It doesn’t really matter,” Luke says evenly. “He’s still Mason.”
Ethan huffs. “Yeah, but—”
“Who he hooks up with isn’t any of our business,” Luke cuts in. He tilts his head, something sharper sliding into his tone. “Unless you’re interested? I can give you his number.”
Laughter breaks out around the circle, loud and sudden, snapping the tension like a dry twig. Someone whistles. Another guy nudges Ethan with his elbow.
Ethan’s face flushes pink in the firelight. He shakes his head quickly. “Shut up. That’s gross.”
I meet Troy’s eyes through the flickering flames and hold his gaze. We don’t need words. A soft, subtle smile settles on his face.
The wind surges off the lake, bending the fire sideways as the conversation drifts to something else—football, maybe. Or hockey. Baseball. I’m not really listening. The guys’ voices blur together, loud and enthusiastic, arguing stats.
I hunch deeper into my hoodie, the cold nipping at my cheeks and slipping down my collar, but there’s a steady warmth in my chest that has nothing to do with the fire.
Chapter Thirty
Troy
Theleaveshavestartedto turn, their green fading to shades of rust and gold. They curl at the edges and scatter across the orchard floor in dry, whispering drifts. A few stubborn cherries still cling to the branches, shriveled and splitting, long past their prime.
