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Clint wipes water from his eyes. “Come on.”

“I need to change.”

He shakes his head, grinning. “No, you don’t.”

“I need my trunks.”

“You’re wearing underwear, right?”

My laugh comes out higher than I expect. “Of course.”

“Then that’s all you need.”

He flicks water toward me. It falls several feet short, which seems to please him anyway.

I look back through the glass doors. The cake sits on the counter, stolen and waiting. Safe. Predictable. Sweet in exactly the way cake is always sweet.

Clint floats in the pool under blue light, smiling at me like the whole night hasn’t already tipped off axis.

I should say no. Instead, I stand.

Clint’s grin widens.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t look so proud of yourself.”

“Too late.”

This is a terrible idea. Which, tonight, seems to be the only kind worth having.

Clint is still watching me with the same expectant look as the dolphins earlier.

I hesitate at the patio’s edge.

This may mean nothing to him.

To me, it does not feel like nothing. It feels like the exact moment the careful version of me should kick in. Make a joke. Think of an excuse. Close the laptop before the chat turns too personal.

But I don’t want birthday cake. I don’t want so-so pizza. I don’t want to sit in a chair and watch Clint swim alone.

I start unbuttoning my shirt, and Clint hoots and slaps both hands against the water.

“That’s the way!”

“Don’t make me regret this.”

“I promise you won’t. The water feels great!”

I lift my shirt over my head, and Clint suddenly finds the sky fascinating. He swims to the far end of the pool, back turned, giving me privacy with theatrical casualness.

I fold the shirt over the chair, then I undo my shorts. The keys and wallet in my pockets make them heavy in my hands.

I glance toward the phone on the table. The video is frozen on my own face from years ago. Younger. Smiling beside Renny. Not a real smile, maybe. Not false either.

I look away and let the shorts drop. The air touches my bare legs. My boxers are dark blue and perfectly respectable as makeshift trunks. That doesn’t stop me from feeling like a sixteen-year-old in the locker room.

“All good?” Clint calls, not turning. “Nothing hangin’ out that shouldn’t be?”