Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Every summer would feel like a dream.

The kind you fall into with your eyes open, warm, weightless. I’d count down the days during the school year, picture the sand between my toes, the cheap sunscreen smell, the rusted blue swing that creaked whenever we sat on it. Our Cape Cod house wasn’t too big or fancy, but it always felt like the center of something important. Like the rest of the year didn’t matter as long as we had these few months.

As I stand in the driveway, the house is exactly how we leave it every year. Same gray shingles, same slanted porch roof, same crooked weathervane spinning on top like it’s lost its direction. It’s all still here, but the air feels heavier. The silence stretches longer, the one that makes breathing feel unnatural.

I kill the engine and sit for a second, gripping the steering wheel like it might tell me what the hell I’m doing. I can already smell the ocean, that sharp, briny sting that always used to mean freedom. Now, it just reminds me that he’s here too. Somewhere inside the house, probably unpacking in the room we would share. Or maybe he’s already avoiding me.

Dad grabs our suitcases from the trunk and gives me a pat on the shoulder. “Well, this is it.”

I shuffle my feet on the rough gravel underneath, the sharp scrape of my shoe soles breaking the stillness. Since last summer, Dad hadn’t spoken to Mom, not really. He insisted they were on good terms, but the awkwardness in his voice while they called told a different story. He wouldn’t admit it, but he always talked to her specifically when I was around. I never believed it, but I also didn’t tell Dad any different when he gave me a thump up and a toothy grin.

Neither of us had expected an invitation this year, especially not from Mom. I had already called the manager of our local grocery store to apply for a job when Dad told me to pack my bags. Part of me was relieved, and another part felt like it was a joke. It had barely been a year, and after what happened, it seemed Mom and Dad wanted nothing to do with each other. They were supposedly moved on. But here we are, at the Cape Cod house.

Through the window’s reflection, I saw Mom, her curly hair lightly brushing over her glasses as she paused by the doorway. She lifted her head slowly, eyes locking with mine, and a warm olden smile spread across her face. Without a second more, she pushed the door open with a soft creak, stepping out onto the porch. Her footsteps quickened, the soft thud of her sandals hitting the wooden boards turning into a steady rhythm as she broke into a run across the yard. The breeze caught strands of her chestnut locks as she closed the distance between us, wrapping her arms around me.

“I missed you so, so much Matt,” she says into my shoulder, her voice cracking just enough to notice. Her hair smells like sunscreen and saltwater, like every summer before this one.

I nod, the lump in my throat too solid to speak around. Mom’s hands linger on my arms when she finally pulls back, eyes scanning my face like she’s trying to memorize it.

“You’ve gotten so big,” she says with a soft laugh, brushing my hair out of my eyes. “And your dad let you grow it out, huh?”

I shrug. “Didn’t stop me.”

She smiles again, smaller this time, but steadier. Then her gaze shifts, over my shoulder. Her expression falters just slightly, softens. I know who she’s looking at before I turn.

“Hey Mary.” Dad says beside me, his voice cracking the silence like a pebble dropped in still water.

Mom returns the gesture. “Jim.”

But I’m not listening anymore, because I feel it, before anything. That shift in the air, like the winds about the change directions. My heart kicks, stupid and sharp. And I swear the porch creaks louder than it should in front of me, I don’t look up right away. I stand there, jaw tight, like facing him too fast might break something. But I see the flicker in Dad’s eyes first, how they lift past my shoulder and soften, almost involuntarily. His arms uncross, his breath stutters.

I finally look.

Chris steps out onto the porch like the scene’s been rehearsed and he’s late for it. He’s backlit by the hallway behind him, bronze light pooling at his feet, his silhouette sharper than I remember, taller, broader, older in all the ways that matter.

His hair’s grown out, loose waves curling at the ends, sun-bleached in some spots. It brushes against his cheekbones now, like he’s stopped trying to control it. As if he doesn’t care if it gets in his eyes anymore. And yet, his eyes, they don’t lift right away. He stares at the porch boards for a beat, like he’s unsure whether they’ll hold his weight.

He moves slowly, the screen door slams behind him, and the sound jolts something in me. He walks down the stairs with hesitance that doesn’t look nervous, just detached. His bag drops with a dull thud against the porch, and Dad is already there, arms open like muscle memory.

“There he is,” Dad says, voice lighter than it was a second ago.

Chris pauses, just long enough for everyone to feel it. Then he moves into the hug.

Dad claps his back too hard, holding him like he’s afraid he might disappear if he lets go. “Missed you, buddy,” he says into Chris’s shoulder.

Chris doesn’t answer at first. His arms come up slowly, mechanical. Careful. When they break apart, Dad looks him over with the same awe Mom had for me a few minutes ago.

“You’ve been working out, huh?” he asks. “Varsity?”

Chris shrugs, barely. “Captain,” he mutters.

“No kidding? Damn. That’s—wow.” Dad beams.

But Chris’s eyes are elsewhere. Shifting, wandering. And then, they land on me.

It doesn’t feel like eye contact, more like an impact, a collision happening in complete silence. He looks different, sure, but it’s his eyes that do it, the same piercing blue as mine. Something behind them. Older, maybe, or just…tired. We stand there, just a few feet apart, and the space between us is wider than it should be.

His jaw twitches, like he might say something, but he doesn’t.

I glance down, then back up, and he’s still looking at me. Not glaring, not smiling. A beat. Two.

My mouth feels dry, like I’ve suddenly forgotten how to speak. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he says, low and rough. It’s barely a breath.

He bends down to pick up his bag, eyes cutting away from mine like that tiny exchange was enough. Like it cost something.

Mom clears her throat, soft but deliberate. “Shall we go in?”

Dad’s already heading for the steps, trying to break the tension with movement. Chris turns without a word, following behind him.

But I stay frozen for a second longer, watching his back as he climbs the porch stairs, one hand gripping the railing we used to race to as kids. He doesn’t look back.

I finally move, one step at a time, the old screen door creaking open ahead of me. The house smells exactly the same, like lemon cleaner and driftwood and a warm that’s lived in the orange peel walls for years. I walk in slowly, taking it all in, even though nothing’s changed.

Mom’s already in the kitchen, pulling takeout containers from a brown paper bag and lining them up on the counter. I hear the rustle of plastic lids being pried open, and then the smell hits, creamy, garlicky, heavy in the best way. I blink, surprised for a second, she remembered.

Chris is the first one to walk over and start helping her. He opens the utensil drawer without asking, grabbing forks and paper napkins as if it’s second nature. Like this isn’t the first time we’ve all stood in the same kitchen in a year.

“Thanks baby,” Mom says with a soft smile, handing him a stack of plates.

He starts setting them on the table, careful and methodical, the way he’s always done. I stand by the doorway, not sure if I should sit down or disappear upstairs.

Then Mom turns her head. “Matt, come here. You can help me with the sauce containers.”

I hesitate, but only for a second. Chris steps back a little to make space as I come into the kitchen, and we avoid each other without trying to. I pick up a warm plastic container, still fogged with steam on the inside, and hand it over.

“Thank you,” Mom responds, gently bumping her shoulder into mine.

I nod and grab another. Chris finishes setting the last plate and walks to the fridge. He pulls out a bottle of Pepsi, unscrews the cap, and pours it into four plastic cups. He sets them on the table without a word.

“Fettuccine,” Mom says, glancing over at me. “Still your favorite?”

“Yeah,” I say. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did.”

She smiles again, this time for real, and it stays. She pulls out a chair and sits down, tapping the one next to her.

“Come eat.”

I sit. Chris does too, across from me. Dad walks over and sits next to the one Chris is on, ruffling his already messy hair as he does.

“I heard you got your drivers license.” Mom beams excitedly.

I shake my head. “Dad said he would buy me a car if I got a good score on my SAT.”

“A used car.” Dad replies, taking a bite of the creamy pasta.

“Still more than I ever got for my SATs,” Mom jokes, nudging her fork through her food. “What score did you get?”

“1480,” I say, trying to sound casual, but Dad’s already grinning.

“Crushed it,” he adds through a mouthful.

Mom’s eyes widen. “That’s amazing, Matt. Seriously, I couldn’t be prouder of you.”

I feel myself start to smile, small, but real. I twist my fork through the thick pile of Fettucine Alfredo on my plate.

“Chris is gonna take his in the fall, right?” Mom looks at him for confirmation, but Chris doesn’t say anything. He’s barely touched his food.

“You don’t like alfredo anymore?” Dad asks him.

He shakes his head without looking up. “No, just not that hungry.”

Mom watches him for a second, her brows knitting together like she might say more, but then she turns back to her plate and stabs a piece of fettucine.

“Oh, don’t worry about him, Jim. He’s just a little sad he won’t be seeing his girlfriend!” she says suddenly, her voice light and sing-songy.

I freeze with my fork halfway to my mouth, I glance up. Chris doesn’t say anything, his eyes on his plate.

“She’s adorable,” Mom continues. “They met through sports. What’s her name again? Maddy?”

“Mandy,” Chris mutters, barely audible.

I cough hard, once, twice, then all at once, my chest lurching as I slap a hand against it. I reach for the Pepsi blindly, knocking the condensation slicked cup sideways before finally catching it and taking a messy gulp. My eyes water, I keep hacking.

“You okay?” Mom says, half-rising from her seat.

I nod violently, wiping at my eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I manage, voice shredded.

Mom lets out a small laugh, clearly relieved I didn’t drop dead. “Anyway, she’s sweet, Mandy. Came over once, she helped me bring in groceries.”

“She’s cool,” Chris says, still quiet, still not making eye contact.

Something inside me sinks, a little too deep to grab. I stab at a piece of chicken that suddenly looks unappetizing. I can feel Chris’s presence across from me like static, but he never glances up. I almost want him to. I almost don’t.

The clink of forks on plates returns. Mom pours another round of Pepsi. Dad says something about gas prices. But I don't hear any of it, all I hear is Mandy. All I see is Chris, head down, hands still, eyes fixed anywhere but here. The plates are mostly empty now; some leftover pasta stuck to the edges. Dad leans back in his chair with a satisfied sigh and rubs his stomach humoredly. Chris pushes his full plate forward gently, fork resting on top, and stands up without a word.

“I’m gonna take a call,” he mutters, half to the room, half to no one.

He slides his phone from his pocket and heads out onto the porch, screen door creaking, then slamming softly behind him. Mom doesn’t ask who it is. She just gathers forks into her hand and stands.

I take another drink of Pepsi, throat still a little sore from earlier. My chest feels weird, tight but empty. I hear Chris’s footsteps on the porch wood, pacing slowly. Then his voice, it’s low, careful.

“Yeah, I’m here now… No, it’s fine… it’s weird, but… no, I haven’t said anything.”

My fingers curl around the cold plastic cup in my hand. I shouldn’t be listening, I know that. But I do anyway.

“I’ll text you later, okay? Promise.”

There’s a pause, then the porch creaks again. Mom walks back in with two plates stacked on top of each other and stops when she sees me still sitting at the table, eyes sort of glazed over.

“Hey,” she says softly, nudging her hip against the side of my chair. “I was gonna bring this up later, but… now’s as good a time as any.”

I blink, sit up straighter. “Yeah?”

“You remember the Country Club down south?”

I nod. That giant white building surrounded by pillars across from the boardwalk, with the fading mural of kids diving into a pool.

“They’re looking for helpers this year, junior staff, basically. They hire a bunch of high schoolers to run rec games, serve at the snack shack, help out at the pool, stuff like that.”

She glances toward the porch in Chris’s direction. “I thought it might be fun for you. You’d make a little money, meet people. Everyone your age hangs out there. They have movie nights, bonfires, a little anniversary soirée too. You’d like it.”

I hesitate, heart ticking too fast now. “You want me to work there?”

She sets the plates in the sink, then leans against the counter.

“You’re getting older, making sandcastles at the beach all summer can’t be as fun anymore. It could be good for you… and Chris.”

There it is.

“You know he already works there, right?” she says gently. “He applied last week as a Lifeguard.”

I glance toward the porch, where I can still see the silhouette of him through the screen, phone pressed to his ear. Of course he did.

“I just think it’d be good for you guys to be in the same place, around other kids. You two used to be so close.”

I know what she means, I know she’s only trying to help. But the thought of spending every day surrounded by self-absorbed dense teenagers makes me want to lie down on the kitchen floor and melt into the tiles.

Still, my voice answers before my brain does. “Yeah. Sure. Sounds good.”

She smiles a little, that same relieved smile she used to wear when I agreed to sleepovers I didn’t want to go to. “You’ll love it. I’ll call the director tomorrow.”

She walks over and pinches my cheeks like she did when I was five. I flinch, but not enough for her to notice.

The house is quieter than I remember. Not just quiet in the way Cape Cod nights always are, cicadas chirping somewhere in the trees, waves dragging themselves along the shore in the distance, but the kind of quiet that pushes against your ears. Makes everything else sound too loud.

I head up slowly, hand grazing the wooden railing that still has the tiny chip from the summer I tripped trying to race Chris to the top. My legs move on autopilot, like my body already knows where to go, muscle memory leading me down the hall. The door’s still the same, paint peeling a little more now, the “STURNIOLO BROTHERS” sticker we slapped on it when we were ten half-ripped and curling at the corners.

When I open it, everything inside is too familiar. Two twin beds pushed together. The same faded posters of the Black Eyed Peas tacked up unevenly. A dusty lava lamp on the dresser that hasn’t worked since eighth grade. There’s even Georgie, brown, soft, one eye slightly looser than the other, sitting in the center of my bed like he never moved.

My chest tightens. I drop my bag by the closet door and sit on the mattress. Springs groan under me. The room smells like old laundry detergent and cedar polish. I reach out and grab the monkey, turning it over in my hands. We used to fight over whose side of the bed he belonged on, so we left him in the middle like a truce.

I blink a few times, jaw clenching. The mattress beside mine is untouched. No sheets wrinkled. No backpack slouched against it. For a moment I wonder if Chris will walk in, bright eyed and smiley. If he’ll giggle, “You took the better bed again,” like always, but he doesn’t.

There’s a knock at the door, soft but distinct. “You there?” Dad’s voice says.

“Come in.”

He steps in with a little effort, like he forgot the doorframe was lower here. He glances around the room with a wistful smile. “Looks just like it did last year, huh?”

I nod.

He leans on the dresser, arms crossed. “You settling in okay?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause, not heavy, but not light either. He picks up a souvenir keychain from the windowsill, one of those cheesy flip-flop ones Chris and I got at a gift shop the summer we turned eleven. He flips it between his fingers.

“Good dinner,” he offers.

“Mm.”

“Your mom’s idea about the club’s kinda cool.”

I don’t say anything. He places the keychain back down.

Then I hear my own voice ask, quiet, “Is Chris sleeping in here?”

Dad looks up, almost like he didn’t expect it. Then he shakes his head. “No, think he’s in the guest room.”

Something cold settles in my chest, I nod again. Dad watches me for a second longer, then pushes off the dresser and walks to the door. “He’ll come around,” he says gently. “You both will.”

I don’t answer. He gives me one last look, then pulls the door almost closed behind him. It clicks softly. I lie back on the mattress, arms flopped at my sides, Georgie still tucked under one hand. I stare at the ceiling, the one with the glow-in-the-dark stars we stuck up there years ago. Most of them have peeled off. A few still hang on, flickering dimly in the dark. Outside, the ocean keeps moving. Chris is somewhere in this house, a hallway away. I don’t know if he’s thinking about me. I don’t even know if he’s thinking at all. But I am, and I hate that I still do.

The monkey’s fur is soft against my palm, familiar in a way nothing else is anymore. My eyes slowly droop, and I grab the edge of the covers to get more comfortable. I fall asleep like that; his name stuck somewhere between my teeth.

Chapter Text

"Matty, get up!"

His voice cuts through the heat, loud, a little whiny. I feel fingers wrap around my wrist, tugging me out of the sand. My whole body’s sunk into it like an anchor, limbs heavy and warm and stubborn. I groan.

“I’m not moving,” I mutter, eyes still closed.

“You’re gonna miss it,” Chris says, crouched now, grinning like the little shit he is. “The water’s perfect.”

“I’m gonna kill you if this is about that stupid crab again.”

He laughs. That same laugh he always does, breathy and bright, like it can only exist in salt air. “No crab, pinky promise. Just get in.”

I crack one eye open. He’s already backing up toward the shoreline, wet footprints dotting the sand. The ocean behind him gleams like glass, all shimmer and foam. Chris moves like he belongs in it, always has.

I push myself up, slow. The sun’s starting to dip, but the light’s still golden, basking around. I run after him, light heartedly at first, then faster. He splashes ahead of me, ankle deep, then waist deep, then gone beneath the surface for a moment too long. My chest tenses before I see him shoot back up, dark hair slicked to his forehead, blinking water from his lashes.

“Took you long enough,” he says, smiling wide.

“I hate you,” I say, breathless, chuckling.

He floats back on his heels, arms spread out, bobbing in the waves. “Nah,” he says. “You love it here. Admit it.”

I glance toward the horizon. The water stretches out forever, the sky burned peach and pink. My fingers trail through the surface beside me. Everything smells like sunscreen and seaweed and him.

“Maybe,” I say.

Chris doesn’t respond. He just looks at me, really looks. And we hang there, suspended between sky and salt, soft and silent.

“You gonna keep standing there or join me in the water?”

The glass doors slide open with a whoosh and a puff of air conditioning that hits too cold against my skin. I bundle up my nerves and step inside the Cape Cod Country Club. The lobby smells like polish and chlorine, and there's a weird taxidermy fish above the sign-in desk that I glance at once before shooting my gaze away.

The girl behind the desk doesn’t look up. She’s chewing on the end of a pink pen and flipping through a binder. Her name tag reads Nicole with a heart over the “i,” and she’s wearing the club polo with the buttons low enough that it was sure to be against their policy.

“Hi,” I say, with more enthusiasm than I was expecting.

She glances up, her lashes clumped with mascara fluttering. “You a member?”

I shake my head. “No, uh, I heard that you were hiring? For the snack shop. Like… waiter, runner, whatever.”

Nicole blinks at me. Then, clicks her tongue in realization “Oh, Summer hires.”

She flips another page in the binder and spins it toward me. There’s a sign-up sheet with two columns: Name and Preferred Department. A few names are already scrawled in various degrees of messy cursive. I recognize exactly none of them.

“Just write your info. And put ‘snack’ or ‘pool’ or whatever you want,” she says, tapping the empty space with her pen. “Snack shack’s pretty chill. I used to work there when I was a rookie.”

I nod like I agree with her. My hand hovers above the paper for a second too long before I scribble my name in.

Nicole leans over to peek, smacking her lips obnoxiously. “Tell them I admitted you. My cousin runs the food stand, he’s, like, super anal about condiment ratios so… good luck.” She laughs, and I almost force one back but decide to just nod again. She picks her phone up and scrolls. And I take that as my cue to leave.

The club smells sharper the farther I walk, chemicals and something fried drifting faintly in the air. I follow the echo of splashing and the tinny sound of a lifeguard whistle until I round the corner and see the pool.

It’s loud. Kids cannonballing off the edge, parents holding martinis talking behind sunglasses, music playing from some portable speaker. The water flashes in quick, broken shapes, sunlight bouncing off its surface like shards. My skin already feels warm, even in the shade. To the right, tucked beneath the overhang of a pale-yellow awning, is the snack shop. It’s built into the side of the club, half-open to the pool with a sliding counter window. A faded sign hangs above it, Snack Shack in big blue block letters, slightly chipped around the edges. A few children linger around the counter with crumpled dollar bills, waiting for their turn.

I hesitate by the hedge for a second, hands in the pockets of my shorts, until someone inside nods a head towards me.

“You Matt?”

The guy who asks has a towel slung around his neck and a blue apron tied messily around his waist. He looks maybe a year or two older than me, hair buzzed short and face slightly sunburned. He wipes his hands on his apron and squints like he’s trying to place me.

“Jesse,” he says before I can answer. “I’m guessing Nicole sent you?”

Right, the condiment guy.

“Yeah,” I reply, stepping closer. “Said you were the one to talk to.”

Jesse nods. “Cool, you new in Cape? Haven’t seen you around.”

I shake my head, a small laugh escaping. “No… I come here every summer, funny enough.”

Jesse doesn’t look impressed, but he doesn’t seem to respond back to that either. “Your job’s not hard,” he says. “Refill chips, pour slushies, microwave shit. Clean the counter. Mostly keep the kids from stabbing each other with straws.” He turns toward the back of the shack, motioning for me to follow. “You can shadow today if you want. Just stick close, and don’t give anyone more than two ketchup packets unless they beg.”

I give a grunt of agreement, stepping behind the counter. The ground here is slick; concrete darkened with puddles. A small fan whirs noisily in the corner, and the fridge hums behind it. There’s already a line forming, and Jesse grabs a notepad from the ledge, flipping it open as second nature.

I stand beside him, silent, letting the noise rush around me, kids laughing, ice clinking in plastic cups, the splash of someone hitting the water hard. Somewhere in the distance, I hear a whistle again. Big and sharp. It cuts through the air and a few kids freeze mid-splash.

My eyes lift before I can stop them, scanning over the glare of the pool until they land on him, perched high on the white-painted lifeguard chair. He’s wearing the standard red trunks and a white tank that clings slightly from the humidity. His whistle hangs from a lanyard, fingers twirling the end of it. His legs are spread, one arm resting across the back of the chair like he owns the view. He scans the pool with a practiced gaze, but there’s a calm on his face. Mom had mentioned Chris had applied a week ago, but he was acting as if he had the job for years.

He leans down to say something to the girls sitting closest to the base of his chair, probably high schoolers, all wide eyes and flirtatious laughs. Whatever he says, it makes them giggle. One of them throws her head back dramatically, brushing her wet hair over her shoulder. Chris smiles, his eyes crinkling and his pink lips pressed tight against each other. The sound of their laughter carries over the water and lands square in my chest, I look away.

My knuckles brush the edge of the snack shack’s counter, and I grip it tighter than I mean to. Jesse calls out another order beside me, oblivious. I nod at something he says, but I don’t really hear him. I’m sweating under my shirt, and the heat certainly isn’t helping. Someone asks for extra sauce, and I step back like I didn’t hear it. Jesse covers, tossing a squeeze packet across the counter and flashing a grin that makes the customer laugh. I mumble something about needing to check stock and duck behind the shack before anyone noticed.

Out back, there’s a narrow alley between the storage unit and the pool fence, shaded and hot, the air thick with the smell of old grease and sunbaked chlorine. I lean against the siding, the metal warm through the fabric of my clothes, and dig into my pocket. The joint’s already rolled, wrapped tighter than my jaw’s been all morning. I fish out the lighter, flick it once, twice, until the flame catches. I inhale slow, hold it longer. I close my eyes. All I can hear is water hitting water, voices shrieking somewhere behind the fence, the low hum of the snack shack fan still spinning above my head.

When I open my eyes, the sky’s turned that early-afternoon shade of washed-out blue, and there’s a glint of light bouncing off the guard chair in the distance. I can’t see his face from here, but I know it’s him. Still up there, still smiling at someone who isn’t me.

I rub the corner of my eyes tightly, this was pathetic. “Get it together.”

I take another drag, slower this time. In a few minutes, I’ll go back inside. But for now, I let the smoke fill the air and listen a bit more.

By the time I get back to the shack, the sun’s shifted just enough to throw the counter into shadow. My break technically isn’t over, but Jesse’s already inside, wiping his hands on the hem of his polo and singing something off-key under his breath. I walk back in and toss my phone into the cubby beneath the counter, next to the half empty box of chip bags and a roll of unused napkins.

Jesse glances over but doesn’t say anything, just nods and hands me a small receipt. “Two waters and a frozen lemonade, Cabana 4.”

I nod, grab the bottles from the cooler, and set the paper cone under the ice tap. The machine groans like it’s dying, Jesse hums louder. There’s a breeze now, light but steady. It makes the overhead fan wobble slightly above us, the chains clinking in a loose rhythm. A whistle blows again not urgent, just routine. And then Chris steps into view of the Snack Shack, his eyes skim the counter, over the laminated menu, past Jesse, then land on me. Briefly. He doesn’t say anything, instead takes a step back as soon as he notices me. Just stops, blinks once, then turns and walks away.

“Dude,” Jesse began, watching his retreating figure. “That guy looks exactly like you.”

I keep my eyes on the frozen lemonade swirling under the tap, forcing myself not to roll them. “Yeah,” I say. “We’re twins.”

“That’s crazy,” Jesse leans against the wall. “He didn’t even look at you.”

I lift the cone and set it in the tray, grabbing a straw and the two bottles of water.

I don’t answer him, he just watches me for another second, like he’s waiting for a joke or a smile to explain it away. I push through the swinging door with the tray in hand, the sun hitting my face full and bright. Jesse puts a hand on my shoulder, stopping me. “You comin’ to the bonfire tonight?

I pause, shifting the tray slightly in my hands so the frozen lemonade doesn’t tip. “Bonfire?”

“Yeah.” He grins, like it’s obvious. “First one of the summer, basically everyone’s going. Down by the beach, behind the dunes.”

The tray starts to feel heavier in my grip. “I’ll think about it.”

Jesse shrugs, backing off. “You should, gets less awkward once it’s dark.”

I nod, and step away before he can say anything else.

By the time I get home, the sun’s dipped enough to paint the sky that soft orange pink that only ever seems to exist at the Cape. The house is full again, the windows are cracked open, music drifting faintly from the kitchen speaker. Mom’s crouched in front of the TV stand when I walk in, flipping through dusty DVDs we still own from 2012.

“Movie night,” she says over her shoulder, voice warm. “Lemonade Mouth?”

The cover alone flickers something in me; Chris and I used to act out the concert scenes in the living room until we broke a lamp. Which then led to a long lecture from Dad on why we don’t go rowdy housing indoors, but Chris and I couldn’t muffle our giggles the whole time.

I toe off my shoes and make my way inside. Dad’s on the sofa, leisurely flipping through an old magazine. But Chris is still standing near the staircase. One hand on his phone, the other loosely gripping a black hoodie by the sleeve.

“I’m going to the bonfire,” he says, voice even but distant.

Mom pauses, her hand still on the DVD case. “Oh, the one down by the dunes?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause, Dad shrugs from the kitchen. “Be safe, you takin’ the car?”

Mom stands up, brushing off her knees. “He can’t drive, Jim.” She lets out a small smile. “Want me to drop you?”

Chris shakes his head. “Nah, I’ll walk.”

“Okay,” she says, slow but not stopping him. “Don’t stay out too late.”

He’s already heading toward the door. I hear the screen creak, then the soft thump of it swinging shut behind him. Mom turns back toward the TV. “Guess it’s just us then.”

I sink into the couch, arms crossed, the cushion beside me untouched. The menu screen loops softly. “I’m actually gonna head to bed,” I say, shifting up from the cushions. “Feeling a little under the weather.”

Dad sighs. “But you love Lemonade Mouth.”

Mom pauses, ignoring him. “Okay, sweetheart. Want tea or anything?”

I shake my head. “I’m good. Night.”

Upstairs, I close the bedroom door gently behind me. The air inside is cooler now, the window cracked open just enough to let in the ocean breeze. I sit on the edge of my bed, elbows on my knees, hands clasped together like I’m waiting for something to stop me. Nothing does. A few minutes later, I’m slipping on a less stained shirt and digging through my backpack for my charger. I leave the lights off, move quiet through the hallway, careful on the creaky step near the landing. And I walk.

The sand’s colder than I expect when I step off the boardwalk, but the air’s still heavy with heat. I follow the trail of music and laughter, dim string lights curling around driftwood stakes and torches planted deep in the dunes. The fire itself blazes in the center, tall and orange.

Jesse spots me almost immediately. He’s standing near the edge of the circle, a beer in one hand, the other raised as he squints through the dark.

“Snack Shack!” he calls out. “Where you comin’ from?”

I shrug. “Another party.”

Jesse grins like he doesn’t quite believe me, but he’s already pulling a can from the cooler at his feet. He tosses it across the sand, and I catch it on instinct.

“Welcome to summer,” he says, lifting his own drink toward me.

I nod and crack mine open, the hiss of it sharp against the buzz of voices around us. The fire pops, throwing sparks into the dark like fireflies on fast forward. The smell of smoke clings to everything, and then I see them. Chris is half-shadowed by the firelight, sitting low on a beach blanket, one knee bent, elbow propped casually. Nicole’s sitting beside him, her hands wound loosely behind his neck. Their faces are close, too close. She laughs into his mouth. Kisses him. He lets her.

My fingers tighten around the beer can, the metal buckling slightly under the pressure. I look away, but not fast enough. It burns more than the fire. Jesse doesn’t notice, or maybe he does and chooses not to say anything. He just clinks his beer lightly against mine and nods toward the logs surrounding the flame.

“Come sit,” he says. “You might as well enjoy it.”

But my feet stay where they are, half-buried in the sand, eyes stuck on the flickering edges of the fire and the familiar silhouette in front of me. The fire crackles louder than it did earlier. The edges of the night have gone soft, blurred, like someone’s smudged the corners of everything with their thumb.

Chris is still on that blanket, but Nicole’s not next to him anymore. She’s standing now, a few steps back, arms crossed over her chest while a blonde girl beside her whispers in her ear. I don’t know what changed, what made her peel off, but Chris is sitting alone now.

I don’t mean to walk toward him. Not really.

My feet just go, like they’ve decided the night hasn’t humiliated me enough. My beer’s still cold in my hand, barely touched. I grip it tighter and keep moving until I’m close enough to smell his soft amber scent. Close enough that I wonder if he’s going to continue to pretend I’m not there, he doesn’t. He lifts his eyes, and they’re already hard.

I stop just outside the ring of firelight, where my shadow cuts across his feet. “Didn’t think Mandy was your type,” I huff.

The words are low, not slurred, but not steady either. I don't even know if they make sense. But I say them anyway. Chris doesn’t answer right away. Just tilts his head, slow, like he’s trying to hear something under my voice. “What?”

I take a sip, swallow. It tastes like ash now. “She’s sweet, right? Grocery bag–carrying, real polite. Just not a beach blanket kind of girl?”

Something flickers in his jaw. “Nicole’s different,” he mutters.

“Yeah,” I take another gulp. “Real different.”

There’s a beat, quiet but alive. Around us, someone’s shouting over a game of chicken by the water. A bottle crashes near the cooler. Nicole glances over from the edge of the firelight, brow furrowed. I don’t look away from Chris.

“You don’t get to do this,” he says suddenly, his voice too calm.

“Do what?”

He stands, the motion steady, deliberate. He’s my height now. He wasn’t, last summer.

“You know what I mean.” His voice still low, but the edges are fraying.

“No,” I retort, wiping my mouth. “I really don’t. You haven’t made it pretty fucking clear.”

Chris flinches like I shoved him, and for a second, we’re just two outlines backlit by flames. I take another sip.

His fist connects with my jaw so fast I don’t feel it until the second one’s already coming. I stumble and fall back on the ground. The beer can slips from my hand, hits the sand with a dull thud. Someone yells.

He’s on top of me now, the third hit splits my lip, sending my head smack down again. I can taste the bile and blood in the back of my throat. Voices rise all at once, my head’s too fuzzy to identify any of them.

“Chris—Jesus—stop!”

Someone’s pulling Chris off me, and the far-off yelp of sirens cause everyone to flee.

Chapter Text

The front door creaks open. Chris steps in behind the cops, hoodie half-zipped and stained with sand, still breathing heavily. I trail behind him, wiping the blood off my mouth with the back of my sleeve before Dad sees.

He’s already standing in the hallway, arms crossed over his chest, dressed down in a Celtics tee and old flannel pajama pants. The TV's still humming low in the living room, some late-night infomercial flickering against the wall.

“Thanks, officers,” Dad says, offering a stiff nod as they turn to leave.

“You’re lucky your mom’s not awake.”

Chris scoffs, kicking his shoes off with more force than necessary. “They weren’t even coming for us, Dad. The cops were shutting down the bonfire, everyone got sent home.”

Dad doesn’t look at him, his eyes are fixed on me. “That true?”

I shrug. “Yeah.” My jaw aches when I talk. I press my tongue to the side of my cheek, testing for swelling. “It wasn’t like a raid. Just loud teenagers and a little weed.”

“A little,” Dad repeats, like it’s a joke. “Jesus. And you-” He gestures at me, stepping closer. “What the hell happened to your face?”

Chris shifts beside me, but I don’t lift my head up. My fingers twitch against the seam of my shorts.

“Tripped,” I lie, too quickly. “It was dark. Sand’s uneven.”

Dad stares at me for a moment longer, like he’s deciding whether to push. Then he sighs, running a hand through his graying hair.

“I expect this kind of shit from Chris,” he says. “Not you. You’re supposed to be the mature one.”

Chris lets out a sharp breath but doesn’t argue this time. I keep my eyes on the floor, because if I look at either of them, I know I’ll only make it worse.

“Go wash up,” Dad mutters finally. “We’ll talk tomorrow. And don’t wake your mom.”

He turns and disappears down the hallway, the floorboards groaning under his weight. Chris and I stand there a moment longer, side by side in the quiet. Then he walks off too.

I’m left in the entryway, blood dried on my mouth, sand stuck in my socks.

The days after blur into a kind of routine. I don’t talk to Chris, and he doesn’t talk to me. Not at home, not at the club. We move around each other like we’re scared one of us will say something. Most mornings I’m out early for shifts at the Snack Shack, wiping down counters that never stay clean, pouring slushies until the syrup clogs, pretending not to notice when Chris walks by in his tank top, still twirling that stupid whistle. Nicole’s usually with him, leaning on the edge of his chair or screeching about something I can’t hear. It doesn’t matter. I don’t look long.

At night, I catch myself in the bathroom mirror, dabbing at the bruises around my eye with ice packs and concealer I stole from Mom, trying to make the damage less obvious. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Chris standing just in the hallway, watching me quietly. Our gazes meet briefly in the mirror’s reflection, before he steps back and leaves without a word.

It’s been healing a little better.

Dinner’s quiet. Mom does most of the talking, relaying grocery lists and weather updates like they’re headlines. Dad asks about work once or twice, but I give short answers. Chris eats fast and disappears before the dishwasher’s even loaded.

The sky illuminates, the sun dipping low, turning the clouds pastel. Dad drives us down a narrow coastal road, pine trees brushing the edges, salt air drifting in through the open windows. The car hums steadily; the only other sound is a gull calling overhead.

We pull up to the old fishing pier, weathered wood stretching over calm water, barnacles clinging to the pilings. The tide’s low, revealing patches of seaweed and slick rocks glowing faintly in the sunset. We used to spend entire days here, trying to catch fish, Mom squealing every time a slimy fin slapped against the wooden boards. There’s still a photo of Chris and me in the living room, both of us grinning, holding up a striped bass.

Mom skipped coming this time, saying she was busy with her paintings, but we all knew that wasn’t the real reason. Mom and Dad have been trying to stay close, for us. But even they could only stretch so far.

Dad grabs his tackle box and cooler from the trunk, jingling gear with practiced ease.

“Alright, let’s see if the fish are biting tonight,” he announces, casting his line out carefully.

I sit next to Chris on the edge of the pier, legs hanging over the water. The wood creaks beneath us as small waves lap at the pilings.

Dad hums, “Wind’s coming from the east today, not great for the bass, but maybe the flounder will show up. Should’ve brought the heavier line.” He laughs softly, glancing at us. “Fishing’s all about patience, though. You ever gone again since last year?”

Chris shrugs. “Once or twice with Mom and Nate.”

My gaze drifts down toward the water below, the way the sunlight fractures the waves. Nate. I haven’t seen him since last year, since we moved to L.A. The three of us would spend hours outside after school. We’d run through the sprinklers in our backyard, bike up and down the block, or just lie on the grass, daring each other to do stupid things. Nate’s laugh always cut through noise, like a spark. I haven’t stayed in contact with him much other than a few texts for his birthday.

“Not a bad way to spend an evening,” Dad says, snapping me out of my thoughts. He pulls a worm from the bait box and hooking it expertly. He casts again, then stands and stretches. “I’m gonna grab the cooler from the car, you boys want anything?”

We shake our heads, and the soft slap of Dad’s footsteps fade as he walks away. I stare down at the water again, watching it catch the last light, rippling slow like beneath the surface. Chris sits close, but there’s still a decent space between us we don’t eliminate. After a long pause, he breaks the tense silence, voice low.

“Why didn’t you tell them about your face?”

The mist drifts over the pier. I shrug, looking away, eyes tracing the horizon where sea and sky blur.

“Didn’t want to.”

Chris doesn’t press. We stay in silence, shifting our weight on the dock.

The fire crackles, throwing sparks into the dark as I rotate the stick slowly, watching the marshmallow bubble and swell. Chris is sitting across from me on an old towel, his legs stretched out, hair damp and wavy from the ocean. We’d come back late, just the two of us. We were sandy and half-starved, so Mom promised we could roast a few before bed.

“Don’t let it catch,” he warns, squinting at my skewer. “You always wait too long.”

“It’s not even brown yet,” I argue, leaning a little closer.

The flame licks up, quick and greedy, and the puffy marshmallow bursts into a soft flare. I yank the stick back too fast and hiss under my breath.

“Shit—” I drop the stick, clutching my hand.

Chris is on his feet before I even curse again, already circling around the fire pit. “Let me see,” he chastises, grabbing my wrist. His fingers are cooler than mine, delicate. He flips my hand gently, eyes narrowing at the red line across my skin.

“It’s not that bad,” I mutter, trying to pull away, but he doesn’t let me.

“Shouldn’t’ve been holding it so close,” he says, but there’s no bite in it. Just soft, annoyed concern.

He shifts his grip and brings my hand closer to his mouth. “Hold still,” he mumbles, and then he’s blowing on the mark, a slow, steady stream of air. His breath is warm but feels cooler than the burn. It feels like that alone undoes the sting.

I glance at him, but he’s focused. Taupe brows slightly furrowed, thick lashes catching the firelight. He lifts my hand higher, inspecting. “Want me to kiss it better?” he teases, voice higher.

I snort, but something catches in my throat. He’s still holding my hand.

“Shut up,” I mumble, but I don’t really mean it.

He doesn’t let go right away, doesn’t laugh either. Just rubs his thumb once, his touch feather light across the edge of my palm.

The line’s moving slow again. There’s a heatwave pulsing off the pavement, and some guy in golf shorts is barking orders at the counter like this is a five-star resort and not a glorified pool stand with a microwave and three syrup pumps.

“I said extra lemon. Not that fake shit.”

Jesse flashes him the flattest smile I’ve ever seen him do. “Right. Extra... lemon.” He squeezes one more plastic wedge into the drink with all the forced enthusiasm he can bring.

The man huffs, walks off muttering something about Yelp. Jesse watches him go, shakes his head. “You ever notice the fancier they look, the worse their manners?”

“Yeah,” I say, setting the slushie machine to rinse. “It’s like a fun personality game, Winner gets trauma.”

He chuckles, then jerks his head toward the back. “C’mon. I need a break.”

I follow him behind the shack, to the sliver of shade in the alley, the same place I came to on my first day. The ground smells like sun-warmed table salt and damp cement. Jesse pulls a half-crushed joint from his apron pocket, lights it without fanfare, then passes it to me.

I take a hit, slower than last time. The smoke’s warm in my chest, enough to take the edge off.

“Nicole used to be cool,” Jesse says, exhaling toward the slats in the fence. “Back before she decided to be fuckin’ queen bee of Cape Cod.”

I raise a brow. “She wasn’t always?”

He laughs, like that’s absurd. “God, no. Just grew up together. She was less… lip filler and more cargo shorts back then. Used to play cards behind the snack shack and throw ice at the kids.”

I hum. The weed is starting to buzz a little in my blood, like background static.

Jesse stretches his legs out, crosses them at the ankles. “Worked the docks before this, two summers in a row. You ever gut a fish?”

“Nope, we catch em’ and let them go after.”

“Smells like regret.” Jesse says.

That makes me smile, I glance out at the pool water. The whistle blows again, but it’s faint from here, everything is faint from the back of the shack. Jesse taps ash onto the ground and squints at me sideways. “You and Chris always this close?”

I hesitate. “Close isn’t really the word.”

“Right. I just meant, twins and all. Thought maybe that came with some… Jedi mind bond or whatever.”

“We used to be tight,” I say, my tone suddenly dry.

“What happened?”

I press my tongue to the back of my throat. “We grew up.”

Jesse nods slowly, not pushing yet. He stares at the line of seagulls perched on the far fence.

“You ever been in love, Matt?”

The question throws me off for a second. Not because of what it is, but because of how casual he says it. Like we’ve known each other for longer than we have.

I glance down at the joint between my fingers. “Once.”

He looks over, something shifting in his face. “That a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Both,” I answer, quiet.

Jesse doesn’t reply right away. He just leans back again, arms behind his head like he’s watching clouds. I flick ash off the tip. “It doesn’t go away. Not really.”

“Yeah?” he asks, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling.

“It’s like… some shit just settles into your skin. Doesn’t matter how long it’s been.”

Jesse nods, slow, like he gets it, then lets out a breathy chuckle. “So… what, you and your brother get caught up mackin’ on the same girl?”

I pause. Just for a second, but long enough. Then I shake my head, slow. “Something like that.” I say, but it comes out too soft, like it’s not really an answer at all.

He passes the joint back. I take one more drag, the silence thick now, like we’ve lived in it. Finally, he sighs, “This place makes people weird.”

“I think we were weird before the place.”

“Fair.”

We sit there for some more time, the smell of weed wafting in the air. The sun shifts. Someone calls for ice inside the shack, Jesse lets out another exhale and stretches his back. “C’mon, Romeo. Time to keep pretending we’re functioning members of society.”

By the time I get home, the sky’s already turned that muted gray blue and the crickets are chirping. I push open the screen door, the night air hitting cool and heavy.

“Just going outside for a bit,” I call toward the kitchen, where Mom’s halfway through washing a cutting board. She hums in acknowledgment but doesn’t turn around.

I step onto the patio barefoot, the stone cool under my feet. Everything’s quiet but for the low buzz of insects and the distant churn of waves just past the dunes. I drop into the lounge chair near the pool, with white boards, rusted under the bolts. I breathe out slow, the joint comes easy, tucked behind my ear. One flick of the lighter and it glows, smoke curling steady from the tip. I close my eyes for a moment, let my chest rise, fall. It gets harder in the summer, when I can’t rely on the chilling air to keep me calm.

A splash pulls me out of my thoughts, I look up. Chris breaks the surface of the pool, arms slicing through the water before he stills. His shoulders glisten under the porch light, beads of water clinging to his skin, catching the blue tint of the fading pool lights. His white tank top floats nearby, clinging uselessly to the shallow end steps. He doesn’t wipe his face or shake the water from his eyes, just treads slowly, quiet, watching me from across the pool like I’m the one who interrupted him.

“You said weed messes with white matter.”

I fiddle the joint slowly between my fingers, the paper crinkling against my callous skin. “Do you even know what white matter is?”

Chris dips his head back under, smooth strokes pushing him across the shallow end. I can’t fully see his face, but there’s a smug tilt to his mouth.  “You said that our brains are still developing and-”

“God, do you memorize every single thing that I’ve ever said?”

He stops swimming, feet settling on the pool floor, water lapping gently at his prominent collarbones. For a second, he just looks at me, then shakes his head and sinks again, sighing.

I lift the joint to my mouth and take another hit, slow. “It helps.” I whisper. “With the anxiety.”

He resurfaces, wet hair clinging to his forehead, blinking the chlorine from his eyes. “You’re the one who said that smoking’s dumb and real athletes don’t put shit in their bodies.”

I glance down at my knees, jaw tightening. “I’m not an athlete anymore, you are.”

Chris exhales through his nose, half-laugh, half-sigh, and flicks his head, spraying droplets across the pool. “I still think you should quit.”

My chest pulls tight, then flutters, like it’s releasing a knot. “What will you give me if I do?”

Chris pauses at the edge of the water, arms lazily paddling as he floats closer. His brows knit slightly, like he’s thinking of something to say, something quick or clever, but nothing comes out. Just that look he always does, where his lips almost jut out and his nose scrunches, softer than his usual.

“Chris!”

We both turn. It’s Nicole, hanging off the fence, her hair pulled back in a braid that catches the porch light. Beside her is a boy I don’t recognize, tall, with dark skin and an easy smirk. He’s twirling a pair of car keys around his long fingers.

“Hurry up, we’re hitting Seaport before it gets dead,” she yells. “Bring your digi!”

Chris shifts, glancing back at me once more. His eyes flick down to the joint in my hand, still burning slow between two fingers. He doesn’t say anything, just wades to the edge, climbs out with a wet slap of feet against stone, and grabs his towel.

Then, with no warning, he reaches out and snatches the joint from my fingers.

“Hey-”

He flicks it into the deep end of the pool; it hisses out instantly. I stare at the water; a thin trail of smoke still rises for a second before it disappears. Chris dries his hair with the towel, then tosses it over his shoulder and heads toward the gate. Nicole wraps her arm around his as they walk off. The other boy follows behind them, still spinning his keys. I stay sitting for a while, then get up and head back inside, the patio door clicking shut behind me.

Chapter Text

Our birthday started the same way it always does in summer. Mom made breakfast early, before the house got too hot. She didn’t ask what we wanted, she already knew.

When we were little, I would beg for chocolate chip pancakes every year. Big ones, where the syrup pooled in the middle and the edges go soft. But Chris hated pancakes, he was always a pickier eater than me. He refused to eat them, even when Mom put a heaping load of whipped cream on top. One time, I saw Chris push his plate away.

After that, I told Mom I was sick of pancakes too.

The next summer, she made waffles instead. They still had the chocolate chips we both liked, just crispier. Chris ate every bite, and after that, it stuck. “Birthday waffles”. I still liked pancakes better but seeing him finish his plate made it feel like enough.

Mom was already in the kitchen when I came downstairs, moving quietly, flipping waffles onto a plate with the same old pink spatula. The windows were cracked open, letting in a breeze that barely helped with the heat. Chris came in a minute later, hair still messy from sleep, the pajama pants he wore a little too long on him.

“Happy birthday!” she exclaims, smiling at the both of us as she set down the forks.

Two plates were already on the table, stacked with golden waffles, chocolate chips melted unevenly into the squares.

“Thanks,” I smile back, sliding into my usual seat.

Chris leans over and gives Mom a peck on the cheek. “Thanks Mom.”

Dad showed up halfway through the meal, still in his T-shirt and boxers, holding a mug of coffee and yawning. “Seventeen,” he says like it surprised him. “Jesus.”

Chris rolls his eyes. “You say that every year.”

“Because every year, it keeps getting worse,” Dad replied, sitting down with a groan.

Mom laughed, but it was soft, distracted. “I was pregnant with you boys during the biggest heatwave of the summer, thought I was going to combust.”

“You say that every year,” I said.

She grinned faintly. “Because it’s true.”

Mom wipes her hands on a dish towel and looks between us, her smile small but rehearsed. “Well,” she sighs, almost too brightly. “Shall we start gifts?”

Dad groans, like the idea of moving his body is a threat to national security, but he gets up and heads toward the hall closet. I hear the thump of boxes and rustling of bags a moment later. There was a system, every year. First came the gifts from Mom and Dad, though really, it was just Mom. She would choose them, wrap them, and arrange them. Dad just signed his name in the corner with the same black pen he used for everything else.

Chris and I were always grateful for the gifts we received from them, but our favorite ones were the ones we gave each other. When we were in elementary school, it was dumb stuff, drawings, sea glass, a mixtape Chris once made me that was just Blink-182 songs downloaded illegally off LimeWire. But as we got older, we were more mature with it. For our thirteenth, Chris gave me the entire Harry Potter series, books I loved and thought he hated. We would always share our gifts anyway, but Chris was never the best at reading, or anything involving literacy. He’d still watch me read them aloud anyway, providing playful commentary.

This year, I don’t have anything. Part of me wants to give myself an excuse, that the trip was too sudden, that I didn’t have time. But I looked, a few times. I never had a hard time choosing something for Chris, but this time nothing felt right. If anything, buying something would make it worse. Every gift felt like a lie, like I was pretending we were still the version of us that would exchange stupid gifts.

Mom hands out the boxes, one for each of us. Mine’s a new pair of sunglasses since I lost mine at the piers last summer, plus a shirt I know she bought on sale but folded carefully. Chris gets a lacrosse stick grip and a small gift card for gas.

“I’m not driving.” Chris states, tucking the gift card in his pocket.

Mom grins. “You’ll regret it soon enough, honey. Why don’t you ask Matt to help you?”

I freeze, my palms feeling sweaty. Chris’s mouth clams shut, and Mom must’ve realized she said the wrong thing because she nervously bites her bottom lip.

“Alright,” Dad sips on his coffee, timing better than ever. “That’s all from us. You boys got anything for each other?”

I hesitate, Chris looks at me, blinking slow. “I,” he trails off, his gaze low now. “I forgot.”

It’s quiet, I laugh a little. Just a small sound, mostly from my nose. “It’s fine.”

I shouldn’t feel upset; it’s not like I brought anything either. But the feeling in my chest doesn’t match the words coming out of my mouth. I watch Chris shift in his seat, fingers drumming aimlessly on his thigh. I wonder if he feels guilty, probably not.

By afternoon, the heat is baked into everything, the plastic lids, the counter stools, the slushie nozzles that stick no matter how many fucking times I rinse them. I’m back behind the Snack Shack, apron tied loosely around my waist, wiping sweat off the back of my neck with a paper towel that’s already damp. Jesse stands beside me, elbows propped on the window ledge like he’s trying to melt into the structure. He looks nicer today, his skin sun kissed and a musky cologne radiating off his body.

“Birthday boy returns,” he says, voice lazy. “How’s it feel being one step closer to social security?”

I scoff. “Feels like any other day, just sweatier.”

“Mm, sentimental,” Jesse mutters, dropping two bags of chips into the display. “You should milk it while you can. Tell the kids in line it’s your birthday, maybe they’ll stop asking for extra sugar packets.”

I glance past him, out toward the pool. Chris is leaning against the lifeguard tower, legs stretched, whistle hanging from his lips. He’s got his Yankees hat on, backwards, tilted just enough so his chestnut long hair brushes his ears and neck. Nicole’s next to him, of course, perched on a towel. She whispers something close to his ear that makes him crack an awkward smile.

“Anyway,” Jesse says, tapping the side of his boot against the cabinet. “Kavya’s throwing something tonight at her place. Big yard, it’s midsummer themed, kinda corny but I’m guessing you don’t have anything better to do.”

I raise my brow. “Kavya?”

“Nicole’s best friend. You’ve seen her. Rich parents, backyard string lights, makes sangria no one drinks.” He gives me a crooked grin. “You should pull up.”

I shrug. “I got dinner with my family, my mom’s making grub.”

Jesse tilts his head with an unimpressed look. “Cause’ that sounds so hype. Nicole’s already told everyone it’s your brother’s birthday, so I guess it’s a two in one kinda thing.” He adds, like that’s supposed to sweeten the deal.

I lift my head till my eyes catch sight of him again, Chris is laughing at something now, chin tipped toward Nicole, one hand running through his hair. Jesse leans closer, voice low but joyful. “C’mon, just show up for a few hours. You might even enjoy it.”

I watch Chris for a second longer, how easily he folds into the poolside out there, tanned skin, damp curls. Nicole’s still talking, animated now, touching Chris’s shoulder with two fingers like she owns the space between them. I watch him subtly pull away at the touch.

I was always more of a homebody, and Chris was too. We would prefer hanging out with Nate in the comfort of our basement rather than sticky drinks and drunk people with shallow conversations talking over each other. But that was last year, and Chris will be there tonight.

 “Yeah,” I say, low but steady. “Alright. I’ll go.”

He grins like he expected that all along. “Bet, you won’t regret it.”

I already do, but I nod anyway.

Dinner’s quiet at first. Mom made lemon chicken and roasted vegetables, the kind of meal she pretends is casual but actually takes two hours and three playlists to cook. The dining table’s set with cloth napkins and those mismatched ceramic plates she only uses in the summer. I can tell she’s trying, she even lit a candle in the middle, smelling of lilacs and melted soap.

Nicole sits across from me. She’s wearing a flower crown, thin purple petals tucked neatly into her bleached hair that she adjusts subtly. Her dress is satin that falls down to her ankles. Since the bonfire was casual, I didn’t realize the party was such a big deal. But apparently, Midsummer parties were a staple in Cape, I was just never invited to one before.

Dad clears his throat, refilling his water. “So, Nicole. Big night planned?”

She beams, I can tell she’s been waiting for someone to ask. “Yeah! My friend’s throwing the annual Midsummer party, it’s kind of like tradition now. I started it a few summers ago.”

I nod, slow. Chris leans forward, his fork scraping the edge of his plate. “Nicole’s been a good friend,” he adds quickly, glancing at Mom like he has to clarify. “She invited me because… you know, it’s our birthday, thought it’d be chill.”

Mom smiles politely, tucking her short hair behind her ear. “Of course. It’s nice to have someone so excited at the table.” She teases.

Nicole grins, fork poised midair. “Happy birthday, by the way,” she says, turning to me. “You’re coming tonight, right?”

I glance down at my plate, half-finished chicken, cold potatoes. Chris hasn’t looked at me once.

“Yeah,” I say after a pause. “I’ll be there.”

It comes out smoother than I expect, and Nicole lifts her glass. “Good, I’d kind of look like a bitch if you didn’t.”

Chris chuckles under his breath. I finally meet his eyes, just for a second, then he looks away. I press my thumb to the edge of my plate and nod again, quieter this time. After dinner, Mom starts clearing the plates, dabbing at the corners of the tablecloth like there’s something to scrub out of the evening.

“You guys all heading out now?” she asks, glancing between us.

Chris stands up first, stacking his plate on top of mine without meeting my eyes. “Yeah.”

“I’ll just take the Kia,” I mumble, but Mom waves it off with a flick of her wrist.

“No need, honey. It’s silly to take two cars. Just ride with Chris and Nicole.”

I hesitate, but she’s already turned to the sink, like it’s decided. Nicole twirls her keys on her index finger. “Perfect.” She replies.

I shake my head, slow. “Cool.”

The Jeep smells like cheap perfume and car cleaner. Chris is already in the passenger seat. Nicole taps the steering wheel, adjusting the mirrors even though she hasn’t moved them. I climb in the back, the seatbelt sticking in the heat, and shut the door with a soft click. The engine hums to life and no one speaks.

The radio plays something quiet, synthy, maybe the 1975 or some generic playlist Nicole made. She hums along, driving one hand on the wheel. The night air rushes in, thick with pine and salt. Every few minutes, Nicole says something about Kavya’s house being hard to park at or how we’ll probably need to text someone to get in. Chris nods, I don’t say anything.

We take the long way. The road curves along the dunes, headlights catching flickers of movement, trees swaying, bugs darting past the beams.

Nicole adjusts the aux. “This song’s so fire,” she says.

Chris makes a small sound of agreement. I can tell he’s lying, the way his forehead’s crinkling and his lips curled too upwards. I rest my forehead against the window glass, watching the dark blur past.

The driveway’s already full when we pull up, cars packed tight along the curb and scattered across Kavya’s lawn like they multiplied. The house itself is glowing from the inside out, music thumping low and steady from somewhere in the back, yellow string lights tangled up the porch railing. Nicole parks unevenly in the grass. Before I can even open my door, Chris is already hopping out, adjusting his shoelaces as he does.

Inside, the house wafts rose candles and alcohol. The AC barely holds up against the crowd, and there’s that soft tacky stick of sweat and spilled soda on polished tile. People cluster in the living room and spill out onto the back deck, red cups already in hand. Everyone looks older in the dark.

“Kavya!” Nicole calls, stretching her arms out.

Kavya appears from the hallway in a white halter dress with her tight curls in a slick back bun, beaming. “You came!”

They hug tightly, arms tangled, laughing into each other’s necks like they haven’t seen each other in years. Chris has already disappeared before I even step off the welcome mat.

Kavya lets go of Nicole, then sees me behind her. “Matt, right?” she asks, her bangles clinking as she turns.

“Yeah.”

“Come on.” she says, looping her arm through mine.

I glance once back toward the hallway, but Chris is still gone, his shoes kicked off and left near the coat rack. I let Kavya pull me into the kitchen. The lights in here are warmer, quieter. On the island counter are three cakes, each stacked high and slightly uneven, like they were made with more enthusiasm than precision. One is smothered in strawberries, another in piped lavender frosting. The third is pale yellow with a rim of chocolate chips around the base. The numbers candles, a one and seven, were already jabbed into the top like they were shoved in without planning.

Kavya throws her arms out dramatically. “Told you I went hard.”

I stare at the candles. “Who’s the third one for?”

Kavya gives me a smile, a little too wide. “Who else is it for?” She shrugs, then grabs a lighter off the counter. “I figured neither of you would say anything, so I made sure we had a cake. The one in the middle is technically yours.”

The frosting has started to melt slightly at the edges from the heat. One of the candles tilts and topples, leaving a trail of wax down the side.

“Well? Make a wish.” She says.

I nod once, hands in my pockets as I blow out the candles. “Looks great, thank you.”

She grins again. “Good, now go socialize before I make you do a jello shot with me.”

I slip out of the kitchen and back into the noise. It’s gotten worse, someone turned the music up, bass thudding low enough to pulse in my ribs. The air feels denser now, too many bodies packed into too little space. People laugh too loud, someone’s vaping near the window, and two girls are recording a video by the stairs, ring light glowing against their overdone faces.

I move past them, keeping my eyes low, shoulder grazing a stranger’s as I head down the hallway. I find the bathroom and shut the door behind me, flicking the lock. The light overhead buzzes faintly. It’s one of those half-broken ones, flickering in irregular pulses. I lean against the sink, breathe once, then again, deeper. My fingers twitch at my pocket until they find the joint. It’s still intact, soft and thin in its paper.

I don’t light it; I just stare at it for a second too long. I press my tongue to the back of my teeth, then sigh and slip it back into my pocket. Then rinse my hands for no reason, watch the water swirl. The door jiggles and I stiffen.

“It’s me,” a voice says, I recognize it, Jesse.

I crack it open just an inch. “Occupied.”

He raises a brow at me from the hallway, then tilts his head slightly. “You good?”

“Just…needed a break.”

He doesn’t say anything for a second, then slides in and shuts the door behind him.

“What are you doing?” I ask, but not sharply.

“I dunno,” he shrugs. “Didn’t feel like letting you spiral alone in here.”

He leans against the wall, right under the light, arms crossed. There’s a speck of blue frosting on the hem of his shirt.

“Party kinda sucks,” he adds, glancing at me sideways.

I smile faintly. “It’s fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“Yeah, well.”

He pushes off the wall, takes a step closer. “You think too much.”

“I’ve been told.”

Jesse shifts again, slower this time. He’s looking at me like I’m something worth studying, like I’m not just background noise the way everyone else here is. I can smell faint weed on him, but he doesn’t offer it this time.

“You ever feel like,” he says, voice quieter now, “everyone else is just moving forward without you?”

I blink, my head still buzzing from overstimulation. “What do you mean?”

We’re not touching, but we’re close. He steps forward that last inch and kisses me, it’s soft. Quick, like he’s testing something. His lips are slightly chapped against mine. I don’t pull away, I don’t kiss back either, not at first. I freeze, the static of confusion rising in my throat.

I shift slightly, just enough. Our mouths meet again, this time slower, more curious than certain. His lip ring presses cool against mine. His hand skims my shoulder, light like he’s not sure I’ll let it stay. When he pulls back, his breath smells faintly of lime and cake frosting.

“Happy birthday,” he says, with a small, crooked smile.

I don’t say anything; I just nod and brush past Jesse gently. I slip out the bathroom door, the noise swallowing me again. The house feels even tighter now, like the walls moved in while I was gone. I push past a group dancing by the speaker and make my way outside. The backyard’s bigger than I expected, maybe Kavya’s family does do well like Jesse said. Fairy lights are strung from the fence to a row of trees, glowing low and yellow in the dark. There’s music out here too, but it’s softer, muffled beneath all the other noise. People crowd the edges of a makeshift dance floor: girls with shiny eyes and plastic cups, guys with half-unbuttoned polos.

I step into the grass, toward the far corner where it’s quieter, where the porch light doesn’t reach. Chris is sitting on one of the low wooden benches near the hedge, just far enough from the party to feel separate, but could still hear it all. The flower crown on his head is a mess of pink and white, daisies and something softer, maybe carnations. It tilts slightly to the side, tangled in the tips of his hair, which is starting to curl from the humidity. His lips are parted just a little, like he’s breathing through his mouth.

His elbows are resting on his knees, and he’s fiddling with something in his hands, a thin silver chain catching the light every time it shifts. The charm on it glints, delicate and small between his fingers. He turns it over, over again, thumb rubbing against the edge like he’s trying to wear it smooth.

Then, without warning, it slips. Drops into the rocks below where he’s sitting. Chris stares at the spot for a second, jaw tight. He doesn’t move to grab it, just exhales once, sharp through his nose, then stands. The flower crown shifts slightly as he brushes the back of his hand over his forehead. He walks off toward the backyard, past the string lights and into the crowd again.

I wait until he’s out of sight and cross the patio and crouch down, carefully moving aside the scattered pebbles and blades of dry grass until my fingers close around the chain. It’s cooler than I expected. When I lift it, the charm swings lightly, catching the light just enough for me to see the shape.

A star. Simple. Small.

There’s a tag near the clasp, etched with two initials: M.S. I don’t breathe for a second, holding it in my palm. Not thinking, not really feeling, just staring. Then I close my fingers around it and slip it into my pocket, brushing the dust from my knees and heading back toward the noise.  

Chapter Text

“You always fucking do this, Jim!”

Thin walls couldn’t keep the shouting from spilling into our room. Dad’s answering with gritted teeth somewhere in the hallway, the words were muffled but full of venom.

I heard Chris shift beside me, his body tightening. He swallows hard, biting his lip, but his eyes are fixed on the closed door as if willing it to stop. I don’t look at him right away. I stay still, listening to the anger filling the house like thick smoke, making the air hard to breathe. For a moment, it’s as if the walls themselves were shaking.

I feel his small hand in mine.

Without a word, I tug him toward the clunky window we used to climb onto when the noise got too loud. Together, we haul ourselves onto the windowsill, careful not to disturb the empty bottle Dad had left there the last time he was here. The night is calm outside. The ocean breeze cools against my skin, carrying the salty smell of the sea. Above us, the sky is a black ocean scattered with stars.

“That one,” I say softly, my voice almost lost in the gentle rustling of leaves, “is called Vega.”

Chris’s eyes follow my finger as it traced the star’s spot, a bright steady blue light. His chest rises and falls slowly. I could see the tension in his jaw beginning to ease.

“Thousands of years ago, Vega was the pole star,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice steady even as my own heart raced. “It used to be the center of the sky, the star everyone used to find north by.”

The star pulsed faintly, like a quiet heartbeat against the darkness. “It’s different from the others,” I whisper, swallowing hard. “It doesn’t flicker like the rest. That means it’s close. Real.”

Chris looks up, his breath catching. The light seems to reach through the noise, through the anger, through the fear that is unspoken between us. “For as long as it’s there,” I continue, gripping his hand a little tighter, “you’re okay. I’m right here.”

The morning sun filters through gauzy curtains, painting everything in soft gold. It already smells like cinnamon and air freshener.

Downstairs, Mom is already up, her voice drifts through the open windows, humming along to whatever song she is currently obsessed with. The faint thud of boxes being shuffled around echoes through the house. Every year, she goes all out. Banners, flags, red-white-and-blue cupcakes, even those tiny paper fans no one ever actually uses. Some of the fireworks have already been laid out on the back deck like sleeping soldiers.

The Cape house always feels fuller on the Fourth.

I hear her laugh from the backyard, bright and too loud, like she’s performing for some invisible audience. It’s followed by the clatter of something plastic hitting the deck and her muttering a quiet “shit” under her breath. From the window, I can see her kneeling near the cooler, fiddling with sparklers and lighters. She’s wearing a faded flag tank top and a red bandana in her hair like she’s fifteen years younger. For a second, I wonder if she’s genuinely excited or just exhausted from trying to make today feel just as special as the ones before.

The floorboards creak as I get out of bed. My face still aches from the bonfire. It’s not much of a pain now, more a dull reminder. I don’t even bother to check if it’s still bruised, most of the few marks are gone.

I glance across the hallway; the bedroom Chris is staying in is empty. I run my hands along the Vega pendant around my neck, fiddling with the chain. I throw on a white shirt, tucking the necklace under, and head downstairs.

The living room’s already a mess of decorations, streamers like tangled veins, a half-deflated balloon drifting along the floor. A cake box on the counter with “Happy 4th!” scribbled across the top in black icing.

Mom’s standing in the kitchen, her hands covered in frosting, sunglasses pushed up into her hair.

“There’s my sleepyhead!” she says, overly bright. “Can you help me bring out the drinks?”

I nod and head toward the fridge, pulling open the door with a sticky groan. Inside, the case of sodas and seltzers is already packed tight in the bottom shelf. I crouch, wrapping my hands around the cold cardboard edges, fingers slipping slightly on the condensation.

As I lift the box, a sharp knock echoes through the house. I pause for a second, the case balanced awkwardly against my chest. My stomach knots before I even know why.

“Can you get that, honey?” Mom calls from behind the cupcakes, already elbow-deep in frosting again.

I shift the case against my hip and move toward the door. It’s bright outside, the sunlight bleeding through the frosted glass. I squint as I pull it open.

Jesse’s hands are shoved in the pockets of his hoodie, zipper half-undone even though it’s already pushing eighty degrees. Sweat clings to the back of his neck, a thin sheen on his forehead like he ran here. He looks taller than I remember, or maybe just more real.

“Hey,” he says, voice quiet, unsure. “Uh-hey.”

I don’t move. The drinks feel heavier now, like I’m suddenly holding a whole grocery store in my arms. At first, I’m confused as to why he’s on my doorstep; work was off for The Fourth. But the last time I saw him was the mid-summer party, where he had kissed me and I subtly blew him off. He must’ve not gotten the hint, because he’s here.

Jesse glances down at his shoes, then back up at me. “I was just... in the area. Thought I’d-”

“Oh my god, hello!”

Mom’s voice rings out behind me like a firecracker. She wipes her hands on a paper towel and hurries to the door, smiling. “Come in, come in!” she says, opening the door wider. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

Jesse gives me one last look, an unreadable flash of something in his eyes, before stepping past me into the house. “Jesse ma’am.”

Mom nods. “Lovely, it’s so nice to see Matt finally bring a friend around.”

I just tighten my grip on the drinks and follow, silent, pretending like the sudden ringing in my ears is from the sun. Mom doesn’t let the silence last long.

“Matthew,” she calls from the kitchen, already back to frosting something red and ridiculous, “why don’t you go down to the pool with Jesse? It’s gorgeous out.”

I don’t argue, turning toward the stairs like I’m on autopilot. In my room, I take off my shirt and dig through the drawer for swim trunks. I find an extra pair shoved in the back, navy blue, barely worn, and toss them at Jesse, who’s lingering near the door with his hands still in his pockets like he’s not sure he’s actually allowed to be here.

“Thanks,” he says, catching them.

He disappears into the bathroom, and I don’t say anything. By the time we get to the pool, the sun is high overhead, and the water looks almost too blue, like something out of a brochure. Jesse follows a few steps behind me, towel draped over his shoulder, face unreadable. I toss my towel onto a lounge chair and dive in without saying a word. The water is cold enough to shock the breath out of me for a second. When I come up, Jesse is standing at the edge, blinking against the sunlight.

He steps in slowly, his face tightening slightly as the water reaches his waist. Then he dunks under, surfacing a second later with a sharp exhale. We float there for a while, refusing to speak.

Finally, Jesse breaks the awkward silence.

“Did they redo the fence?” he asks, nodding toward the far side of the yard. “It looks taller from what I’ve seen when I walk by here.”

“Yeah, winter storm knocked part of it down. Dad came up in March and fixed it.”

Jesse nods, then wipes the water from his face. “Nice job, I guess.”

Another beat of silence, we still don’t talk about the party. I sink a little lower in the water, letting it reach my chin, arms drifting casually at my sides. Jesse pushes off the wall and starts to float backward, eyes closed against the sun.

The sliding door creaks open. I hear voices, two of them, and then the sound of footsteps against concrete. Chris and Nicole. I glance over just as they come into view, both in swim gear. Chris is in red trunks, hair damp like he just got out of the shower. Nicole trails behind him, sunglasses perched on her head and a bandeau top hugging her chest.

She stops when she sees Jesse in the water. Her expression flickers, surprise, then discomfort. She tugs her sunglasses down slowly, eyebrows raised.

“Why are you here?” Nicole says, her tone more question than judgment, but barely.

“I invited him.” I reply flatly, looking at her like I already know what she’s thinking.

Jesse doesn’t say anything, just moves to the edge of the pool, wiping water from his eyes, letting the tension slide off him. Nicole shrugs. “Well,” she says, tugging her shorts off and kicking them aside, “if we’re all here, might as well make it fun.”

She hops into the water with a splash, surfacing with her hair slicked back and that usual energy bubbling behind her eyes. Chris follows, quieter, sliding in at the far end of the pool. He doesn’t look at me, or at Jesse.

Nicole claps her hands once, floating backward. “We should play volleyball, you guys have a net?”

I nod, slow. “Probably buried under a thousand spiders.”

“Then you’re on spider duty,” she smirks. “Come on, it’s too hot to just float around and act miserable.”

Jesse lets out a quiet laugh. Chris finally glances my way. It’s brief, barely there, but I catch it.

I haul myself out of the pool, water dripping off my shoulders, and start walking toward the shed. When I come back, the net is dusty, tangled, but mostly intact. Nicole’s already clinging to the side of the pool next to Chris, her chin resting on her forearm. Jesse’s floating on his back again, head tilted towards the sky.

“Took you long enough,” Nicole calls.

“Had to negotiate with a family of spiders,” I mutter, tossing the net toward the shallow end. “They were reluctant.”

Nicole swims over and helps me unravel the mess. Chris climbs out to help string it across the pool, and for a second, we’re side by side again, I try to calm my nerves. No words, just nods and motions. Like our bodies remember how to move together even when our mouths forget how to speak.

When it’s done, Nicole claps her hands. “Okay! Me and Jesse versus you two. See which family is better.”

Chris raises a brow. “You sure?”

“You scared?”

He shrugs. “Not really, just figured you’d want to be on the winning side.”

Nicole rolls her eyes. “Let’s go, Team Dysfunction.” She pats Jesse’s shoulder. “Don’t let me down, cousin.”

Jesse gives a small smile and moves to his side of the net.

Chris glances at me, just once, and says, “Ready?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

The first few volleys are sloppy. The ball hits the water more than it hits hands. Nicole cheats, Jesse’s too polite to call her out. Chris keeps his movements sharp, clean. He’s still faster than I remember, stronger. When we were fifteen, I used to fake a bad set just so he could finish it, even if it was messy.

When I spike the ball and it splashes straight into Nicole’s shoulders, she shrieks dramatically, flailing backward. “Assault!”

Jesse’s laughing, Chris has a slight smile on his face as Nicole recovers quickly. She launches it back with one arm. It goes on like that, half a real competition, half chaos. Every time Chris calls “mine,” I move without thinking. Every time I dive for the ball, he covers the space behind me. I feel the old rhythm threading its way back in. We don’t talk, but we move in sync.

Jesse catches on, glancing between us every now and then. The score climbs, it’s match point. Nicole serves. Jesse jumps for the return but barely skims it.

Chris sets the ball, and I spike it clean. It slaps the water on their side with a loud, satisfying splash.

“Game,” Chris says.

Nicole groans, collapsing against the edge of the pool. “That was rigged. I plead the fifth.”

“It was skill.” I respond, brushing water from my face.

Chris doesn’t say anything, but he’s breathing a little harder, grinning slightly as he floats beside me. Jesse swims slowly toward the ladder, slicking a hand over his buzzed head. “I call rematch after I get a drink.”

Nicole raises a hand like she’s in court. “Seconded.”

We trail into the kitchen like wet dogs, dripping and sun dazed, the floor immediately slick with our trail. Nicole hops up onto the counter, swinging her legs and grabbing a dishtowel to lazily dry her arms. Her sunglasses are back on, even though we’re indoors.

“Do you guys have juice?” she asks, stretching dramatically. “I feel like destroying my insides with something colorful.”

Chris opens a cabinet and rummages around, then bends down to check the fridge drawer. He comes back with a handful of Capri Suns, tossing five in her lap.

“Strawberry Kiwi and Pacific Cooler, your pick.”

“God bless you,” she says, tearing the straw off one. Then she pauses, eyeing the bottles of alcohol Mom left out for later.

“Okay,” she says, suddenly decisive. “Hear me out.”

Jesse raises a brow. “That’s never good.”

Nicole ignores him and lines up the ingredients as she grabs the split lime from a Ziploc.

“You take a Capri Sun, Strawberry Kiwi hits better, and pour it in. Not too much, unless you’re a light weight.” She snorts, pouring the liquid into a blender she dragged across the counter. “Then Tequilla, vodka’s usually better but I guess your parents don’t have that.”

Jesse laughs quietly as he grabs a Sprite from the fridge, he seemed familiar with Nicole’s antics and recipe.

“Cointreau and Lime juice.” She narrates, squeezing the citrus fruit in before eyeing a bottle of Agave syrup. “Damn, you have all the good stuff. We can add some of that flaky salt for the rim if anyone has the energy to care.”

“Jesus,” Jesse mutters, handing her the tequila.

Nicole grins. “Thank you, bartender.”

She adds everything with zero measurements, then dumps a tray of ice in and slams the lid on the blender. “Cover your ears,” she warns.

The blender roars to life, a piercing shriek that fills the whole house like an alarm. Everyone cringes. Chris presses his fingers to his temples, and my brain rattles a little. Nicole grins at her creation, now a slushy neon swirl of intoxication.

“I call it Capri Sin.” She announces, pouring some of the mixture into Coupe glasses.

I snort. “That shit looks poisonous.”

“It is,” she replies, handing one to Jesse. “But like, in a fun way.”

She passes another to me. Cold, sweet fumes hit my nose the second I take it, and I already know it’s gonna burn going down. Jesse raises his glass like a toast, eyebrows raised.

“To the slowest descent into liver failure,” he says.

Nicole clinks her glass against his. “Cheers.”

I glance over to see her pouring one more, then handing it to Chris. He takes it without hesitation. No eye roll. No usual excuse about staying sharp or how it’s not really his thing, just a quiet “Thanks,” before bringing it to his lips.

I blink, he’s never drank before. Not with me, not with anyone, really. Not that I’ve seen. He takes a small sip, his nose scrunches, like he wasn’t expecting the sweetness to slap that hard but doesn’t put it down.

Nicole, naturally, is already halfway through hers. She hops off the counter, glass in hand. “Okay, we need music, or this turns into a weird afterschool special.”

She disappears into the living room, probably on a mission to hijack the speaker. Jesse leans against the counter beside me, sipping slow. “Okay,” he admits, “this actually isn’t awful.”

I take a sip too, cold, sharp, syrupy. The nostalgic taste is pleasant on my tongue. Chris catches me watching him over the rim of my glass and bites the edge of his bottom lip.

“What?” he asks, quiet.

I shrug. “I thought it messed with white matter.”

He looks down at the drink, then back at me, his expression unreadable. “Maybe I like trying new things.”

My stomach does a weird little flip I pretend not to notice. Nicole reappears, Frank Ocean already thumping low from the living room. Phone in one hand, glass in the other, her expression lights up. “Kavya just texted, she’s at the beach.”

Jesse glances up. “Now?”

“Yup,” Nicole raises her glass, “I say we bring the booze and join her.”

No one argues. Jesse downs the last of his drink in one go and grabs the tray from the counter, loading the remaining margaritas like they’re fragile contraband. I follow behind, grabbing napkins and the half-used bag of lime wedges.

By the time we’re out the door, the sun’s shifted lower, everything glowing orange. The beach is close, maybe a five-minute walk at most. We take the back path through the dunes, the wind lifting little bursts of sand at our bare ankles.

Chris is already on his second margarita. He holds the glass loosely, walking ahead beside Nicole, laughing at something she says. His cheeks are flushed, not dramatically, just enough for me to notice. I watch him drain the rest of it like its water and pretend I’m not counting how many sips it takes before he starts walking differently. I keep my eyes forward, fixing them on the horizon where the sky meets the water, bleeding light into the waves. Jesse walks beside me, quiet. Our arms don’t touch, but they’re close.

When we arrive at the beach, Kavya waves, sitting crossed legged on a stretched-out blanket, a bottle of sunscreen tucked into the corner.  “Hey bitches!”

We settle into a lazy circle, drinks in hand, the sky dimming above us by the minute. The Capri Sins are already sweating through the glass.

Kavya’s just shuffling the deck of cards when Chris, leaning too far in the sand, lifts his drink. “Can we just do a drinking race or something?” He’s smiling, loose and pink faced.

“Isn’t that the premise of like, every drinking game?” No one argues, Nicole laughs, raises her glass like it’s a starter pistol, and we all down our Capri Sins as fast as we can. Chris finishes first, nearly chokes, then throws his arms up like he’s won something. The slushy red mess is already starting to stain his lips. Kavya hands him another, he drinks that one too.

The sun sinks lower as the drinks keep coming, margaritas, whatever half-empty bottles Kavya brought clinking in the sand like buried treasure. Music plays loud from the speaker, and Nicole and Kavya start dancing. Jesse and I join, spinning barefoot in the warm sand, drinks sloshing in our hands.

Chris dances too, all limbs and laughter, stumbling slightly. He’s fully gone now, carefree in the way I’ve wanted to see him all summer. Nicole’s loving it, hyping him up, egging him on, holding his wrist when he twirls too fast. Everyone else is just buzzed, smiling and swaying. I sit back on the blanket, drink in hand, watching Chris, flushed and free and far, far gone.

He hiccups “We should see who can chug the fastest!”

Nicole cheers, already lifting her cup. But before anyone can follow, I’m up. My body moves before I really think, crossing the sand and slipping the drink out of Chris’s hand like it’s nothing. He barely notices, just blinks at me, confused.

 I don’t explain, I just glance at the others. “Actually, we’re gonna head back.”

Kavya looks up from her spot on the blanket, her expression softening just enough to understand. Nicole doesn’t argue, she’s still laughing, sunk in her own buzz, and Jesse gives a small nod like he’s already seen this coming.

Chris stumbles a little beside me, but when I brush my hand lightly against his back, guiding him toward the dunes, he follows without a word. The sky behind us is pink and silver and falling into blue. By the time we’re home, Chris is dragging his feet on the ground as I keep my arm around his shoulders. I breathe easier knowing Mom and Dad aren’t home.

“I feel like cotton candy,” he giggles, then hiccups, nearly falling sideways into the wall.

I catch him with one hand and nudge my bedroom door open with the other. He’s pliable now, like his body’s already halfway to sleep. I guide him to the edge of the twin bed, his bed, ease him down slowly until he collapses onto the mattress with a quiet thud.

Chris turns his head, eyes catching the monkey stuffed animal. “Hi George.” He coos, bringing it to his chest, and my heart flutters. He blinks up at me, lids low, unfocused. His dilated pupils settle on my mostly healed face, then somewhere near my collarbone. They stay there, still. The necklace, the Vega star, glints faintly against my bare chest in the hallway light.

Chris’s mouth opens like he wants to say something, then closes again. His eyes are glassy. “Matty,” he breathes, almost too soft to hear, hiccups again. “I’m sorry-”

I don’t let him finish. I grab the towel from the foot of my bed and gently drape it over his damp shorts, then pull the blanket over him, tucking it close to his sides like muscle memory. His skin’s warm, his lashes flutter.

“Shh,” I murmur, sitting on the edge of his bed just for a second. “You’re okay. I’m right here.”

His breath slows. A few more seconds and he’s out cold, chest rising in steady rhythm, mouth slightly open. He’s curled toward the wall, one arm tucked under George, the other flopped beside him. I don’t move until I’m sure, half- expecting him to stir. But he doesn’t.

I stand, quiet as I can, and leave the room, careful not to shut the door all the way.

The air outside is cooler, softer. I step onto the front porch and stop short. Jesse’s already there. He’s leaning against the railing, eyes are on the street, shoulders drawn up like he’s been holding a breath too long. When he sees me, he straightens.

“Oh, sorry. I just came by.”

I nod, part of me knew he’d be waiting.

“Can we talk?” he asks.

We walk to the patio, where the windchimes are crooked and the pool chairs sink in a little too low. Jesse sits down. I follow, even though I already know where this is going.

“I know you’re not into it,” he says, voice low. “Whatever this was, whatever I thought it was gonna be... I’m not gonna push it.”

I fiddle with my fingernail.

“I wasn’t trying to make you figure it out in, like, three weeks,” he adds. “We were just, fucking around, maybe. But I’m not gonna be your summer fling or whatever, and I’m chill with that.”

I keep my eyes down, exhaling. “I didn’t mean to lead you on.”

“It’s fine.” He shifts a little in his seat, then looks at me.

We fall quiet, the crickets are louder than the silence we leave behind.

He nudges my leg with his knee, just barely. “You’re still allowed to have fun, Matt.”

 “Yeah. I know.”

We’re closer than we probably should be, two silhouettes in the dark. It doesn’t feel romantic. Just honest.

Crack!

My shoulders jolt, a firework shoots up, whistling high before it explodes right above us. Both of us flinch, instinctively ducking.

My eyes snap to the bedroom window.

Chris is there.

Standing in the frame, the window’s open, his hair is messy, face unreadable. We lock eyes, he doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.

Then he’s gone, slipping back into the dark like he was never there at all.

Chapter Text

The first sound I hear that morning is Chris groaning. It’s low and half-muffled into his pillow, followed by the creak of bedsheets and a sharp, dragging breath like the sun personally offended him. I don’t look at him right away; I’ve already been up for a while. The blender’s been washed and put away. The smoothie’s in a chipped Red Sox cup, sweating on the nightstand beside him.

I flip a page in my sketchbook. Chris shifts again, then freezes. I know that freeze, when the nausea catches up, when the light hits too hard and everything’s still blacked out.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice croaky.

“Good morning to you too,” I say, just to piss him off a little.

He grunts. “What time is it?”

“Almost twelve.”

“Ugh.”

I turn a page. Chris finally lifts his head, squinting like a vampire caught in daylight. His hair’s sticking up in every direction. There’s a pillow crease stamped into his cheek. He looks like death warmed over.

“What the hell did I drink?”

“A Capri Sin,” I say. “Or five.”

“Nicole’s fault,” he says automatically, then swallows hard. He notices the smoothie and blinks down at it. “What’s this?”

“For your sins.”

Chris glares at me, it’s not very intimidating. “It’s a smoothie,” I add. “Banana, coconut water, ginger, ice, and like... half a Pedialyte. Just drink it.”

He picks it up, sniffs it cautiously. “You didn’t poison me, right?”

I look at him. “If I did, you think I’d admit it?”

He drinks it anyway. I wait, he makes a face, then nods, grudgingly. “Okay. That’s actually not bad.”

“Yeah, I know.”

He sips again. Then, quieter: “Where’s Mom?”

“She went into town. Farmers market.”

He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Dad?”

I pause, pencil hovering above the page. “Golf, left at eight.”

Chris nods, slow. The smoothie’s almost empty now. He leans back, cradling it in one hand. A beat passes. “Why aren’t you at work?”

I draw a line to the page, smudging it with the side of my thumb. “Didn’t feel like it.”

He looks at me longer this time. Less hungover, more awake. I keep drawing. Outside, a lawn mower starts somewhere down the street. Chris takes the last sip of his smoothie and sets the cup down too hard. He shifts again, slower this time. He glances down at himself and frowns, just noticing. His swim trunks are still damp in places, clinging to his legs. Sand clings to the backs of his calves, the inside of one knee.

Chris stands without saying anything, wobbly at first. One hand steadying himself against the dresser. Then he disappears down the hall, the bathroom door clicking shut behind him. I hear the water run and the pipes groan, old and familiar. I set the sketchbook aside and lie back, eyes tracing the ceiling. There’s a hairline crack in the corner I don’t remember being there last summer. Everything in this house is a little warped by salt and time.

Ten minutes pass, maybe fifteen. When Chris comes back, he looks better. Still pale, but not green. His hair’s wet, curling at the ends. He’s pulled on a clean t-shirt and some waffle shorts. There’s a red crease around his neck from the towel he forgot to take off until just now.

Chris picks up his phone from the nightstand. He doesn’t ask why he’s in my room, I’m glad. He thumbs the screen once, then again. “Dad says come outside.”

I don’t ask why. Just get up, slide my shoes on. Chris doesn’t wait for me, he heads down the hallway, his steps softer than usual. We step into the glare of an early afternoon. The driveway radiates heat, the kind that softens the asphalt and burns the bottoms of bare feet. The air wafts of fresh cut grass and the faint sweetness of the lemonade Mom leaves out in a sweating pitcher some days. Dad’s car is already parked just off the gravel, angled like he turned too fast pulling in. The door swings open a second later, and he steps out, tugging his golf glove off finger by finger.

He looks tired in the way adults do when they’ve had too much sun and too little patience. Khakis wrinkled at the knee, his polo still tucked in, sweat darkening the rim of his cap. His sunglasses hide his eyes, but I can feel the way they land on me and Chris both, heavy and measuring.

“Boys,” he says, as if he’s already prepping himself for whatever comes next.

Chris straightens beside me. I see it, that shift in his posture, the subtle bracing. Dad opens the back door of the car, grabs a folded towel and a bag of groceries. He slams it shut. “Might wanna help,” he adds, not really looking at either of us.

Chris moves first. I trail behind, slow on purpose, but not enough to draw attention. My shoulders itch from where the sun’s already hitting my face. Dad hands Chris the grocery bag like it weighs nothing and pulls off his cap to rake a hand through his hair.

That’s when the passenger door swings open. She steps out in a blur of sunlit motion, tan legs, platform sandals, a yellow tube top that highlights her glowing skin. Her long, light brown hair is caught in a flower claw clip, but pieces of it slip out in wild curls, windblown and unbothered. Freckles scatter across her cheeks and shoulders, the type that come from real time in the sun, not a bottle.

Mandy.

“Hey, baby,” she says, smile wide as ever, voice already mid-laugh like she’s been waiting to say it.

She crosses the lawn with passion, drink in one hand, and loops the other around Chris’s waist before he can say anything. He stiffens for a second, barely noticeable and drops the grocery bag. Then kisses her cheek, letting her rest her head briefly against his shoulder.

Chris blinks, startled. “What-what are you doing here?”

“I missed you,” she says easily, pulling back to show the iced coffee in her hand. “And I had the day off. Thought I’d come surprise you before you forgot about little old me. Your dad picked me up from the train station.”

Chris doesn’t say anything at first. Just takes the cup from her hand and swipes his thumb over the lid like he needs something to focus on.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” he says, but it’s soft. No edge to it.

“I know,” Mandy replies, grinning. “That’s the point of a surprise.”

She kisses his cheek again, light and fast. “Vanilla with two pumps caramel. Your usual, right?”

Chris nods. “Thanks.”

His voice is rougher than usual, but Mandy doesn’t seem to realize. Or if she does, she spins it into something light. “God, your voice,” she teases, hand on her hip. “You sound like a seventy-year-old chain-smoker. You hungover or just trying to sound mysterious for me?”

Chris laughs, it doesn’t sound from his gut. Mandy turns toward me, suddenly noticing I’m there. “Matt,” she says, with that practiced warmth. “Hey, it’s nice to see you.”

Her gold jewelry catches the sun, tiny hoops, layered chains, a ring on every other finger. I knew Mandy in middle school, she looked different back then. With braces and shorter hair, she was goalie on the soccer team. I’m surprised she still remembers me.

“Hey,” I say, nodding. I keep my voice even, my eyes away from Chris.

She watches me a second longer than she needs to. “I figured I’d just hang out for the day,” she says brightly, brushing a curl off her shoulder. “Head back tonight. You won’t even know I’m here.”

Chris doesn’t argue. Just sips his coffee and scratches the back of his neck, eyes on the ground. Dad doesn’t say much, muttering something about bringing the rest of the stuff inside and disappears through the front door. Chris follows after, Mandy trailing him like a shadow, golden and smiling and so obviously right in the way a girl’s supposed to be. I stay where I am for a second. Let the sun burn into my arms, let the air fill with the smell of her perfume. It’s beachy, expensive, all citrus and salt.

Mandy’s in the hallway mirror, digging through her tote bag with one hand, smoothing her luscious hair with the other. There’s a half-eaten pack of gum clamped between her teeth. I can hear the pop of it even from the kitchen. Chris is still at the table, nursing the iced coffee like it’s medicine. His eyes are dull, the edges of his hangover clinging to him in ways he doesn’t want to admit.

“We should go out,” Mandy suggests, checking her reflection, adjusting a gold hoop. “I didn’t come all this way to sit around.”

Chris nods, slow and distracted.  “Yeah. Sure.”

They don’t ask if I want to come. Not really, it’s just assumed. I sit back against the chair, feeling the weight of it, and slip my phone out from under the table. Fingers shaking slightly, I type out a quick message to Jesse.

arcade?

He replies two seconds later:

Bet

“My friend’s coming too, if that’s okay.” I say casually.

Mandy barely reacts, just shrugs, tossing the gum wrapper in the trash as she reapplies her lip gloss. Chris glances at me over the rim of his cup, unreadable.

The arcade buzzes with frantic energy that prickles at my skin, vibrant lights flashing in chaotic patterns, the constant jangle of bells, a kid nearby screaming over a jackpot of tickets. The air is thick with the stale scent of popcorn, sweat, and something metallic. Like coins rubbing against each other and sticky plastic buttons worn from a thousand presses. Mandy moves through it like she owns the place, grinning wide and tugging Chris along by the hand. They disappear into the neon maze, her laughter echoing like it belongs somewhere else.

He follows, of course he does. I watch how his shoulders start to coil, how the lines in his forehead tighten. He lets her drag him toward the token counter like it’s natural. I hang back near the entrance, leaning against one of the neon-lit walls, until I see Jesse walk in. Hoodie half-zipped, board shorts faded and damp. He smells like cocaine and sunscreen. And the sleeves of his sweatshirt are rolled to his elbows.

He daps me up and grins at Mandy, like that’s all the greeting I need. Maybe it is, that’s Jesse. He never needs to say much.

“Laser tag?” he asks, already clocking the colorful arena entrance behind the claw machines. Chris and Mandy are game. I’m not really in the mood, but I go anyway.

The arena’s all blacklight and synthetic fog, pulsing with bass. We strap on the vests, Mandy tying her hair up with a pen she found at the bottom of her bag. Jesse cracks his knuckles. Chris grins for the first time all day, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he adjusts his headset like it’s a battle helmet. We split into teams: Jesse and me vs. Chris and Mandy.

It’s ridiculous, darting between glow-in-the-dark barrels, sliding around corners, firing beams of red and blue light into the shadows. But Mandy’s in her element. She shrieks the moment she gets hit, cursing and trash-talking with the kind of cocky confidence only someone used to winning can pull off. The sound of her laughter fills the fog-choked arena.

Jesse is laser focused. He’s good, quick on his feet, quiet as hell. He gets Mandy twice in a row and she shouts, “Who even are you?” laughing, breathless.

Chris hides behind a crate and shoots me in the back. “Stupid,” I mutter. But I’m grinning. Maybe, a little.

Afterward, we trail out sweaty and flushed, the lights of the arcade too bright after the dark. Mandy finds the basketball game next, the one with the wire cage and the timer.

“Loser buys food,” she says, tossing the first ball up and sinking it clean.

Chris joins her. They go head-to-head and she wins by two. Chris acts shocked, dramatic, claiming she cheated. He’s always been a sore loser. She flips him off with both hands, laughing so hard she doubles over. The game worker hands her an octopus stuffed animal. It’s neon pink and misshapen, but she clutches it to her chest like it’s gold.

“I’m naming it after you,” she tells him. “In honor of your defeat.”

He rolls his eyes, and she kisses him again. I look away.

I’m already worn out; muscles sore and throat a little hoarse. I want to find Jesse and smoke with him, which I know he’s probably doing right now. But Mandy’s determined, she grabs my wrist before I can shake her off. “Group pic,” she insists, eyes sparkling. “Come on. I need something to stick on my mirror.”

We squeeze into the photo booth, Mandy already giggling and pressing the button. The first shot catches us all smiling, Mandy throwing up a heart, Chris looking a little dazed. The next frame is sillier, Mandy sticks her tongue out and Chris mimics her, while I stare straight ahead. In the third picture, Mandy leans into Chris, resting her head lightly on his shoulder.

In the fourth, and final, shot, Chris leans the other way, away from Mandy, inching closer to me. It’s such a small movement, almost invisible, but I feel it in my chest, a tightening I can’t explain.

We head to the boardwalk after. The sun’s starting to dip, the sky going that summer slow shade of soft gold. Mandy wants fried Oreos; Jesse suggests corn dogs. We end up at one of the shacks near the pier, all peeling paint and surf-rock music, the smell of grease floating heavy through the air.

As we walk near the stall to order, I catch Nicole from afar. She’s at the window, wearing a visor and apron, counting change with one hand, texting with the other. Her hair’s up today, and she’s not wearing any makeup, but I recognize her right away. She doesn’t see us until we step closer.

There’s a beat. She blinks, then smiles. “Hey.”

Chris lifts a hand, awkward. “Hey.”

It’s quiet for a second too long. They were never serious from what I’ve seen. Just something casual, something that probably meant more to her than it did to him. She takes our orders, her voice slipping back into that careful, practiced politeness that sounds almost rehearsed. Mandy chatters brightly, almost too loud. Jesse’s already turned away, watching the sun dip toward the horizon.

I didn’t realize Nicole worked at so many places. I wonder how many hours she pulls a week, how many jobs she juggles. How many shifts she has to stand behind a counter, I would lose my mind by then. Chris doesn’t say anything else, just waits for his food. Mandy wraps both hands around her stuffed octopus and keeps close to his side.

Nicole hands us our bags with a flat “enjoy.” Her smile’s already gone.

We find a spot just past the railing near the end of the boardwalk, one of those warped wooden benches facing the ocean. The sun’s fully set now, casting a stretched-out orange light across the water, the sound of waves crashing filling my ears.

Mandy’s phone rings as she unwraps her Oreo. “I’ll be right back,” she promises, without even glancing at the screen, already laughing as she paces a few feet away. Her voice fades under the boardwalk music.

Jesse polishes off his food and stretches, yawning. “Gonna walk for a bit,” he says, already halfway down the ramp before anyone replies. I see him pull out a joint from his pocket.

Then it’s just us. Chris sits beside me, still holding the octopus in one hand, picking the powdered sugar off his fingers with the other. He doesn’t look up. I keep my eyes on the water. When other people are around, the quiet feels manageable, blurred by noise and movement. But right now, with just the two of us, the silence settles heavy between us.

“You didn’t have to invite Jesse.”

His tone is flat. Not angry, not biting. But not casual either.

I blink. “Didn’t want to third wheel.”

He scoffs under his breath. “Right.”

I glare at him. “What? Are you mad his head didn’t fly off with the fireworks? You’re lucky I covered for you.”

“Since when do you care about third wheeling? You don’t even like being around us.” He spits, completely avoiding my statement.

“It’s not about liking it,” I say carefully. “I just figured it’d be easier. You two were all over each other.”

Chris laughs. Once. Dry. He still doesn’t look at me. “You always do this shit. Make everything my fault, like I’m the one screwing everything up. You think making a fucking smoothie for me is gonna fix everything? Win me over?”

I shift forward, elbows on my knees, trying to keep my voice even. I don’t know why he’s trying to start a fight; he seemed fine with me the entire day. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Chris finally turns to face me. There’s this flicker in his expression, frustration, confusion, something else I can’t name. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say more, but Mandy’s giggles echo from afar, and the sound yanks him back.

“We’re not cool.” Chris mutters, standing too fast. He brushes powdered sugar off his shorts “So, stop pretending we are.”

I don’t get up, breathing in air that suddenly feels harder than before as he leaves to find Mandy.

“Your mother and I love you both very much.”

Dad says it gently, hands clasped between his knees like he’s trying to hold something in place. He’s sitting on the couch next to Mom, their bodies angled slightly apart, like even the air between them can’t figure out what to do.

Mom’s voice is steadier than I expect when she adds, “We’ve decided to separate.”

She says it with a nod, as if this is a business plan they’ve already shaken hands on. “But nothing’s going to change on how we feel about you two. We love you. We’re still your parents.”

I don’t look at either of them. Just stare at the wooden bowl on the coffee table, full of fake lemons. One of them has a scuff mark across the side.

“We want you boys to have time to think,” Mom continues. “To really consider who you’d feel more comfortable staying with. We’re both open to shared custody. Separate months, if that’s easier.”

“One season with your mom, and the other with me,” Dad adds, almost like it’s a suggestion. “It’s whatever makes the most sense to you.”

My jaw tightens. I don’t mean for it to, but I feel the muscle tick just under my skin. There’s a pause. Like they expect us to say something. Like they’re waiting for permission to keep talking. The lack of noise is aching.

“I want to stay with Dad.”

It comes out clipped. My voice bears no emotion, no explanation. I hear Chris inhale beside me, sharp and short, like he just stepped into ice water.

Dad shifts next to Mom, but he doesn’t look surprised. “You sure?” he asks. “I’ll be moving to California.”

His voice is still soft, still careful. But the words hang heavier now.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m sure.”

I don’t look at Chris. I feel his stare, though. Feel the heat of it pressed against the side of my face, like if I turn my head, something in both of us will split open.

So I don’t.

I keep my eyes on the lemons. Let my nails press into my palms and silence crawl up the walls, sitting heavy in my throat.

Chapter Text

The air smells like sunscreen and hot rubber.

I lean against the counter of the caddy shack, sweat dripping down the back of my neck as I watch golf carts hum across the course like lazy bugs. It’s one of those still, heavy afternoons. But not enough breeze to cut through the heat, just humidity to make the inside of my shirt cling to me like a second skin.

Jesse’s slouched on a cracked stool beside the cooler, chewing the end of a straw wrapper. His club polo is untucked and stained with what looks like Gatorade or maybe something worse. He flips through a Playboy magazine he must’ve brought from home.

“You ever think about quitting?” he asks, not looking up.

“Every ten minutes,” I say.

He grins, folding the page. “Want to hit the back lot later? I’ve got something rolled.”

I glance over at him. “Nah.”

He pauses. “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

That’s it. He doesn’t joke or prod. Just a blink, a shrug. Jesse’s good like that, never pushes when I say no, never acts surprised even when he is.

The club PA crackles above us with a burst of static and the same tinny jazz it always plays on loop. I wipe my hands on my khaki shorts and step toward the edge of the shack, scanning the gravel path for carts. There's a kid loading golf bags two stalls down, earbuds in, moving slow enough to make time feel like it’s crawling.

Then a guy strolls up to the counter, skin tanned deep like he’s made of leather, collared shirt untucked, vintage sunglasses pushing his hair back. He looks a couple years older than me at most, but his dressing says otherwise.

“Chris, right?” he questions, loud and friendly.

My eyes flutter, partly from the heat, but mostly surprise. My name tag’s right there, Matt in bold, sharpie-faded letters.

“Last night was wild, huh?” he hints, nodding like we’re in on the same secret. “Didn’t think I’d see you upright today. Tell your buddy he owes me a round.”

He gives a casual salute and walks off toward the carts without waiting for a reply. I don’t move for a second, just feel the sweat bead tighter at my temples. Jesse side-eyes me over the top of his magazine.

“What was that about?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

But it sits wrong, like a pebble in my stomach. I keep my expression blank, my thoughts snag on the edges. Chris wasn’t at the lifeguard stand today, or yesterday, or the day before. I remember him vaguely telling Mom he wasn’t feeling good at dinner, said Nicole covered his last shift. I didn’t ask questions. I don’t now, either. Instead, I clock out, grab my water bottle from the fridge in the back, and head across the lawn to the gym.

It’s one of those newer club additions, built like a modern barn, all glass windows and light wood. The air smells like eucalyptus wipes and cheap cologne, the ones older members never stop wearing. Ceiling fans spin slow above the squat racks. The lights are dimmed, almost too soft for a gym, but no one complains. Most people come here to be seen, not to sweat.

There’s only one other guy inside, a middle-aged man in a Vineyard Vines shirt doing bicep curls with a mirror-ready scowl. I nod at him, and he ignores me. Works for me. I start with incline presses, and then rows. Then pull-ups until my arms burn. My shirt clings to my back and the skin behind my ears stays hot. I lose count after a while, rep after rep. The mirrors don’t help. Every time I catch my reflection, my face looks too much like his.

I throw a towel around my neck and move to the treadmills. No music, just the low mechanical hum of the belt and the occasional thud of my sneakers. I run until my legs ache and the sweat soaks through the band of my socks. Fifteen minutes go by, maybe twenty. It’s enough for me to slow down and step off, my heart still rattling. There’s a faint ringing in my ears. I sit on the edge of the weight bench, elbows to knees, water bottle tipped up, eyes closed.

I grab my bag from the cubby near the exit, shoulders still sore and damp. The hallway outside the gym is quieter now, a stretch of cool tile and soft hallway music that sounds like it belongs in an elevator. I tuck my water bottle in my bag and push the door open with my shoulder.

Nicole’s standing near the vending machines, punching a code into the keypad. Her visor’s pushed up like she just got off shift, bleached hair clipped up in a messy twist. She doesn’t see me at first, just stares down at the buttons like they’ve offended her.

“Hey,” I say, adjusting the strap on my bag.

She looks up, startled for half a second, then smiles. It’s small and polite. “Hey, you done for the day?”

“Yeah.” I nod toward the gym behind me. “Just needed to burn something off.”

Nicole taps her knuckles on the side of the vending machine. “Let me guess, she broke your heart, and you went to the gym to get all buff and scary?”

I let out a laugh, shaking my head, then glance down the hallway. “You didn’t see Chris around today, did you?”

She shakes her head. “No, thought he was off? I covered his shift yesterday, but I haven’t seen him since.”

“Okay, just checking.”

She gives me a look, not quite concerned, but definitely something edged. Like she’s thinking about asking more but doesn’t. Her snack drops down into the bin with a dull thunk. She bends to grab it, then straightens.

“Hope everything’s good,” she says.

“Yeah, all good.”

The weather outside is thick and sun-sticky, it wraps around my neck and leeches to my skin. I roll down the windows halfway home, let the wind dry the sweat off my arms. It’s past four now, shadows just starting to stretch across the yard when I pull into the gravel drive.

Dad’s already out back, hunched over the rusted barbecue with a pair of tongs and a bottle of Sweet Baby Ray’s. A pack of thighs sizzles over the flames, smoke curling upward in lazy gray ribbons. He’s got a Red Sox cap on backwards, cargo shorts, and a beer sweating on the railing beside him. I drop my bag inside and head out to join him.

“Wash your hands first,” he calls, without turning.

I roll my eyes but do it anyway. By the time I get back outside, he’s flipped the chicken and stepped back, arms crossed like he’s supervising an excavation instead of a cookout.

“Here,” he says, handing me the brush and the bottle. “Glaze the other side.”

I do it carefully, methodically. The smell rises up immediately, char, smoke, and brown sugar. Barbecues at the Cape house are their own kind of ritual. It’s never anything fancy, just grilled meat, corn on the cob, and a stack of paper plates that always blow off the table if no one weighs them down. But Dad treats it like an Olympic event, says there’s a right way to grill chicken. A right temperature and a right amount of sauce. I’ve never really paid attention to the rules.

“Don’t drown it,” he warns.

“I’m not.”

He grunts like he doesn’t believe me. Behind us, the screen door creaks. Mom’s voice calls out something about salad and setting the table. I tune most of it out, keep brushing the last piece. The smoke stings the corners of my eyes.

“Smells good,” Dad says after a beat, stepping back and tilting his head like he’s admiring a painting instead of half-charred thighs on an old grill. “Better than last summer. You remember that one batch? Blacker than a tire tread.”

“You mean the ones you ‘accidentally’ left on while you fixed the sprinkler system?” I arch a brow, smirking. “Yeah. That was memorable.”

He chuckles. “They had character.”

“They had carbon.”

He nudges me with his elbow. “That’s the spirit. We call it ‘Cape-style.’”

I roll my eyes, but it’s easy. There’s a lull from the heat, the one that settles in after too much sun and not enough water. Dad takes a sip from his beer, watching the grill. “You ever think about learning to grill properly?” he asks. “You’ve got the brush technique down. Almost.”

I shrug. “I don’t know, it’s kind of your thing.”

He nods, thoughtful. “Doesn’t have to be.”

The chicken hisses under the last swipe of glaze. I hand the brush back and he closes the lid with a decisive clang. Smoke drifts up between us like steam off pavement. Behind us, the screen door swings open again.

“Food’s ready!” Mom calls. “Bring that masterpiece inside.”

Dad grabs the platter and tongs, and I trail him in. The kitchen’s cooler, but the windows are wide open, and the breeze pushes through the sheer curtains. Mom’s already got the table half-set, plastic forks, salad in a blue ceramic bowl, corn wrapped in foil, and a bottle of pink lemonade with the cap off. She moves around the space like it’s second nature, already scooping rice onto plates.

“Chicken smells amazing,” she says, flicking her eyes between me and Dad.

“All me,” he answers without missing a beat.

“Sure it was,” I mumble, setting the stack of paper plates down on the porch table outside. I grab two lawn chairs while I’m at it, kick a rock off the porch step with my sneaker. The porch lights haven’t come on yet, but the sun’s low enough to cover the yard in gold. By the time we all sit, Mom with her plate perfectly balanced on her lap, Dad reaching for the tongs again. There’s a thud inside and the front door creaks.

Chris.

He walks in like he’s not late, like he hasn’t missed the smell of grilling chicken or Mom’s call to dinner. His hair’s fluffier than usual and his shirt’s wrinkled in a way that doesn’t look accidental.

“Hey,” he says.

Dad glances up. “Cutting it close.”

“Lost track of time.” Chris shrugs, reaching for a paper plate.

“You feeling better?” Mom asks, already moving to make space for him on the porch steps.

“Yeah,” he quips, too fast.

Chris doesn’t look at me. Instead, he sits down, cross-legged beside the planter, and picks a piece of chicken off his plate with his fingers. His knee bounces once, twice. I force myself to look away. Something under my skin hums, nerves I can’t explain. I gulp down a piece of chicken. I promised myself I would stay out his way, it was clear he wanted nothing to do with me.

The conversation moves on around us, Dad talking about the guy he caddied for that morning, Mom commenting on how nice the corn came out this time. Chris laughs at the right parts, answers when spoken to. He doesn’t say anything for a while, sitting there with his plate half-empty, twirling the corn cob slowly by the stick like he’s forgotten it’s food. His foot taps softly under the table. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, it’s as if he’s trying to make himself smaller.

When he finally stands up, the legs of the porch chair scrape against the floorboards. “I’m heading out,” he mumbles, rubbing his hands on his shorts.

Mom glances up from where she’s picking through the salad bowl for cucumbers. “Where to?”

Chris shrugs. “Not sure, might go see Nicole.”

“You feeling better?” Dad asks without looking up from his plate. He’s halfway through a chicken drumstick.

Chris doesn’t answer that directly. “I’m fine,” he says instead, brushing crumbs from the chicken seasoning he didn’t finish off his palms like it’s dust. “I’ll be back soon.”

Mom starts to say something else, but the screen door creaks and slams before she gets the chance. I keep chewing, slowly, the food feeling like a weight in my mouth.

Later, back in my room, the window reflects darkness. The night moon slants through the blinds, cutting stripes across the carpet. I’ve kicked off my shoes and pulled the fan closer, letting it hum against the quiet. I’m on the floor, back leaned against the wall, sketchbook balanced on one knee. The paper’s already warped from where I pressed too hard earlier. My hand moves out of habit more than intention. Shade here. Smudge there. The lead darkens the page, but the shape refuses to settle.

The silence in the room is too clean, too loud in its own way. I glance at the clock. Chris has been gone over three hours. I pick up my phone, just to check the time again. That’s when it buzzes.

Yo. You need to come get him.

My stomach drops before I even finish reading Jesse’s text. Another buzz, then:

He’s not okay man. Idk what he took.
Party’s near the ramp at bass creek. Hurry.

I sit up straight, the sketchbook sliding off my leg and slapping shut on the floor. My pulse skips and the air feels tight. I move quickly, grabbing my phone and keys in one hand, already halfway to the hallway when I stop by the kitchen. Mom’s at the sink, rinsing corn husks, her sleeves rolled up. The back door’s open, letting in a breeze that smells like charcoal and seawater.

“Hey,” I say, trying to sound neutral. “I’m gonna go get Chris.”

She turns slightly. “Nicole’s?”

I nod. “Yeah, I think he’s still there.”

She sighs, drying her hands with a towel. “Tell him dinner’s still on the table.”

“Okay.”

I hesitate for half a second, but she’s already turned back toward the sink. I head for the door, jaw tight, slipping out into the silver wash of early night. The screen clicks shut behind me, I try not to focus on my shaking hands.

The drive’s mostly muscle memory, headlights carving through the trees, tires spitting gravel. The road curves sharp near Bass Creek, where the dunes start to swell against the horizon like slow, sleeping giants. I park at the edge of the turnout, killing the engine but leaving the headlights on.

The music hits first, low, distorted bass thudding through the night like a dying heartbeat. Then the smell, thick, cloying. Gasoline and weed and something chemical underneath, like burnt plastic and bleach. It doesn’t smell like beer or cheap vodka or teenage recklessness. It’s putrid, almost rotten. I follow the sound, boots sinking slightly in the soft sand, salt air warping the edges of every breath I take. The dunes loom higher as I move closer, muffling the music until I crest one and see the flickering fire pit in the hollow below. Shapes move around it, blurry silhouettes in hoodies and cutoff jeans, red solo cups flashing in their hands, cigarette tips flaring.

Someone laughs too loud, a wild, shredded sound. There’s a dog barking in the distance. It smells worse up close, like sweat and vomit and the sharp, sour stink of piss in the bushes. I push through the crowd, shoulder brushing damp fabric, someone’s arm, a drink splashes on my shirt, but I don’t stop. Most faces are unfamiliar, older teens and early twenties maybe, sharp eyes and sunken cheeks.

I spot Jesse near the fire, leaning against a cooler with a worried crease between his brows. His hoodie’s unzipped, drawstrings loose, hands fidgeting at his sides. He sees me and straightens fast.

“Matt,” he says, pushing off the cooler. “Dude, thank God.”

“Where is he?” My voice comes out too clipped, too fast.

Jesse runs a hand through his hair. “I-I don’t know. I lost him. He was here an hour ago. Someone gave him something, I think. I didn’t know he was gonna be here. Swear.”

I stare at him.

“I didn’t think he’d come to shit like this,” Jesse goes on, lower now. “He was already weird when I saw him, off. I was trying to keep an eye on him but...”

I’m already walking. I scan the groups clustered in the dark, shadows passing bottles, ash flicking into the sand. The air’s greasy with smoke and heat, flames licking higher than they should. Someone’s passed out near a dune, shirt riding up over their ribs.

I hear a voice. It’s faint and familiar. Then laughter, slurred. I head toward it fast, nearly knocking into a girl holding a bottle of something clear. She mumbles something at me, I don’t hear it. I don’t care.

And then I see him.

Chris is half-slumped against a driftwood log, legs stretched out, face tilted up like he’s looking at the stars except his eyes aren’t focused on anything. His pupils are huge, swallowing up his ice blue irises. His mouth’s open slightly, lips pink and wet like he’s just come up for air. One of his hands flops at his side, the other tangled in someone’s lap, some guy in a sports jacket, a little too close, hand tracing lines across Chris’s thigh like he’s drawing a map he doesn’t own.

Rage flares. I don’t even think. I grab Chris by the arm and yank him up hard.

The man blinks. “Whoa, bro, he’s fine-”

“He’s not fine,” I spit. “Fuck off.”

Chris stumbles into me, legs useless under him. He mumbles something incoherent and laughs, face slack. There’s a smear of sand on his cheek and his shirt’s half unbuttoned. I hook one arm around his waist, pull him tight to me. “C’mon,” I mutter. “We’re going home.”

He resists, weakly. “M’fine,” he slurs, pushing at my chest. “Matt-let me-”

“Shut up,” I growl, dragging him forward. “Just walk.”

He stumbles again, harder this time, nearly sending us both into the sand. His limbs don’t work right. He jerks in my grip, flailing like a puppet with cut strings.

“Get the fuck off me,” he snaps, voice cracking. “You always-think you know everything-” Then, suddenly, he laughs again, wild and slurred. “You smoke weed all the time.”

I stop walking for half a second. “Yeah,” I huff, furious now. “But I’m not high on LSD or whatever the fuck you’re on.”

He tries to shove me, but it’s weak and clumsy. I hold on tighter.

“Don’t wear him out too bad, man,” someone calls after us, their voice mocking and scratchy. “Hope you brought lube.”

Chris fights me all the way to the dunes, breath ragged and sweat-slicked. The wind picks up, bringing with it a sudden coolness. Clouds slide over the moon, the air smells like rain.

“I hate you,” Chris hisses suddenly, low but sharp. “You’re such a goddamn-”

Then he goes dead weight.

“Shit,” I mutter, hoisting him higher, trying not to lose grip.

I bend and drag his arm over my shoulders, my other arm around his back, half-carrying him now. His feet drag in the sand, shoes slipping. He curses again, weakly. The rain starts in thin, cold spits, slicing diagonally across my face. I keep going, we reach the boardwalk trail. Then the beach, the sand is darker now, heavy underfoot. The rain comes harder, soaking through my shirt, flattening Chris’s hair to his forehead.

He’s breathing fast, eyes half-shut, mouth mumbling something I can’t make out. I adjust my grip. “We’re almost there,” I say, more to myself than him.

The car’s still half a mile away. The beach stretches ahead of us, empty, silver-lit, the water loud and restless on our left. Thunder cracks faintly behind the dunes and Chris shivers in my arms, twitching once. I tighten my arm around him and keep walking, one foot in front of the other, swallowing the sick feeling in my chest. Chris starts mumbling again, words slipping out wet and broken.

“Shut up,” I mutter. “Just shut up and walk.”

He stumbles, digs his heels in, dragging us to a halt. “Let go of me,” he slurs.

“Chris-”

“I said, fuck-let go.”

He shoves me hard with one arm, slipping from my grip. His knees buckle immediately, and he crashes into the sand with a thud that knocks the wind out of him. I stop cold, chest heaving, rain dripping from my chin.

“Jesus Christ,” I say, turning back.

Chris is on his hands and knees now, wet sand caked to his palms, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

“Get up,” I snap, reaching for him. He flinches like I struck him.

“Don’t touch me,” he bites, voice raw.

I freeze, his whole body’s trembling. Water runs in rivulets down his neck, his shirt plastered to his back. Lightning flashes in the distance, illuminating his face for a second. He’s wrecked. Red-eyed. Hollow. Then he looks up at me, and something breaks.

“Why?” he chokes, voice cracking. “Why did you throw it all away?”

I don’t answer, my teeth clench so tight my jaw aches.

“You-you didn’t even look at me,” he sobs. “That night, after, and I just-I waited, Matt. I fucking waited.”

I shake my head, stepping back. “Don’t.”

“You left me,” Chris spits, fists clenched in the sand. “You didn’t even say why.”

“Because I could never have you! ”

My voice tears through the air like thunder, louder than the waves, louder than the rain. My fists curl at my sides. Chris stares at me, lips parted, rain streaking down his cheeks like tears.

He laughs, a broken, strangled sound. “You think saying that makes you better than me?”

“I think it makes me the only one who gives a shit about you right now!” I scream. “You could’ve fucking died in there, Chris!”

Chris pushes himself up from the sand, fists clenched, arms trembling. “You’re so fucking full of shit,” he spits. “You think pretending none of it happened makes it go away?”

“I didn’t pretend,” I snap. “I lived with it. Every fucking day.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” he yells, voice cracking. “Why didn’t you say anything to me?!”

“Because what was I supposed to say? That I was scared? That I didn’t know what it meant? That I-” I bite the inside of my cheek, hard. “You wouldn’t get it.”

Chris surges forward suddenly, sloppy and stumbling, and swings. The punch misses by a mile, throwing him off balance. He nearly eats sand again.

“Liar! Liar!” he screams, chest heaving, rain pouring off his soaked hair like it’s trying to drown him. “You fucking liar!”

I don’t flinch. I just stand there, jaw locked, letting the thunder roll through me. Chris screams again, louder, hoarse. “You left me! You fucking left me!”

And for a second, I see him how he used to be.

Barefoot on the porch with a popsicle in hand, laughing at something stupid I said. His hair wavy and sun-touched, cheeks pink from the heat, long sleeved shirt falling off one shoulder. He was always leaning too far into the light, smiling like nothing could ever touch him. His eyes, bright and blue, they used to spark.

I blink, and that version of him is gone.

My Chris.

I’ve got my headphones on, volume up. Some playlist I don’t even like, just loud enough to drown everything out. The song bleeds static at the edges, too sharp in my ears, but I don’t care.

I’m lying on my bed, staring up at the ceiling like it’s got answers. The fan clicks every few seconds, slow and rhythmic. It’s hot in the room, stale. I haven’t opened the windows since I got back from the beach.

The door is locked. Chris knocks once. Then again, softer.

“Matty?”

I close my eyes, the music pulses. I don’t answer. Another knock. The doorknob rattles gently, just to check.

“Can you just-can you open the door please?” His voice is quiet, careful. “I just want to talk.”

I grip the hem of my shirt and don’t move. The fan clicks again.

“I don’t get it,” he says. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

There’s a pause. I can hear him shift his weight on the other side.

“If this is about last night…”

A shaky breath.

“I-I’m sorry, okay?”

He sniffles. “You’re not even gonna tell me what I did?” he asks, his voice cracking. “I thought we were-”

I put my headphones back on, my vision going blurry as I watch my fingers shake. The music picks up where it left off, loud and empty. I press my palms into my eyes until the light behind them goes red.

Chapter Text

The metal counter sticks to my forearms as I lean forward. I’m elbow-deep in a steel mixing bowl, tossing salad with plastic gloves that squeak against the leaves every time I move. Jesse’s across from me, slicing strawberries with the wrong side of the knife, slow, clumsy, like he’s trying not to be there. The prep station is cramped, tucked into the back catering annex of the club’s kitchen, all stainless steel counters and humming fridge units. Jazz hums faintly from the overhead speakers, drowned out by the whir of fans and the clatter of trays being hauled across tile.

The summer soirée is a big deal here. The club calls it “an evening of elegance and tribute,” which is code for overpriced wine, weirdly tiny hors d’oeuvres, and every guest dressing like they just stepped off a Vogue catalogue. It’s held every July, always the third Saturday to celebrate the country club’s founding. This year was its 40^th anniversary. I used to come here as a kid, dressed in khakis that itched and loafers I hated, tagging along behind Mom and Dad while they air-kissed old friends and pointed out which families owned which boats. This year, I’m not attending. I’m working.

“Is this enough?” Jesse asks, gesturing to his tray of cut fruit as if it’s a completed science project.

I glance over. The slices are uneven and kind of wet-looking, but I nod anyway. “Looks great.”

He wipes his hands on his apron and leans against the counter. “Can’t believe we’re actually working this thing.”

“I can,” I mutter. “We were both dumb enough to sign up for double pay.”

“Yeah, well.” He scratches behind his ear. “Beats carrying golf clubs for sweaty lawyers all day.”

There’s a pause, the fans kick on louder overhead. He adds, more quietly, “You sleep at all this week?”

I don’t look at him. “A bit.”

Jesse nods like that’s all he’s going to say, then changes the subject. “They makin’ you wear the full uniform?”

“Yeah.” I glance down at the white button-up folded on the end of the counter. “Shirt, tie, black pants, belt. The works.”

“You’re gonna look like a fancy waiter in a Wes Anderson movie,” Jesse snorts, pushing off the counter and collecting his tray.

I smirk, just a little. “And you won’t?”

He flips me off on his way out the prep kitchen, mumbling something about checking the shrimp cocktail. I go back to the salad. The thing about the soirée is that it’s always the same. White lights strung across the terrace like they’re afraid of darkness, band trio stationed near the fountain, cocktails being balanced like origami on slates of gray ceramic. I used to think it was magical, Cape Cod on its best behavior. The illusion’s thinner when I’m the one hauling folding chairs and spraying down champagne flutes with lemon-scented polish.

Still, there's something about it that gets under my skin. Some memory I can’t quite look at head-on. I remember Mom holding her shiny wine glass just so, laughing too loud at someone’s joke. Dad trading names with old men who called him James, not Jimmy. I remember the sound of the string quartet warming up while the sun sank gold behind the ocean. Mom would put Chris and I in stiff shirts and comb our hair into place, pretending like we belonged here just as much as the rest of them. Chris would steal the mini cupcakes from the dessert table and stuff them in the embroidered napkins. We’d chase each other around the back hedge until Dad hissed our names across the lawn.

That version of the soirée, the family one, feels like it belonged to another form of me. One I don’t wear anymore.

The salad bowl is almost empty now, and my gloves are damp with vinaigrette. I toss the last of it, then step away, tugging off the gloves and dropping them in the trash. My reflection flickers in the oven door, flushed cheeks, hair pushed back from sweat and steam, my eyes a little tired. I rinse my hands in the sink and dry them on my apron. Outside, the sky’s turning into a pre-evening color: soft blue, edges silvering like the underside of a wave. Guests will start arriving in less than an hour, and we’ll be expected to blend in like furniture, quiet, clean, invisible.

I grab my dress shirt and duck into the staff restroom to change. The mirror flickers overhead, buzzing faintly. The shirt’s stiff, freshly pressed and still creased from the fold. I button it up slowly, fingers mechanical, jaw tight. My name tag’s on the sink, Matt S., polished, unassuming. I clip it on.

The hallway smells like mint and fresh flowers. Soft piano music floats in from the banquet hall down the corridor, someone tuning a mic. I pass a window on the way back to the kitchen, and from here, I can see the front lawn of the club. The cars arrive, guests stepping out in pastel dresses and pressed slacks, heels clicking against the flagstones.

“Matt, grab the dessert tray,” Jesse calls from the walk-in, arms full of extra wine glasses. “And remind the servers it’s cheese first, not cake. Some dumbasses almost reversed it.”

“Got it.” I weave through the kitchen, past waiters adjusting bowties and Nicole checking a clipboard with a highlighter between her teeth.

Jesse’s got his sleeves rolled up and his piercings off in a way that almost looks formal. We haven’t talked much since that night on Bass Creek, not really.

“You good?” he asks, not quite meeting my eyes.

“Yeah,” I lie.

He doesn’t question more, just nods and turns back to stacking glasses. By the time we finish prepping, the main hall is buzzing. The lights are dimmed low, warm and buttery across white tablecloths. Dozens of round tables fill the space, each one centered with a floating candle in a tall vase. People are starting to drift in, all perfume and laughter and linen. There’s a small stage set up near the far wall, where a man in a navy suit tests the mic.

“Evening, ladies and gentlemen…” He pats his fingers on the microphone, a screech. “...Thank you for joining us…”

I head toward the kitchen doors again but stop short when I catch sight of a table. Mom and Dad are already seated, Mom in her nice sandals and coral lipstick, Dad nursing a drink, elbow resting on the back of her chair. And beside them, Chris.

He’s wearing something too nice; I feel the urge to look away. Button-up, sleeves falling at his wrists, a tie loose around his neck like he didn’t try. His hair’s neater than usual, soft-looking, pushed back at the sides. He’s leans forward to say something to Mom, smiling when she laughs. I don’t realize I’m staring until the head server calls for me to carry out the cheese platters.

When I circle back into the hall with the tray balanced on one hand, I glance toward their table again. Chris is looking down, twirling the stem of a water glass. The candlelight flickers against his skin, catching in his lashes.

“Matt,” Kavya hisses, and I blink, turning just in time to avoid bumping into someone’s chair.

Focus.

I finish setting the tray down at table fourteen, collect a few empty glasses, and pivot toward the staff station to catch my breath. But Kavya’s already there, standing by one of the side tables with two other girls I don’t recognize, all of them sipping Shirley Temples out of mismatched wine glasses.

“Nice save,” she says, smirking. “Another second and Mrs. Adler’s orthopedic knee would’ve been your collateral damage.”

“Thanks for the play-by-play,” I mumble, setting down the tray.

Kavya’s in a pale maxi dress tonight, it’s silky, a cowl neckline, and the color of seafoam. There’s a thin rose gold chain at her collarbone, and her tight curls tucked back into a clip with little pearls down the spine. She’s flushed from the heat or the rush of everything, I’m not sure which, but she looks calm in a way I can’t fathom right now.

Her friends are both a little tipsy. One’s talking about a wedding she might attend in the fall, and the other keeps eyeing a red-haired boy by the bar. The music’s slower now, dreamy beats that sound like it should come from a record player. We stand there for a minute, watching everyone. Everything’s soft lighting and hum and low laughter. I feel like I’m moving through it all underwater.

“You good?” Kavya asks quietly, nudging me with her shoulder.

I shrug, I don’t understand why everyone keeps asking me that. “Fine.”

“You could sit for a second. No one’s policing breaks anymore,” she adds, gesturing toward the empty chair beside her. “We’ve been camped here since the salad course.”

I hesitate, then sit, just for a moment. My legs thank me instantly. Kavya takes a sip of her drink, then glances across the room.

“You should talk to him, you know,” she says casually, but not unkindly. “He’s been quiet all week.”

I don’t look, neither do I ask how she already knows. “He’s always quiet,” I mutter.

“Not like this,” she says, eyes steady on me.

Something in my chest tightens. I toy with the edge of a napkin, twisting the corner between my fingers. “It’s complicated,”

Kavya hums. “Yeah. It usually is.”

One of her friends laughs loudly at something, and the boy at the bar finally notices and smiles at her.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” I say, barely audible.

Kavya tilts her head, gives me this soft little smile like she’s known the answer all along, even though she is unaware of everything.

“Start by not pretending it doesn’t exist.”

She doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t need to. A boy I vaguely recognize from the night with Chris and I at the pool calls her name from the other end of the room. She gives me one last look before standing, smoothing out her dress, and walking off. I sit there for a second longer, letting the candlelight flicker in the corner of my eye. Then I stand, tuck the chair back in, and disappear into the crowd.

There’s a speech, eventually. The owner of the club, some old man in a three-piece suit with a voice hard as gravel and a face like butter left too long in the sun. He steps up to the stage. He talks about legacy and tradition, mentions his grandfather founding this place in the 1980s, and quotes something French. No one’s really listening, most of the guests sip champagne and scroll through their phones under the tablecloths. Someone across the room is already drunk and a mouthful.

Back in the kitchen, it’s hot and chaotic. Trays of lamb chops, bowls of salad, extra baskets of rolls. I keep my head down, pass plates, take empty dishes, dodge elbows. My feet ache, and my collar keeps sticking to the side of my neck, but it’s better than thinking. At one point, I hear Nicole’s voice by the waitstaff station. She’s in her formal hostess uniform, hair braided down her back, talking to one of the bartenders. When she catches me walking by, she waves.

“You surviving?” she teases.

“Barely.”

“You look nice in a tie.”

I smile, faintly. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

She winks, but someone calls her name and then she disappears again. After the main course, I take a detour through the patio doors, out onto the veranda. The sun’s fully down now, the night humming with crickets. Lights hang in rows from the rafters, little bulbs glowing like stars strung low to the ground. Couples slow-dance in the grass. A few of the younger servers huddle near the railing, smoking, one of them fiddling with a vape pen.

Chris stands alone at the edge of the terrace, near one of the tall planters. His jacket’s draped over the railing, and his hands are shoved in his pockets. He’s not looking at anything. Just standing, still and quiet, almost like he’s trying not to exist at all. I want to go inside. I don’t.

Instead, I lean back against the wall, arms crossed, watching him through the strings of light. He shifts, adjusts his stance. His eyes flick toward the door, probably thinking of leaving. I’m halfway to stepping toward him when Dad steps outside too, heading in Chris’s direction with a pair of drinks in hand. I push off the wall and head back inside.

Later, after dessert is served and the candle wax has melted low, I’m clearing plates near the corner table when Jesse sidles up beside me.

“Smoke break?” he offers, nudging his head toward the kitchen.

“I haven’t been feeling it lately,” I say.

“Didn’t ask if you did,” he grins.

I almost smile. The night is long, and the music shifts into something slower, richer, as the band takes over from the speaker system. People dance now, really dance. A few shoes come off, someone spills wine but no one cares because it’s summer and they’re rich and the moon is full.

Eventually, I find myself retracing my steps past the main hall and through the back corridor, where the light is dimmer, yellowed and buzzing through sconces like it can’t quite commit to being bright. I should be bussing table nine, but my hands are empty and my feet move without asking.

The hallway near the staff offices is quiet. It smells faintly of tree wax and old paper. There’s a storage door cracked open near the end, a linen closet, I think. But it’s the figure leaning against the wall that stops me.

Chris is alone, arms folded across his chest like he’s holding himself together. His tie is even looser than before, collar open. His eyes are closed. I don’t think, I walk. His head lifts when he hears my steps, and his gaze meets mine instantly, not startled, just tired. We freeze there, staring. The hum of the ice machine behind me is the only sound between us.

My hands go to his pockets, frantic, clumsy, not soft. I pat down his jeans, check the inside of his blazer even though it’s hanging limp on the hook nearby. I’m rough about it, almost reckless.

“The fuck are you doing?” he snaps, grabbing my wrist.

“Are you high?” I breathe. “Are you on something right now?”

His whole body goes still, like I slapped him. “What the hell is wrong with you?” His voice isn’t loud, but it’s sharp. “You think I’d show up to this on acid?”

“I don’t know,” I mutter, even though I do.

He shoves my hand off his chest. “I’m not a fucking druggie now.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My fingers are still curled like they’re trying to hang onto something.

“I’m clean,” he says, jaw set. “I’ve been clean since that night. You’d know that if you actually gave a shit.”

Then he exhales. “What?”

“I don’t know,” I breathe, my voice a ragged whisper. I don’t.

I grab him by the collar, my fingers digging into the fabric, pulling him towards me. Chris doesn’t fight it, not at first. His back hits the wall with a dull thud, his breath catching in his throat. My hands fist his shirt, and I surge forward.

My mouth crashes into his.

It’s a clash of lips and teeth, messy, ungraceful. I feel the breath leave him in a stuttered gasp against my lips. Chris’s hands come up like he’s going to push me away but don’t, hovering, unsure, as if he’s torn. I press harder, kissing him like it’s the only way I’ll ever be able to speak again. His lips are soft and taste like vanilla but parted now, letting me in. Chris’s breath hitches when I nip at his bottom lip, a sharp, stinging bite that sends a jolt through the both of us. I angle my body closer, trying to crawl inside the space we’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.

He makes a sound as my tongue enters his mouth, quiet, broken. A moan or a whine, I can’t tell. His hands find me, one clutching my bicep, the other curling into my shirt, pulling me closer. His mouth moves with mine now, urgent, hungry, like he needs it just as bad.

For a second, for a full, solid second, I think he’s going to let me have this. Let me have him.

And then he shoves me, hard enough that I stumble back a step, nearly crash into the opposite wall. He’s breathing hard, eyes big and glassy, lips red and swollen. His chest rises and falls like he’s been underwater too long and only just surfaced.

“You can’t do this!” he snaps.

My mouth is still half open, lungs still catching up. “Chris-”

“You-you can’t kiss me like that,” he says, voice thick, trembling, “You can’t want me when it’s convenient and then shut me out.”

The hallway seems too narrow now, too full of air and memory.

“I never-” I start, but he cuts me off with a bitter laugh.

“You did,” he says, strong and firm. “Last summer. You stopped answering. You stopped everything.”

He’s shaking a little, jaw clenched like he’s trying to hold something in that’s already spilled. I don’t move. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. Chris steps back, running a hand through his hair as if it physically hurts to look at me. His fingers stall at the nape of his neck. He looks like he might say more, but he doesn’t.

He turns and walks away, vanishing in the corridors.

And I let him.

Chapter Text

The windows are open, and the sound of the ocean folds softly into the room, a low hush, like the house is exhaling. The breeze carries the scent of sun balm and fruit, ruffles the edge of the blanket draped over my legs. Chris is sprawled out beside me, head resting against my thigh, arms folded like a pillow beneath his cheek. His eyes are closed, his long lashes casting shadows across his skin, but I can tell he’s not asleep. His breathing’s too shallow.

Mom and Dad took the car to Provincetown for the day with friends, something about dinner and an indie show they probably won’t stay awake through. Leftovers consisting of cake and fried rice are in the fridge, the house is ours until late. It’s not the first time they’ve gone away like this. Normally we’d fight for the TV or argue over who gets to finish the cereal. But tonight, it’s quiet.

I’ve got my sketchbook open in my lap, pen loose in my hand. I’m drawing without thinking, the way I always do when my mind’s foggy. The page is already half full. A tangle of figures and details. There’s a figure standing in the sand, shoes off, a sweatshirt bunched in one hand. The sea in front of him. I don’t know who it’s supposed to be. I don’t think I want to.

Chris shifts against me, and I pause my pen. His voice is small, a little scratchy from not speaking. “You drawin’ me again?”

I look down. His eyes are open now, blue catching the dying sunlight that filters through the shutters. I blink, caught off guard. “What?”

He grins, lazy. “That’s my sweatshirt. And you made the nose look like mine.”

I scoff. “It’s just a figure.”

“You’re obsessed with me,” he sings, smirking into my leg.

I flick the edge of his ear, and he flinches, scrunching his shoulders with a laugh. “Asshole,” I say.

Chris rolls over onto his back, grinning up at me. “I’m not wrong.”

“You’re annoying.”

He pouts. “Say you love me.”

“No.”

He reaches up, trying to grab for my sketchbook. “Say it.”

I dodge, twisting so the book’s behind me, trying hard to contain my smile. “Get off.”

Chris giggles. “Make me.”

I don’t think. I drop the sketchbook and pounce, knocking the air out of him in one clumsy shove. He lets out a sharp squeal, part laughter, part protest, as I tackle him flat onto the bed.

“Matty!” he yells, trying to squirm away. I pin his wrists down, his arms above his head, the heels of my hands pressing into the blanket. His legs kick beneath me, useless. I straddle his hips, breathing hard, a slight grin on my face. Chris’s cheeks are flushed, his hair a mess against the pillow. He’s laughing, but it catches midway and turns breathy. We’re face to face now, close enough I can see the faint freckle on the side of his jaw. His wrists twitch under my grip, but he doesn’t try to pull away again.

My heart thuds, hard. Chris’s smile fades, his lips parting just slightly. His eyes flick between mine, then lower to my mouth. The room doesn’t feel quiet anymore, it’s charged. The ocean sounds louder and everything else falls away.

He leans in first. Just a little.

That’s all it takes.

My hand leaves his wrist, cups his jaw instead, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. I close the distance, tilt my head.

Our lips melt together like gravity took over. It’s not soft, it’s not shy. It’s everything we never said. Chris exhales sharply against my mouth, and the sound punches straight through me. I press in, lips parted, testing the shape of his, and he opens up for me with ease as if he’s been practicing. The kiss deepens instantly, no hesitation. His bottom lip catches between mine, and I pull on it just slightly, feeling him shudder beneath me.

He kisses back like it hurts not to. Mouth warm, moving in slow, urgent pressure, then faster, hungrier. We fall into rhythm quickly. His lips drag against mine, pull and slide and press again. My tongue brushes against his lower lip again, and Chris lets out the softest noise. Something caught between a gasp and a whimper, and parts his mouth wider. I sink into him, my whole chest flush with his, fingers slipping into his messy hair. His hands grip the fabric of my shirt tight, one fisting at my ribs, the other trembling near my shoulder. We don’t come up for air.

His breath is mine now, intertwined. Our mouths stay locked, shifting between sweet and desperate, all tongue and open mouths and gentle nips that make us both pant into it. His back arches under me. His leg slides just slightly between mine, not even on purpose. His lips feel swollen already, mine probably are too.

I kiss him like I’ve been waiting my entire life.

Eventually, I pull back, just enough to look at him. Chris’s lips are pink and glossy and kiss-bitten. His pupils are wide, dazed, shining like he’s never been touched before and doesn’t want it to end. I don’t know how long we stay like that in silence, the only sound our heaves. The wind brushes against the curtains, the ocean breathing with us.

I don’t say anything and wonder what the fuck we just did.

Chapter Text

We always used to camp out on the beach the last weekend of July. Dad would circle the date in red pen on the fridge calendar, even though everyone already knew it by heart. We’d load up the car with too many blankets, three flimsy tents, a tiny radio, bug spray that never worked, and Mom’s old cooler stuffed with sandwich stuff and sweets. Then we’d hike down to the bay and set up everything before the sun dipped.

It’s the same this year. Mostly.

The sand’s already cooling beneath my sneakers when we get there, soft and rippled like pressed linen. The tide’s halfway out, glittering in the late light, and the wind’s kicked up just enough to send the tarp corners flapping like flags. We set up near the dunes, like always. Dad likes the slope for wind protection and says it keeps the “nosy raccoons” out, even though we’ve never actually seen one.

Dad drops the folded tents in a pile and claps his hands together like it’s the beginning of a team huddle. “Okay, one for your mother and me, one for you boys-”

“Actually,” Mom interrupts, pulling another rolled-up tent from the car. “Brought a third. So I can have I own this time.”

A weird silence passes.

“Oh,” Dad says, his smile freezing a little. “Right.”

There was a time when it was still two tents. One for me and Chris, the other for Mom and Dad. They used to argue over how many blankets to bring, whether we needed the lantern or if phones were enough. But they always zipped their tent closed together, two silhouettes curled on opposite sides of the same space. Now there’s three.

Mom clears her throat like she wants to change the subject, and Chris keeps his head down, jabbing a tent stake into the sand. I focus on untangling the bungee cords. The wind lifts the edge of the tarp and snaps it once, loud and sudden, but no one flinches. His eyes flick to mine. I nod once, mostly to myself, and kneel down to help stake the corners of the smallest tent. We haven’t spoken much since the soirée.

“Three tents,” Mom chirps again, trying to fill the space. “We’re fancy now.”

Dad grunts as he starts unzipping the canvas. “Or maybe everyone’s slowed down.”

Chris smirks at that. I see it out of the corner of my eye, just a twitch of his mouth before he looks away. I feel it in my chest, sharp and stupid.

The rest of the setup is mostly quiet, except for the soft thuds of tent poles, the screech of the cooler dragging through the sand, and Mom humming some old Radiohead song under her breath. I keep my hands busy, tightening the cords, checking the zippers, shaking out the sleeping bags. Chris and I move around each other like magnets flipped the wrong way. Not close enough to touch, not far enough to forget.

When the tents are up, Dad digs a fire pit while I stack the kindling. The sun’s almost gone now, horizon-streaked peach and pink, and the smell of salt is everywhere. Mom’s already opened a pack of hot dogs and dumped them into a paper bowl as if we’re five again. Chris tosses sticks into the pile without saying anything. One of them bumps my shoe. I look up, but he’s already turned away.

That used to be our thing, the hot dogs. I’d hold mine too close to the flames on purpose, blacken it until it split open, just to make him gag. He’d rotate his like he was slow roasting a delicacy, face serious, insisting we should team up for the next cooking show. We’d laugh until our stomachs hurt, like the fire was a little sun we built ourselves. Now, we sit on driftwood logs around it, the silence filled with the crack of kindling catching flame. Dad’s the first to break it.

“You know, this spot’s gotten smaller,” he says, adjusting his chair with a grunt. “Or maybe I’ve just gotten old.”

“You’re definitely older,” Mom teases, passing him a bun.

“Wiser, too. I’m like a beach prophet now,” he says, poking at the fire with a stick.

Chris snorts quietly. It’s small, but I hear it.

“Still makes the same bad jokes,” I mutter, and Dad smirks.

We eat with the sound of waves filling the pauses. The hot dogs taste like nostalgia, smoky, unevenly cooked, the kind of flavor that only exists in firelight and humid air. Chris squirts a little too much ketchup on his and wipes his thumb on his napkin without caring. I cringe.

Mom finishes chewing and turns toward him. “Did you bring your lacrosse sticks?”

Chris nods, mouth full. He always had this bunny-like face when he ate. “They’re in the back of the car.”

She perks up a little. “Why don’t you boys play some? Get a little energy out before it’s too dark.”

Chris glances over at me, expression unreadable. Dad stretches, wipes his hands on a paper towel. “I’m game, if you two don’t mind your poor old man jogging around in flip-flops.”

“You’ll break something,” I joke, but I’m already getting up.

Chris stands too, brushing sand off his shorts. “I’ll grab the sticks.”

He disappears toward the car, and I trail after Dad, the fire popping behind us. The sun’s almost fully down now, just a thin line of gold bleeding into ocean. A few stars blink faintly overhead. By the time Chris comes back, tossing me a stick, the sky’s gone violet. We head to the flatter patch of beach where the sand’s firmer, and the three of us start passing the ball back and forth under the rising moon.

It’s stiff at first, a little clumsy. Chris throws short once and mumbles something like “sorry,” and I pretend not to hear it. But soon, muscle memory kicks in, Dad grunts as he shuffles after a bounce, Chris flicks his wrist like a pro, and I catch the ball mid-air, my chest jarring slightly with the motion.

“Not bad,” Dad pants, winded but smiling. “You two still got it.”

Chris gives me a crooked look. “You’re lucky I’m going easy.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

He lunges suddenly, aiming to intercept, and I duck to the side, laugh catching in my throat. It doesn’t last long, but for a few minutes, it feels like summer used to. Like we’re still those kids in sun-faded t-shirts, chasing light and each other until someone called us in for dinner.

Eventually, Mom calls out from the fire, says it’s getting late, and Dad groans dramatically about his back. We head back across the sand, slower this time, the game dissolving into quiet again. Chris walks a few steps ahead of me, his stick resting across his shoulders like he doesn’t know what to do with it now that we’re not playing. When we reach the edge of the firelight, I step up beside him and, without saying anything, slide the stick gently off his shoulders. He doesn’t flinch or stop me, just lets it happen, his arm dropping loosely to his side.

“I’ll carry it,” I murmur, not really expecting a response.

He doesn’t give one. But for a second, he looks at me, and in his eyes there’s something indecipherable, but not cold. I shift the stick in my grip and keep walking. Behind us, the waves whisper against the shore, and the fire snaps softly, casting long shadows as we head back to camp. Mom’s already unwrapping chocolate bars, breaking them into squares, and setting them beside the graham crackers on a paper plate like she’s hosting some rustic movie. Dad’s crouched near the pit, feeding in thicker branches with the focus of a caveman performing a sacred ritual.

Chris sits first, cross-legged on the sand near the logs we’ve pulled around the fire. I hang back a moment, brushing sand off my shorts, before dropping down across from him. Someone passes me a marshmallow stick. I don’t know if it was Mom or Dad, doesn’t matter. The fire hisses as the wood catches deeper, orange-red light flickers across all of us.

I stab a marshmallow onto my stick and hover it near the flames. The heat kisses my knuckles, and I feel that faint, familiar sting. Almost instinctively, I rotate the stick the wrong way, letting the sugar bubble and blacken.

“You’re doing it again,” Chris says, voice quiet but unmistakable. “Don’t burn yourself.”

I glance up. His gaze flicks to my hand, then back to the fire.

A second passes. Then I smirk. “It’s tradition.”

He huffs, almost a laugh. “So was me stealing your good ones when you weren’t looking.”

“You mean the ones I made perfectly golden?”

“Exactly.” His lips twitch like he might actually smile, but he doesn’t.

I angle my stick away from the flames anyway, let it cool before it crumbles. Across from me, Chris pokes his marshmallow into the embers with surgical precision, just like always. The fire crackles again and Chris hands me a graham cracker like it means nothing.

It means everything.

I glance at him once before accepting it, letting my marshmallow squish into the chocolate, then pulling the top cracker down like I’m sealing something in. The fire huffs between us, quieter now. Smaller. But it’s still here. Mom rustles in her canvas tote behind us and she lets out a satisfied little hum.

“Okay,” she starts. “I brought something.”

Dad, half-lounging on the nearest log with his paper plate of half-eaten s’mores, lifts his eyebrows. “What now?”

“I was going through the attic not long before we left from Boston,” Mom continues, already unzipping a big plastic folder stuffed with something colorful. “You know, sorting out old boxes. And I found these.” She pulls out a small stack of printed photos, worn soft at the corners.

She hands the top one to Dad, who squints at it under the firelight, then passes it to me. It’s us. Chris and me, toddlers maybe, two little identical blurs covered in beach sand, one of us crying, the other laughing so hard our mouth is wide open like we’re screaming. There’s a blue shovel in the corner of the frame, crooked sunglasses on Chris’s head, and I’m holding a Popsicle that’s already melted down my arm.

“God,” I murmur, half-laughing despite myself. “We were feral.”

“I was cute,” Chris says around a bite of graham cracker. “You look terrified.”

I glance up. His face is hard to read in the flickering light, but his voice is lighter than it’s been. Mom keeps passing them out, photos of us in matching pajamas, asleep in the same crib. One of Dad holding us both under each arm like footballs. One where we’re maybe four, sticking forks in a watermelon on the porch. Another from the first summer we came to the Cape, sitting on the railing out back, toes dangling off the edge.

“They used to call you the beach rats,” Dad chuckles with a grin, sipping from his thermos. “You’d run around butt naked, refusing sunscreen, screaming about jellyfish.”

“I still have a scar,” I reply, pointing vaguely at my knee.

“And I still have trauma,” Chris mutters.

Mom’s smiling, she handles the photos gentle, like glass. “Anyway,” she says, a little softer, “I brought these too.”

She reaches into the bag again and pulls out a folded quilt, then carefully lays it out across her lap. Inside are two tiny, hand-knit onesies, one pale pink, the other blue. A little sun stitched on the chest of one. A moon on the other.

“Oh my god,” I whisper, half under my breath. “You kept those?”

“Of course I did,” she says, smoothing the fabric. “I knitted them while I was pregnant. Didn’t even know if you were boys or girls yet.”

Dad leans in, a hearty laugh escaping his lips. “Made Chris wear the girly one.”

Chris shifts beside me, and when I glance over, he’s silent, eyes fixed on the fire. I swallow. The fire throws shadows that stretch slender and crooked across the sand, and I can feel the weight of the pictures in my lap. “Why now?” I ask, voice lower.

Mom exhales, looks between the two of us. “I don’t know. I guess I just thought… maybe it’s time to remember where we started.”

No one says anything for a moment. The wind picks up slightly, brushing salt through the flames. Dad pats her leg gently. “We’re still figuring it out,” he says, softer now. “All of us.”

Chris finally speaks. “You brought all this from Boston?”

Mom nods. “Waited until we got to the Cape. I didn’t want to look at it alone.”

Chris shifts closer to the fire, reaches for another marshmallow, and no one says much after that. The flames burn lower, popping now and then, casting golden flickers across the inside of our bowls and the crinkled edges of old photographs.

Eventually, Dad suggests we call it a night. He groans as he stands, brushing sand from his knees, mumbling something about how sleeping on the ground should be outlawed past forty. Mom gathers up the pictures and carefully folds the onesies back into her tote like she’s tucking in something special. Chris stays quiet, but I see him peer back once at the relics. We put out the fire. The kindling hisses, and smoke curls like fog toward the litter of stars. Our tent’s a little off to the side, pitched closest to the dunes where the sand is drier. Dad helped us set it up earlier, muttering that “you two always toss too much to share with anyone else.”

Inside, the space is small. Two sleeping bags side by side, extra blankets bunched at the foot, shadows twitching on the walls from the last bit of moonlight slipping through the mesh. We don’t talk when we settle in. Chris pulls the zipper halfway up his bag and turns away from me. I lie on my back, staring at the seam running across the tent ceiling, tracing it with my eyes as if it might lead somewhere. Sleep doesn’t come easy, but my eyelids droop and I force myself to see black.

It doesn’t last.

I wake to the sound of Chris gasping. At first, it’s soft, a choked little sound buried into the fabric of his pillow. But then I hear it again, sharp and stuttering, and I sit up fast. His body’s curled tightly, shoulders trembling. He’s gripping the edge of the sleeping bag like it might pull him under. His mouth is open but no sound comes out, as if he’s trying to scream and nothing’s working. The moonlight catches on the sweat at his temple. His legs twitch once, violently, then go still.

My heart drops. I know this. I’ve been knowing this. He used to get them every couple weeks, nightmares, sleep paralysis, whatever name it has. He never told Mom or Dad, just me. I’d wake up to the same thing: the gasping, the tension, the look in his eyes when he finally snapped out of it, like he wasn’t sure what was real.

After the divorce, I didn’t stop thinking about it. All year, I’d lie in my own room states away, staring at the ceiling and wonder if he was sleeping okay. He’d always needed me when he woke up, to hold him, to tell him he was safe.

I reach over without thinking. “Chris,” I whisper, touching his shoulder. He flinches hard, still caught somewhere in the dream.

“Hey-hey, wake up.” My tone stays low, steady, like it used to be. “You’re alright. It’s me.”

His breath stutters again, then his eyes snap open. He doesn’t move, his chest heaves. I can hear how ragged it is, each inhale as if it’s catching on thorns. His eyes find mine in the dim, and something in his face loosens. I don’t say anything else. I just stay there, close enough that he knows he’s not alone. He turns onto his side, pulling the edge of the sleeping bag up to his chin as a barrier, but he doesn’t look away from me.

“You’re okay,” I murmur again. “It’s over.”

Chris swallows, and I see the shine of his eyes before he blinks it away. His voice is hoarse when it finally comes.

“I hate that,” he whispers.

“I know.”

But Chris’s still trembling. Not like before, not violently, but small, involuntary shudders that roll through him every few seconds, like his body’s still catching up to where we are. The worst part is that he’s trying to hide it, fists clenched inside his sleeping bag, shoulders pressed tight like he’s hoping I won’t notice. I hesitate. Then, slowly, I reach for his hand where it’s curled beneath the fabric, my fingers barely brushing his. I’m almost afraid to touch him again, I know I lost the right. Chris startles. Not harshly, just a sharp breath, a flick of his eyes toward me, unsure.

“I’m not gonna do anything,” I say quickly, quietly. “Just, just let me be here. For this.”

He looks at me for a long second. Then, without a word, he loosens his hand. Not fully, but enough. Our fingers fit back together, his enveloping in mine.

“I don’t want to stay in here,” he admits softly, after a beat. “It feels tight.”

I nod. “Come on.”

We slip out of the tent, careful not to wake anyone. The zipper’s slow, the sand cool beneath our feet, the campfire a dark circle of ash and half-burned wood behind us. The beach is endless in the dark, full of wind and dunes and the hush of the tide. We don’t say anything as we walk, not even when Chris steps a little closer to me, our arms brushing once, twice.

We lie down in a dip between two dunes, far enough that the tents are just a shape behind us. The sky above us is cracked wide open with stars. The kind of stars that only exist in Cape Cod, sharp and endless, like someone spilled light across a black canvas. The Milky Way streaks faint and milky pink above the ocean, the atmosphere is salt and night and woodsmoke that cling to our clothes.

I tilt my head back, the sand is still warm beneath my shirt. “There,” I whisper after a moment, pointing upward. “Vega.”

Chris follows my gaze. The brightest star in the sky, slightly blue at the edges, shaking with light.

“You still know it?” I ask.

He nods slowly, nudging his head gently towards me. “Why else did I buy you that?”

I look down at the pendant, still resting on my neck. “It’s the first one that comes back after winter. That’s why it shows up early in July.”

We lie there in silence. Chris’s hand is still in mine, slack but present. I squeeze gently once, and he doesn’t pull away. His breathing’s steadier now, though every so often I feel a hitch in his chest.

“You can sleep here if you want,” I offer.

Chris doesn’t answer, but a moment later, he turns his face slightly toward me. His hair brushes my cheek. I close my eyes, listening to the ocean breathe in and out, in and out, until his body finally relaxes beside mine.

After a while, his voice breaks the quiet. “Do you remember that picture?” he says, just above a whisper. “The one Mom pulled out earlier, with the hose?”

I blink open. “You mean the one where I’m spraying it straight into your face?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, a small laugh escaping. “My whole mouth was open. I looked like a screaming frog.”

I smile, watching the starlight catch in the corner of his lashes. “We were like… what, seven? Eight?”

“Seven,” he answers. “You did it on purpose.”

“You were taunting me with a water balloon, Christopher. That was warfare.”

He huffs a soft laugh, and I feel it more than hear it, right where our shoulders are touching now.

“You remember the next picture though?” he asks.

I nod. “Us in towels, sitting on the porch. You still had water dripping from your nose.”

Chris shifts a little closer. “I think that was last summer.”

A knot tightens in my stomach, but he doesn’t sound sad when he says it. More like he’s just remembering the feeling. I close my eyes again, leaning into the memory, into the tide and the faint buzz of crickets behind the dunes.

“Remember when we caught lightning bugs in Mom’s old mason jars?” Chris chuckles quietly. “We used to pretend they were stars that got lost.”

I hum. “I let mine go first. You cried.”

“I was dramatic.”

“You still are.”

I laugh, soft and breathless. Chris nudges his foot against mine, and I don’t move away. The sky feels wider now, the air gentler. He doesn’t say anything else, and neither do I. There’s nothing that needs fixing in this moment, nothing broken between us.

We fall asleep there, tucked into the sand and the hush of the ocean. When morning comes, at the crack of dawn, Mom and Dad find us curled in the dune grass, our bodies half tangled under the soft rays of sun.

Chapter Text

The snack shack wafts of fryer oil. I’ve worked here enough weeks now that I barely notice the stench anymore, but when the wind shifts just right, the air goes sweet with something powdered and fried. Like carnival food that got left out in the sun too long. I’m halfway through restocking the freezer when I hear laughter outside. Not loud, but close, sharp as glass catching sunlight. I glance through the serving window.

Chris is standing near the shaded patio, one hand on the back of a chair, head tilted a little as he laughs at something Kavya says. It’s not a big laugh, just enough to show teeth. I pause, carton of popsicles in my hand.

It’s not jealousy. Not really, just that ache again. Watching him from far away, knowing that I was once the person to know every version of him. He’s still in his lifeguard uniform, badge hanging loose from the neck strap, and his hair’s a little wet like he rinsed off in the outdoor showers. He looks like summer. Not the heavy kind I’ve been carrying, but warm.

I shake myself out of it and turn back to the freezer, shoving the popsicles in too fast. The drawer doesn’t shut all the way. I kick it with my foot. A few minutes later, the screen door creaks open. Sand-crusted flip-flops. I already know it’s him, even though he’s intently never come up to the shack on my shift before

Chris steps up to the counter, sunlight still clinging to his shoulders. His voice is even when he says, “Grilled cheese. And a Pepsi?”

I give a curt nod, barely looking at him. My stomach clenches like I’ve done something wrong. We both chose to ignore the elephant in the room, and that should be in my favor. “Sure.”

I move without thinking, dropping the sandwich onto the press, grabbing a can from the cooler. I can feel him watching me, like static. The sandwich hisses behind me. When it’s ready, I wrap it in foil and slide it across the counter with the Pepsi. He reaches for his wallet.

“Keep the change.”

Chris blinks. “I didn’t give you anything.”

I shrug. “Then I’m not keeping anything.”

He huffs, somewhere between amusement and confusion. “Okay… thanks.”

I don’t say anything. Chris picks up the sandwich, his fingers brushing mine for a split second, barely enough to register. He lingers a second longer than he needs to. “Kavya said…” he starts, then hesitates. “She said I should tell you; she’s having people over tonight. Just a couple of us. You can come if you want.”

My throat tightens in surprise, but I don’t let it show. I shake my head, casual. “Yeah. Alright.”

Chris nods back, like he wasn’t sure I’d say yes. Then he turns and walks off, sandwich in one hand, Pepsi tucked against his side. He doesn’t look back, but I watch him go anyway, the screen door swinging shut behind him.

“You know,” Jesse starts, voice low and dry, “we don’t do family discounts.”

I turn back toward the counter and nearly jump out of my skin.

I whirl. “Fuck, were you standing there the whole time?”

He shrugs, biting back a smirk. “Long enough to see you give your brother a free sandwich like we’re running a charity.”

“He didn’t ask.”

“Doesn’t mean you gotta act like it’s Thanksgiving.”

I roll my eyes and shove a rag at him. “Go wipe tables.”

He takes it, still grinning. “You’re lucky I like you, golden boy.”

I grunt in response and start restocking the napkins. I have a feeling Jesse still likes me, I’m not an idiot. Not in any loud, obvious way, just the little stuff. The way he hovers too long, or how his jokes always curve back toward me. Once, I caught him looking when he thought I wasn’t, eyes a little too soft to be casual. But I never asked, and I don’t plan to. If I don’t think about it, I won’t have to carry it. Won’t have to have an explanation on why being with Jesse won’t feel the same, or why part of me let him kiss me on my birthday just to prove something for my own selfish reasons. Jesse doesn’t deserve that.

The shift ends without much fanfare. Jesse clocks out first, tossing his apron onto the hook with his usual lazy accuracy and offering a two-finger salute as he disappears out the back. “See ya,” he says. I grunt back something in return.

Later, at the Cape home, the mood’s easy. Crickets chirp low under the porch. I can hear Mom in the kitchen chopping something, maybe cucumber, her rhythm always faster when she’s got something on her mind. Somewhere deeper in the house, Dad’s music hums faintly from his office stereo: Springsteen, or something close to it.

Upstairs, I’m in my room, legs crossed on my bed, sketchpad open. The page is half-filled shapes that don’t mean anything, shadows that do. Elbows, collarbones, outlines of a mouth I’m not brave enough to finish. I drag the pencil slow across the paper. It’s meditative, but my mind’s not really here. There’s a soft knock on my door, it opens before I can answer. Chris leans into the doorway, not stepping in, like he doesn’t want to cross some invisible line.

“Hey,” he says.

He’s dressed. Not just thrown-on-something-to-go-out dressed. Thought-about-it dressed. His shirt’s an olive-green button-up, his jorts are neat, not wrinkled like any denim he wears usually is. His hair is still damp from the shower, curling just slightly around his ears. And his smell, it’s like that cologne Mom bought him for one Christmas. Fresh citrus, peppered warmth, something woodsy underneath, it floats into the room with him.

My throat catches. “Hey,” I echo, setting the sketchpad aside.

He shifts, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “You, uh, still down to go to Kavya’s?”

I blink. Shit, I forgot. Completely.

“Yeah, yeah, definitely,” I respond, pushing off the bed like I haven’t just been floating somewhere between spiraling and sketching him for the last twenty minutes. “You need a ride?”

“If you don’t mind,” Chris replies, not looking directly at me.

I grab my keys, tell myself to breathe like a normal person, and follow him down the stairs.

The drive is quiet. Not uncomfortable, just aware. The windows of the Kia are rolled halfway down, letting in the clean whip of salt air. The sky is still pink at the edges, a light that turns the ocean lavender and the trees into silhouettes. Chris scrolls through his phone, then plugs it into the AUX cord. A beat later, a low, nostalgic melody pulses through the speakers, Mac Miller, warm and smooth.

“‘Self Care,’” I murmur before I can stop myself.

Chris glances at me, surprised. “You remember that?”

“You played it nonstop the summer before last,” I remind. “Every time you skipped practice. Said it helped you chill.”

He gives a soft laugh. “Yeah. Or it helped me hide out in my room until Dad forgot he was mad.”

The car rolls along the narrow coastal road, windows rattling slightly, tires humming against the old asphalt. The breeze lifts strands of Chris’s hair and the sunlight catches the curve of his jaw before the trees swallow it again. Kavya’s house looks the same from when I was last here, except for the fairy strings and crowd of drunk teenagers. The porch lights are already on, golden and soft. The driveway crunches under the tires as I pull in behind her mom’s Mercedes. Before either of us can even reach for the front door, it swings open.

Kavya stands framed in it, barefoot, grinning, and holding a tray balanced on one palm. There are tiny pastries on it, lemony, piped with cream. She leans a hip against the doorframe and lifts her brows. “Took you long enough.”

Before either of us can respond, her dog, a little white fluff with wiry fur and the energy of a shaken soda can, starts scratching frantically at the screen.

“Tofu,” she scolds without looking down. “Chill.”

Chris chuckles beside me, his voice small.

“Come in,” she says, swinging the door open wider.

The inside smells like something sweet and spiced, maybe cinnamon, maybe cardamom. I hadn’t realized how beautiful her house was. The living room is warm and lived-in, strung with leaf vines looped around the ceiling beams. The furniture’s mismatched in a curated kind of way: a velvet couch, an old rattan chair piled with pillows, a short table littered with glass cups and open chip bags. A record player sits in the corner next to a leaning stack of vinyl, one spinning gently under the needle.

Chris walks in first, and I follow, catching the last trace of his cologne in the air between us.

“Shoes off,” Kavya says, pointing at the woven mat.

Chris toes his sneakers off easily. I fumble a little more, but when I straighten up, he’s already watching me. His eyes flick away just as fast.

“Everyone else is out back,” Kavya adds, nodding toward the sliding glass doors.

But before we move, a scrabbling sound comes from the hallway, and then Tofu barrels around the corner again. He skids slightly on the tile, yapping once before leaping straight at Chris’s shins.

“Tofu,” Kavya groans, but Chris is already crouching.

He catches the dog effortlessly, cradling him like it’s second nature. “Oh my god,” Chris coos, scratching behind his ears, “you’re so tiny it’s criminal.”

Tofu licks his chin, yipping again, tail wagging like it’s about to fly off. Chris grins, full and unguarded.

“Sorry,” Kavya says, but Chris waves her off, already standing with the dog tucked under one arm. “I’m taking him outside,” he declares. “He’s part of the party now.”

She sighs but smiles. “Fine, but if he pees in the hammock, it’s on you.”

Chris giggles, and heads toward the patio, Tofu happily panting in his grip. I follow behind, barely remembering to carry my shoes. I can’t decide which is cuter, Chris or the dog, I hate that it’s even a competition.

Outside, it’s warm and dim. String lights hang above the deck, soft and golden, glowing like summer fireflies. There’s a pit of coals already going, embers pulsing slow in the center. Two striped hammocks sway lightly in the breeze. To the left is a hot tub, water bubbling lazily, and in the corner, under a pergola, there’s a pool table, half a game abandoned mid-break.

Nicole is perched on one of the hammocks, one leg kicked up casually. Jesse leans back in a woven deck chair, holding a soda can with condensation trailing down the sides. Sitting next to him, shoulder to shoulder, is a guy I’ve seen around, gold chain and an easy posture. I’ve never spoken to him, but I’ve seen him around Nicole and Kavya enough to remember the outline of his laugh.

Jesse raises a brow when he sees me. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

“I didn’t know you were either,” I respond, stepping down onto the patio.

He shrugs, taking a sip. “Kavya invited me. Said there’d be snacks.”

Chris drops into the hammock across from Nicole with Tofu still in his arms. The dog immediately starts wiggling and trying to jump down, so Chris lets him tumble into the grass and scamper away. He watches him go with this dumb soft look that makes something flicker under my ribs.

Kavya returns a second later with a bowl full of folded slips of paper and a glint in her eye. “Okay, guys. I’m bored.”

Nicole groans. “What is it now?”

Kavya holds up the bowl like it’s the Holy Grail. “Red Flag.”

“Oh no,” Jesse says, grinning. “This one’s brutal.”

“Everyone writes a red flag,” Kavya explains, for my benefit, “about someone here. Could be true, could be fake. I read them out loud. We all guess who it’s about.”

The guy with locs chuckles. “So basically, group therapy disguised as fun.”

“Exactly Niles,” Kavya says sweetly, and passes out pens and little slips of paper. “Don’t be pussies.”

We scatter for a few minutes, each scribbling something down. My pen hovers over the paper too long. Eventually I write something vague and safe; I fold it twice and toss it in.

Kavya shakes the bowl and pulls the first. “Ooh, this is clearly about Nicole,” she says, smirking. “Takes pictures of them and their friends skinny dipping and captions them 'unbothered’.”

Nicole rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Okay, okay, I own that.”

“Guilty,” Jesse laughs, slightly cringing. “I’ve seen those posts. It was traumatizing.”

“Not my fault I look great in natural light,” she mutters.

Next, Kavya draws one and pauses, smirking at Niles. “This one’s obviously for you.” She reads it aloud: “Dad is a DILF.”

Everyone laughs, Niles’s eyes widen when Nicole gives an awkward smile. “Oh nah, you’re nasty as fuck.” He feigns a gagging motion.

Then Kavya draws the third. There’s a beat. “Yikes,” she says, and reads slowly: “Blew me off after we kissed.”

There’s a silence, I feel my spine go rigid. I don’t look at Jesse, but I know. My ears go hot.

Nicole scoffs. “That’s about me, isn’t it?”.

Jesse laughs, too quickly. “Could be. You’ve kissed way too many people.”

“Okay, rude,” she huffs, but she’s smiling like she knows it isn’t. She shifts her weight, reaching for a handful of grapes off the charcuterie tray, then glances between Jesse and I. Slowly. Intentionally. Then something changes in her face, just the faintest crease between her shaded brows.

Kavya notices too. “Wait-hold on.” She leans forward, eyes narrowing. “That wasn’t about Nicole.”

Nicole tilts her head. “Oh my god. It was you two?”

Jesse just sips from his can, suddenly very invested in the ground. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, heat flushing up my neck. My chest feels like it’s been cracked slightly open.

“What,” Nicole says, eyes flashing. “Jesse kissed you? You let Jesse kiss you?”

“I didn’t let-” I start, but my voice cracks like a goddamn twig. “It wasn’t like that.”

Kavya covers her mouth like she’s trying not to laugh. “Matt. What?”

I want the deck to split open and swallow me whole.

“I’m gonna go check on the dog,” Chris mumbles suddenly.

I snap my head toward him, but he’s already up, brushing dust off his shorts and turning away without waiting for a response. Tofu yips somewhere in the dark lawn, but Chris doesn’t call out to him, he just walks. Not fast, but with purpose. I can’t see his face.

“Shit,” I mumble under my breath, already standing up.

“Where are you going?” Niles asks, his forehead creasing again as he does.

I freeze, every molecule of sweat in my body decides to show up at once. “I, uh.” My voice catches, then scrambles forward without a plan. “Chris. He’s got… um. Gas issues.”

Niles blinks. “Gas?”

“Like, bad. Like, medical.” I make a vague motion with my hand, as if that explains everything. I don’t wait for more, I step off the patio and into the grass, shoes forgotten somewhere near the firepit.

The back door creaks when I open it, house shady and silent now, the sounds of laughter outside muffled like I’ve stepped underwater. I move quick down the hallway, flicking my gaze into every doorway, empty kitchen, empty living room, coat rack swaying slightly like someone brushed past it fast.

Then I see the closed bathroom door, light spilling out from underneath. I stop in front of it and knock once. No answer.

I press my palm to the wood. “Chris?”

Nothing, but I can hear him breathing. That soft, sharp kind that catches in the throat, like he’s trying to stay quiet. I knock again, lighter this time. “Hey. It’s just me.”

Still, only silence follows. My heart pinches. I glance back toward the hallway, then lean in, forehead nearly touching the door. “You left Tofu out here,” I say, voice a little cracked. “He’s distraught.”

A second passes. Then, slowly, the door clicks. It doesn’t swing open all the way, just a crack, enough for me to see part of him, the shape of his shoulder, his jaw tight. I don’t wait for permission and slip inside. It’s small, just a half-bath with beige walls and too many candles on the counter. Chris is leaning against the sink, eyes rimmed red. His arms are folded so tightly it looks like he’s trying to hold himself in.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” I continue. My voice is steady, but my chest feels broken down the middle.

Chris doesn’t look at me. “You didn’t stop it either.”

I rub the back of my neck. “I didn’t know how.”

He lets out a bitter breath. “Of course you did. How hard is it to stop a mouth touching your mouth?”

I glance at him, then down, then back up again. “You’re seriously mad about Jesse when you’ve been with Nicole and Mandy?”

His head jerks toward me. I swear, for a second, his mouth quivers like he’s about to say something. Instead, his hand shoots out fast.

Slap.

It’s not hard, not really. Just enough that my cheek stings. More from surprise than pain. His eyes are glassy now, tears gathering at the corners, catching the soft white bathroom light. He looks like he’s going to apologize, but nothing comes out. Just a sharp breath. His whole face tightens, a pout on his lips. It’s almost cute, if it wasn’t happening under these circumstances. I want to tell him he’s being dramatic, but the way his bottom lip wobbles, I contain myself.

“Chris,” I say, quieter now. I reach forward, slow. He doesn’t back away.

“I just-” he tries, but his mouth clamps shut.

“I know,” I answer, my hand grazing his wrist. “You don’t have to explain.”

He sniffles, swipes at his face with his sleeve. “Sorry.”

I shrug. “It was a bitch slap, I’ll survive.”

A reluctant, watery laugh pushes through his nose. I lean against the wall beside him, our arms almost touching. We don’t talk for a minute, the only sound our breathing of the same air. The cinnamon candle on the counter is too strong, but neither of us moves to blow it out.

Chris finally speaks again. “I just… didn’t want it to be him.”

I glance sideways. “It wasn’t.”

He looks at me for a second. Long. Quiet. Then nods once. “Okay,” he whispers.

“Okay,” I echo.

Chris clears his throat. “We should go back before they think we’re, like, fighting over bathroom real estate.”

“Too late. I already told Niles you had medical-grade gas.”

He blinks. “You what?”

“Desperate times.”

His face twists between horror and something almost like a smile. He shakes his head. “You’re the worst.”

“Still hot though.”

“Shut up.”

Chris rolls his eyes, but I catch the way his mouth curls. It’s not quite a smile, but close. He nudges the bathroom door open with his elbow and steps into the dim hallway as if he’s shedding whatever cracked him open in there. I follow him out, and as we pass the living room, he veers toward the couch.

“Tofu,” he murmurs, crouching to scoop up the dog like he’s precious cargo. Tofu immediately starts wiggling in his arms, tail thumping against Chris’s chest. “Did you miss me you cutie?” he coos, nuzzling the dog’s face.

My mouth wants to laugh but doesn’t. He glances at me while scratching behind Tofu’s ear. “He’s probably the only one here not judging me.”

“Speak for yourself,” I say. “I think he’s disappointed in your gas scandal.”

Chris shoots me a glare, mocking offense. “That rumor will not be permanent.”

We make our way toward the sliding door again. The cool glass hums faintly when I open it, and the backyard greets us in full color and noise. Music drifts out low and slow, something with bass and a sleepy tune. The lights strung over the fence cast a buttery glow across the patio, where the group has moved over to the pool table. Nicole’s bent over taking a shot, her hair falling forward in curled waves. Niles lines up behind her with a beer, and Jesse’s leaned against the table’s edge, arms crossed.

Chris sets Tofu down carefully, ruffling the fur between his ears. “Go make bad choices,” he teases.

Tofu runs off toward the hammock with a bark. Kavya turns when she sees us. Her eyes flick briefly between the two of us, then land on Chris. “So?” she says, one eyebrow raised. “You alive?”

Chris blinks. “Huh?”

“Matt said you had a,” she swallows. “Medical problem.”

I almost choke. Chris goes very still beside me for a beat. Then, mercifully, he lets out a slow, awkward laugh. “Right,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah. Totally fine now. Just had to…. air it out.”

Kavya snorts. “Gross.”

Nicole throws a glance over her shoulder. “Glad you’re better. We were about to call a priest.”

Jesse doesn’t say anything. His gaze lingers on me for a second too long, then drops. I sit on the edge of a lounge chair. Chris wanders nearby, arms folded, eyes on the pool table. The game picks up again. Niles breaks, balls scatter and music plays.

After a beat, I stand and make my way toward Kavya, who’s refilling her cup at the cooler. The glow from the string lights hits the edge of her cheekbone like it’s curated.

“Hey,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “Just… appreciate you inviting me, by the way.”

She looks up, blinking. Then gives this half-laugh, half-cough like I’ve said something surprising. “Oh. I didn’t.”

My stomach drops a fraction before she adds, “Not because I wouldn’t! I meant that I only told Chris to come.” She shrugs, smiling. “But I’m so glad you came. It’s good you’re here.”

I nod slowly, trying to play it off, but something tugs in my chest. I glance over my shoulder. Chris is by the hammock now, knuckles brushing the rope netting like it’s a habit. Kavya heads back toward the others, and I float aimlessly for a few seconds before making my way to the lounge chair again.

Chris drifts toward me without sitting, hands in his pockets, voice low. “Thanks.”

I glance up. “For what?”

He shrugs, like the answer’s too obvious to say out loud. Then he leans down, takes the seat beside me, just close enough that our knees brush. My throat catches, but I just nod. If I speak, I might say too much.

No one’s watching.

But even if they were, I don’t think I’d move.

Chapter Text

The ingredients hit first, brown sugar, vanilla, something bubbling at the edges. I hover near the kitchen island, sleeves pushed up, watching Mom stir batter with the kind of focus that makes it seem like she’s angry at it. She’s not. It’s just how she moves in the kitchen, efficient and precise, like she has somewhere to be. We’re making muffins. Or technically, she is, and I’m the person in charge of sprinkling the crumb topping and licking the spoon when she’s not looking.

“Tell me again why we’re baking at 8 p.m.?” I ask, nudging the bowl with the back of my hand.

“Because the bananas were going bad,” she explains without glancing up. “And because I like spending time with you. Don’t make it weird.”

I smirk and reach for the tray she’s already spooned the batter into. “You’re the one who’s being all sentimental.”

She shoves my shoulder lightly with her hip, then goes back to cleaning the edges with a spatula. Her hair’s pulled up in a messy bun, flour dusted faintly on the shoulder of her shirt. I forgot how calm she gets when she’s baking. Even the storm clouds outside have softened, just a dull rumble now, not quite ready to let loose.

The hallway creaks behind us, followed by the unmistakable shuffle of bare feet.

“Is that banana bread I smell?” Chris’s voice floats in, a little hopeful, a little smug.

Mom doesn’t turn around. “It’s banana crumb muffins. And they’re not done yet, so don’t even think about it.”

He appears in the doorway, anyway, leaning one shoulder against the frame, feigning innocence and failing. Chris’s hair’s damp again, he’s been showering at weird hours lately, and he’s wearing that worn Celtics shirt he always steals back from the laundry before it’s even dry.

“I just wanna try one,” Chris says, stepping closer.

Mom points the spatula at him without looking. “You’ll burn your tongue. And then you’ll blame me.”

Chris grins, dimples deepening. “Worth it.”

I catch his eye for half a second and roll mine toward the tray cooling by the window. Still hot, steam curling up from the golden-brown tops, but the smell is ridiculous, sweet and buttery with enough edge to make my mouth water. When Mom steps out of the kitchen to grab her phone from the living room, I grab one with my sleeve and nudge it toward him across the counter.

Chris’s eyes widen at me like I just passed him state secrets. “You’re gonna get in trouble.”

“She already likes you better,” I whisper. “I need to earn points where I can.”

Chris snorts under his breath, fingers brushing mine as he picks it up. “Hot,” he mutters, blowing on it.

“Don’t cry when you scorch your mouth.”

Chris disappears down the hallway with the muffin, and I stay behind to help Mom finish cleaning up. We move around each other in practiced silence, rinsing bowls, wiping countertops, her humming something under her breath I don’t recognize. The kitchen wafts of comfort, sugar still in the air and cinnamon stuck to my sleeves.

Once the last tray is cooling and Mom retreats upstairs with a book in hand and a “don’t eat all of them,” I make my way to my room. I don’t bother turning on the overhead light, just toss myself onto the bed and scroll aimlessly, letting the blue glow of my phone wash the walls. Notifications blur, half my feed is beach photos, pool parties, girls in dresses that probably cost more than I can imagine. I don’t really see any of it.

A knock comes, soft and hesitant, followed by the quiet squeak of my door opening.

Chris stands there, sleeves pushed over his knuckles, the Kia car keys looped around his pointer finger, swaying slightly like he’s not sure what to do with them. In his other hand, there’s a Tupperware container that’s so clearly overfilled with banana muffins, the lid’s popped at one corner.

“I stole these.”

I sit up a little. “Seriously?”

“She turned around for one second. It was too easy.”

I blink, my eyes still adjusting to him in the dark like that, shoes on, curls wet.

Chris shifts his weight, the keys jingling once. “Hey,” he says, quieter now. “Would you… I mean, would you maybe show me how to drive? Like, really drive. I know the basics, but-” He cuts himself off, lifts a shoulder as if he’s bracing for rejection. “It’s fine if not. I just thought… yeah.”

I stare at him, not because it’s a weird request. But because he’s standing in my doorway, asking. Like we didn’t spend the last month ignoring each other, like his voice isn’t smaller than usual, like I don’t still feel the whisper of his lips on my lips and his hand intertwining with mine.

“Yeah,” I respond finally. “Yeah, I’ll take you.”

Chris exhales, the sound shaky but grateful. “Cool.”

The container of muffins shuffles slightly as I drive us through the neighborhood, past shuttered ice cream shops and quiet lawns lit by porch bulbs. The car hums under my hands as I keep my eyes steady on the road. Chris sits silent beside me, elbows on the door, fingers tapping a slow beat against the window.

“Where are we going?” he asks after a minute.

“There’s this coastal stretch not too far from the club,” I say. “Hardly any cars at night. You won’t hit anything but fog.”

“Perfect,” he mumbles.

The houses thin out the farther we go, replaced by dunes and tall grass swaying under the looming sky. The ocean flickers between trees, shiny black, like spilled ink. The clouds above it are growing heavier, thicker, pulled tight enough to snap.

I ease us onto the straightaway, put the car in park, and glance over. “You ready?”

Chris nods once. He doesn’t move.

I raise an eyebrow. “If you don’t want to-”

He lets out a breath, rubs the back of his neck. “No, I’m good.”

We switch seats. He gets in carefully, then adjusts the mirror with a sharp tug that’s too aggressive to be casual. He places his hands on the wheel. The turn signal clicks once by accident, and I try not to smile. When he finally presses the gas, we jolt forward an inch, then settle into a slow crawl along the quiet road. I guide him gently, how to feather the brake, when to ease into a turn, which roads curve slightly more than they look like they do.

He glances at me. “Too much?”

“No,” I reply, and I mean it. “Just enough.”

Chris keeps the wheel steady, knuckles pale. The car rolls forward with uneven rhythm, headlights cutting through patches of fog. It’s obvious he’s overthinking, second-guessing every move before it happens. His foot hesitates between gas and brake. The turns are too sharp or too soft.

“Loosen up a little,” I advise, not unkindly. “The car’s not going to bite you.”

He exhales through his nose, shifting his grip. “Feels like it might.”

“You’re fine. It’s just muscle memory. It’ll come.”

A pause. Then the car jolts again as he taps the gas too hard, the tires thudding over a ridge in the road. Chris curses under his breath and slows, both hands tight on the wheel now, elbows locked.

I lean back in my seat. “You’re gripping like the wheel’s gonna fly away. Relax your arms.”

“Easier said than done,” he mutters.

We coast along another bend, this one long and slow. He doesn’t quite stay in the middle, veers a little right. My hand reaches toward the wheel instinctively, not touching, just hovering, but he adjusts at the last second and evens out.

“Nice,” I say. “That one felt better.”

Chris nods, but doesn’t say anything. His shoulders drop slightly, the first sign of ease since we switched seats. He drives in silence for a few more minutes, brow furrowed, bottom lip drawn between his teeth in concentration. The road is nearly empty, just the buzz of the engine and the occasional flick of the turn signal when he gets nervous and forgets it’s still on. The smell of warm banana muffins still lingers, even though the container’s been shoved under my seat.

Another bend comes up. This one’s narrower, sloping down into a dip, and Chris brakes too late. The front tires lurch forward harder than they should. His hand twitches. I keep mine close to the dashboard but don’t interfere.

“I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “That’s normal. First time I drove, Dad made me do it in the neighborhood. I nearly took out a mailbox.”

Chris glances at me. “He really did that?”

“Swore it’d build character.”

He shakes his head, a small, reluctant grin surfacing for a second before fading. The tension in his shoulders eases another fraction. The road ahead straightens out again, long and flat. Chris exhales and presses the gas just enough to keep moving. I watch the way his hands stay at ten and two, his eyes flicking between the mirrors like he’s afraid of what they might show. The car keeps rolling forward, the fog curling at the edges of the headlights. The dunes are barely visible now, swallowed up by the dark. A hint of moisture clings to the air, not quite rain yet, but close.

Chris glances at the speedometer. “How fast am I supposed to be going?”

“Doesn’t really matter here. Just keep it under thirty.”

He makes a face like he wants to say something but swallows it. The silence settles in again, not uncomfortable now, just muted. Measured. He drives another mile or so before easing into a pull-off on the right side of the road, tires crunching lightly over sand and gravel. He puts the car in park, hands falling away from the wheel slowly like he’s just run a marathon.

He leans back, rubs his face with both hands. “That was horrible.”

“Not horrible,” I answer. “Just rusty. You didn’t hit anything. Wanna switch?”

Chris nods like he’s been waiting for me to say it but didn’t want to ask. We trade seats again, gravel crunching underfoot as we cross paths in front of the headlights. I slide behind the wheel, adjust it back to how I like it, and ease us back onto the road.

He exhales audibly, head resting against the window. “Glad that’s over.”

I glance at him. “You barely hit twenty-five.”

He grins, not denying it. A minute passes. Then he leans forward and grabs the Tupperware from the floor between his feet, popping the lid open with a soft crack of plastic.

“Not in my car,” I state immediately.

Chris freezes mid-reach. “Seriously?”

“You already fogged up the windshield with your stress. I’m not adding crumbs to the crime scene.”

He groans but relents, dropping the lid back in place. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m just clean.”

Chris mutters something under his breath that sounds like “tyrant,” but slouches further in the seat, balancing the container on his knees. A few minutes later, I spot the turnout I was aiming for, a quiet overlook with a narrow strip of pavement curving into a small gravel lot. There’s a single streetlamp flickering at the far end and a view of the coastline just beyond a short wooden barrier.

I park in the far corner and cut the engine. The lack of noise afterward is soft but total. Crickets somewhere in the grass, the ocean hidden but close enough to hear if we really listened. Chris is already halfway out of the car by the time I unbuckle. He pops the trunk and hops up to sit with one leg tucked under the other. I follow, more slowly, the metal warm from the drive.

He opens the lid and takes a bite before I’ve even settled beside him. His eyes close dramatically. “These are better than I remember.”

“That’s because I made them,” I tease, grabbing one for myself.

Chris hums, licking sugar from his thumb. “Credit to the chef.”

We sit there quietly for a while, passing muffins back and forth, the container growing lighter between us. The streetlamp above flickers again, casting brief shadows that stretch and shrink against the pavement. The horizon’s a soft blur of gray and navy, sky bleeding into sea. Somewhere below, waves crash in an easy, constant rhythm.

A wet sound breaks the quiet. A drop tapping the edge of the taillight, then another, streaking the windshield in a thin diagonal line. I glance up.

“Shit,” I mutter. The air’s shifted. Wind curling stronger at the edge of the lot, trees stirring louder. Rain spots dot the metal beside us.

Chris blinks toward the sky. “That was fast.”

We jump down before it picks up. The Tupperware gets tossed in the back. By the time we’re both in the car again, the rain’s already started turning solid, thick lines blurring the glass. Wipers smear across the windshield, but it doesn’t help much. I start the engine.

“We’ll head back now,” I say, trying to keep my voice even.

Chris doesn’t answer. He’s sitting a little stiffer, shoulders curved in.

The road’s a narrow blur. Headlights barely cut through the fog creeping over the dunes, and every time the wipers sweep, they leave a ghosted outline of water behind. I grip the wheel tighter than I should. A crack of thunder splits above us, not far, and Chris flinches.

I glance sideways. He’s trying not to look rattled, but his knee is bouncing. Hands pressed under his thighs, like he’s anchoring himself. Another flash of light cracks across the sky a second later, white and electric, chasing itself through the clouds. The sound hits harder this time.

“Did you check the radar or anything before we left?” Chris asks, voice low.

“No. Just looked like rain.”

He nods, barely. But I can tell he’s mad at himself, or me, or maybe just the weather.

“Call Dad.”

“What?”

“Just in case. If it starts flooding, I want him to know we’re not idiots.”

Chris fumbles for his phone, fingers slipping once. “No service.”

Of course not, the storm’s eating the signal. A gust of wind hits the car hard enough to make it sway. I pull us to the shoulder, slow, careful, tires crunching gravel. The road ahead is barely visible now, the rain moves sideways. I put the car in park, foot still on the brake, trying to decide if this is better or worse.

Chris wraps his arms around himself. He hasn’t said anything in the last minute, but I can feel how quiet he is. His eyes stay fixed out the window, lashes wet, jaw clenched. Thunder rumbles again, lower this time, farther off, but the rain doesn’t stop. Another flash across the sky. Closer. It lights up the whole inside of the car for half a second, makes everything look sharper than it is. I breathe out slow through my nose, keeping my hands on the wheel even though we’re not moving anymore. I don’t want to show it, but my chest feels tight too.

Chris’s hand moves, slow, fingers reaching across the center console. Not touching me. Just hovering, like he doesn’t know what he’s asking for. I move mine without thinking, meet him halfway. His fingers are cold. Not the kind of cold from just the rain, a chill that’s been there all night. It takes him a second to fully wrap his hand around mine, but when he does, he holds on.

The road beneath us gives a little slick from the rain, and the car fishtails with a slow, horrifying groan. I let go of Chris’s hand to grab the wheel, heart punching the inside of my ribs, but it’s instinct that makes me throw my other arm across his chest.

We slide for a second. Maybe less. I get the car steady again and brake hard into a gravel patch just off the shoulder, where a crooked wooden sign reads: "Overlook Bay” The sign is half-rotted. The overlook is a dirt path leading to a lean-to shelter with a bench and an old bin overflowing with old sand toys and soda cans.

“Come on,” I say, killing the engine. “It’s safer off the road.”

We both climb out. The sky cracks wide with light as we slam the doors behind us and make a break for the structure, the roof barely holds, but it’s something. Wood groans above us as the wind pushes through.

Chris leans over, hands on his knees, catching his breath. I’m shaking, not visibly. But inside, my nerves feel raw. He straightens and pulls out his phone again, fumbling with the lock screen. Still barely a bar, but enough to push a call through.

“Dad?” His voice is tight. “We’re okay. Just parked off the overlook a few miles from the club. The roads are-yeah. No, we’re not driving in this.”

A pause. Chris turns slightly away from me. “Yeah, I’ll stay with him. I’ll text when we get the storm stops.”

He hangs up and lowers the phone, not pocketing it yet, just staring at the screen like it’s done something wrong.

“I thought we were gonna crash,” he exhales, voice smaller than before.

“We didn’t.”

For a while, all we hear is the wind and rain and the sharp ping of drops against the metal trash can. Thunder moves across the sky like it’s pacing. My shirt’s damp. The sleeves cling to my arms. Chris stands near me, arms folded tight, lips pressed together.

I shut my eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t answer.

“I panicked. That night. Last summer. After you… after we kissed. It felt so right, Chris. Like nothing had ever made more sense in my life. I-I wanted you, I’ve been wanting you forever. I didn’t know what to do with it. I just-I shut everything down.” I swallow hard, jaw clenched. “I shut you down.”

Chris’s silence doesn’t feel like judgment. But it still makes me nervous.

I sit on the bench and wipe my palms on my shorts, heart racing too loud to think. “It wasn’t about you. Not really. I mean… it was. But it wasn’t because I didn’t want-” I cut myself off. Try again. “I thought the only way to get rid of it was to get rid of you.”

The words don’t echo, but they land heavy.

“I thought if I just left… if I stopped talking to you, if I moved to L.A with Dad and stayed busy and didn’t let myself remember it, any of it, then maybe it’d go away.” My voice cracks, and I bite down hard on it. “But it didn’t.”

Chris turns to look at me, water glinting in his lashes. There’s something soft in his expression, something that makes my throat tighten more.

“I hated it,” I admit. “I hated what I did. I hated that I tried to pretend you didn’t exist. And I hated that it was you. Not because of you. Just… because it was.”

My hands are fists in my lap. I don’t realize I’m crying until I taste the salt on my lips. “It’s always been you, Chris. Always.”

Chris steps forward. His movement is quiet. He sits beside me on the bench, close enough that his shoulder brushes mine. Then his arm moves, tentative but steady, and he pulls me in. I lean without meaning to.

He holds me.

Not tight, not soft, just there. Not too much, not too little. And for the first time, I let myself fall into it.

“I was hurt,” he whispers after a while. “I didn’t know what I did wrong. You kissed me back, Matt.”

I nod into his shoulder, my hands grabbing at his waist.

“I thought maybe it was my fault. Like I messed it up. Like I shouldn’t have done it.”

“No.” My voice is hoarse. “It was me.”

Chris is quiet again. Thunder rolls above us, but I can barely hear it. I can’t stop. The sob breaks from somewhere deep, ragged and ugly. It’s been clawing up my throat for a year and finally found the surface. My body shakes with it. I curl forward, pressing my face into his shoulder, gasping like I can’t get enough air.

“I was so scared,” I cry. “I didn’t know what to do, Chris. I didn’t know how to be around you after. I couldn’t even look at myself, how was I supposed to look at you?”

My fists clutch the fabric at his sides, desperate. I feel how warm he is. How steady. And I hate myself more for every second I didn’t have this. Chris doesn’t speak. He just lets me come apart in his arms. Lets my breathing hitch, lets me bury myself in the space between his neck and shoulder like I’m trying to forge our bodies together.

My voice breaks when I try again. “It was the best thing I ever felt, and I fucking ruined it. I ruined everything.”

Chris’s hand finds mine, just one. He threads our fingers together like it’s nothing, like we’ve always done this. I want to breathe him in until my ribs forget how to close around anything else. I want to melt into the spaces he’s left untouched, press my trembling heart into his palms and beg him not to drop it. I want to carve this moment into bone, so even if he lets go, it’ll still live under my skin.

“One step at a time.”