Page 22 of One Last Summer
“So are you, boss. Now go get drunk or hike or whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing this week. Those are on your list, right?”
“No,” I said. “But I’m about to have a beer and—you’ll love this—Mack drinks Alewife.”
She said something that sounded like a garbled, “Of course he does.” And then the line went dead.
“Hello?” I said. “Lydia?” But the call was dropped, cursed by the lack of cell towers here in northern New Hampshire. Defeated, I stuffed my phone back in my pocket and turned my attention to my friends, admiring the scene in front of me. Nick pontificating, holding his drink like a microphone. Trey’s mouth open, mid-laugh, as Sam watched over everyone, perched like a sage in a camping chair. Eloise and Linus hovering by the picnic table, her arms wrapped around his waist, while Mack lingered over the fire attentively, in the center of it all.
The water behind them carried their voices around the lake, echoes of chatter and laughter, the most comforting sound. There was nothing special about this moment, other than how much I had missed times like this: all of us together, talking forever about absolutely nothing.
“Hey,” I said, finally joining my friends on the small sliver of sand. “I’m all unpacked. I took the single bed next to Sam.”
I turned toward Nick and Trey, who grabbed a bottle from the six-pack at his feet, twisted off the top, and passed it to me. “You guys seriously want to share a bunk bed? Why don’t we push two beds together for you, make up the old camp king?”
This was how I’d always remembered their bed set up at our friend reunions before, and I’d been surprised to see their stuff neatly stacked on a top and bottom bunk instead.
Trey shook his head. “My snoring has been driving Nick nuts,” he explained. “Hopefully I won’t keep all of you awake.”
“I can always go sleep with Eloise and Linus,” I quipped, intending it as a joke.
But Nick just nodded adamantly. “Honestly? I’m considering it.”
Trey swung around to look at him, a sharp crease between his brows. He sat there for a second, as if he was deciding on exactly what to say. Nick watched him expectantly, almost like a challenge, and I realized there was a silent conversation going on between the two of them that had nothing at all to do with my stupid crack.
Eventually, Trey hopped up and headed in the direction of the picnic table, which was covered in pizza boxes and ripped-open bags of chips. Nick simply let out a sigh and turned back to the fire, where Mack was crouched on his heels, crumpling newspaper into tiny balls and shoving it under the stack of logs.
“Reliving your rope burn glory days, Mack?” I needed to deflate whatever tension this was that had invaded our fire circle, and ribbing Mack was an easy solution. And I couldn’t resist reminding him that I had kicked his ass in the rope burn in our final Color Week competition.
He swiveled around with a bemused look on his face, his knees hitting the ground as he caught my eye. But just as I settled confidently back into my seat, he lifted the hem of his T-shirt to his brow, wiping away the sweat on his forehead and offering up a look at his stomach, which was just as sun-kissed as the rest of him. The muscles of his abs shifted as he moved, and when he bent forward again I caught a glimpse of the edge of gray boxers, and a trail of hair, and I was off-kilter once again.
“Oh boy, here we go,” Nick cackled, rubbing his hands together. “I love that you just rolled in here after years away, Clara, and you’re already giving Mack crap about Color Week.”
“I’m just remembering how hard he worked to get the fire lit under the Blue Team’s rope, and, I dunno, how easy I found it.” I glanced down in an attempt to nonchalantly study my fingernails, anything but look back at Mack’s dewy skin, his shimmering eyes.
“Ohhhhhh!” Sam taunted, hooting at me through cupped hands. “I give that dis a seven out of ten.”
I shimmied my shoulders, forcing myself to loosen up, and then did my best impression of a runner prepping for a race, stretching an arm in front of my chest. “I’m just getting started.”
“And here I thought your shit-talk would be rusty.” Mack threw back another sip of his beer from where he now sat on the ground, elbows propped up on his knees, and then raised the bottle toward me, a nod of respect.
“Some things just get finer with age,” I said, mimicking his toast before taking a small swig, the sharp iciness of the beer a delicious relief.
He pointed at his chest, his brows suggestively high, and my gaze landed on his eyes, amber and green flecks in the firelight, the color of sea glass. Had his lashes always been this long?
“Well, welcome back, Clara.” He gave a sweeping gesture. “Dinner’s on the picnic table, and there’s more beer and seltzer in the cooler. And I’ll be sure to find some new ways to remind you that our team kicked your team’s ass.”
“Can’t we just settle this like adults?” I leaned forward in my chair, enjoying the banter much more than I should. “The World Series doesn’t end in a tie. Let’s just say my team won, and that I was the better captain, and move on. Ties don’t exist in the real world.”
“Aw, but I’d tie with you anytime, Millen,” he said, that cocky, pleased-with-himself smile appearing, half lit up, half covered in shadows of darkness.
“Oh, really? Is that why you were walking around here wearing a medal that has been around since before the invention of the iPhone, goading me into a swim race?” I challenged, fiddling with a strand of hair between two fingers.
“There’s nothing I love more than two adults fighting over something that happened a billion years ago,” Eloise chimed in, swirling the wine in her plastic cup, which was the same shockingly bright red as her hair, before bringing it to her lips with an eye roll in my direction. I learned long ago not to take it personally; she rolled her eyes so often that it was practically a reflex.
“Just making up for lost time, El,” Mack said, his eyes back on me. I decided to give the pizza table my undivided attention, and walked over to the food, slapping two greasy, no longer hot slices onto a paper plate.
Eloise was now perched on Linus’s knee, her body pressed against his chest, arm wrapped around his neck. Mindlessly, she started running her fingers along the nape of his neck, and he moved his hands on her hips in an echoing rhythm. Jesus.
I dragged my chair over next to Sam and scooted it until I was practically sitting in her lap, so I wouldn’t have a front-row seat to their foreplay.
