Page 65 of One Last Summer
“Oh boy, this is gonna be fun.” Nick rubbed his hands together, and Mack full-on chortled, buckling at the hips in laughter. I shot him an icy glare, suddenly self-conscious that I’d been excited for a “date” he seemed to view as a joke.
“Can one of you please tell me what’s going on?” I asked, looking back and forth between them for clues.
“Patience, my dear Clara,” Nick said, reaching up to slide his glasses down an inch, a regular millennial James Bond.
“Fine, then can we discuss your outfit?” I eyed him deliberately, and then shot him a devilish grin.
“Yes, please, can we?” Mack snuck a conspiratorial look at me before turning back to Nick. “Because if you ever get married, I want to borrow this whole look to wear at your wedding.”
“Fine, then I’ll just have to demote you from officiant to regular boring old guest.” Nick’s brows knit together over his Miami Vice shades.
“You wouldn’t dare,” Mack said, playfully calling his bluff.
“It’s the hat that really pulls it all together.” I stood back, eyeing Nick up and down like a fashion designer reviewing a dubious frock on a mannequin.
“Eloise and I raided the costume closet in the theater.” Nick gave us both the stink-eye. “Now, can we please get started?”
Mack gestured at Nick, an openhanded invitation to spill the beans.
“We’re doing the relay,” Nick said matter-of-factly. “Well, you’re doing the relay.”
“Our date… is the relay?” I repeated back, turning to Mack.
“You’re only here for, like, three more days. I wanted us to do something fun together. Something you couldn’t do on a date with anyone else.” He was bouncing on his feet with excitement, and suddenly all the doubt I had about him—about us—just moments ago was spun on its head yet again.
“And then Nick and I were discussing the relay,” he continued. “And how we missed it yesterday, and we thought it might be more fun if it was just the two of us.”
“So, like, you want me to kick your ass again?” I taunted, pushing my shoulders back confidently.
“Come on, Millen, you didn’t think I could really handle you beating me in our little swim race the other night, did you?” he said in that voice that had just a hint of sultriness. “You know my ego can’t take it.”
He took a step closer to me, clearly enjoying egging me on. The sight of him like this—cocky and confident—ignited something in me, something familiar and nostalgic. I’d always relished every second we spent verbally sparring like this, but when I was younger, I’d assumed it was because I liked driving him nuts. Now I realized it was the opposite; I adored it, because deep down, I adored him.
I always had.
“Well, I’d say, ‘May the best person win’ but we all know that’s going to be me. So.”
I yanked a bottle of sunscreen from the back pocket of my shorts and sprayed it down my arms, purposely ignoring him, just to get under his skin.
“There she is.” He shot me a pleased look, his voice laced with something that sounded a lot like affection. “Let’s do this.”
“Excellent!” Nick said with a smack of his hands. “No rules, except that the first person to complete each of the challenges and burn through their rope wins.”
“Oh my god, we’re doing an actual rope burn?” I squealed, unable to contain my excitement at this news.
Nick nodded eagerly.
“And the winner can obnoxiously gloat about it forever and ever, in perpetuity.” Mack leaned over to gently knock my elbow with his, giving me that self-assured smirk.
There was that glimmer in his eye again, the one I’d seen in Capture the Flag the other day. I’d chalked it up to his competitive nature, and I was still almost certain that’s all it was.
And so I ignored the whisper in my gut that told me I wanted it to be more. I wanted it to be because of me.
Nick bent down and reached for the giant tote bag resting near his feet, pulling out two dented silver spoons that were surely from the dining hall, and a small container of a half dozen eggs, popping it open and tipping it toward us.
“Egg and spoon race kicks things off. Take your pick.”
“I’m assuming,” I said as I gingerly picked an egg out of its little cardboard home, “that these are hard-boiled like when we were kids?”
