Page 3 of What We Bury

“You’re gorgeous and taken. We need to pair all your friends up so we can have a girl gang and bitch about you guys while you go do he-man stuff.” She turns back to me. “What do you say? Ready to take him for a test drive?”

I snort into my beer. “I’m not sure it’s complimentary to refer to a guy as a car?”

“A nice car,” Amy clarifies. “With good mileage and a solid warranty.”

Brock covers his face with his hands. “This is why I don’t introduce you to my dates anymore.”

“Because I’m honest about your marketability?”

“Because you have no filter and the subtlety of a foghorn.”

I’m laughing harder now, and it feels strange and wonderful.

“See?” Amy points at me triumphantly. “Sage appreciates honesty.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” I protest, chuckling when they both ignore me.

“Sage doesn’t know how dangerous it is to encourage you,” Brock says, but he’s grinning.

We talk and I let myself relax. At some point Brock says something dry enough that I laugh again, the kind of laugh that surprises me on its way out. Amy looks at me like I’m a science experiment that has gone shockingly right.

The music shifts. Couples start drifting toward an open patch of deck.

“Want to dance?” Brock asks.

Thenois on my tongue before he finishes the question.

“Pretty sure my feet would mutiny. Maybe next time.”

“Sure.” No pressure. He shrugs like I just declined a stick of gum. “Talking’s better anyway.”

That’s twice he’s accepted no without flinching.My nervous system doesn’t know what to do with that.

“I think so.”

He stretches back in the sand. I tuck my legs under me and feel the breeze lift the hem of my dress. My hand goes to my knee automatically.

By eleven, I’m done. The sangria, beer, and eight hours on my feet have caught me, and my body has filed its formal notice. I shove my feet into the jelly shoes and push up from thesand, slinging my clutch—also borrowed from Amy—over my shoulder.

“I’m gonna head home. I’ve got to function at work tomorrow.”

Amy untangles from Tyler. “I’ll come with?—”

“No, stay.” I gesture at her to stop. “It’s not far.”

She hesitates. “No, I can’t let you do that. We girls stick together.”

“Stay. Please. You’re having fun.”

“At least call an Uber.”

I mentally tally the hit to my severely depleted bank account and feel my eye twitch. “It’s twenty minutes. There are streetlights. I’ll text when I’m in.”

“I’ll walk her,” Brock says, already standing. “It’s on my way.”

It is not on his way. He literally lives here. We both know it.

“You don’t?—”