Chapter three

The air smells like sunscreen and lake water. Harry's sitting on a float shaped like a giant slice of pizza, sunglasses on, snack in hand, living his best life.

"I swear, if I fall off this thing again, I'm suing," he announces dramatically, wobbling as he adjusts himself.

"Suing who?" I ask, arms crossed on the deck railing.

"The float company. Or gravity. Whichever one has deeper pockets."

I snort. "You're insufferable."

"You love me," he says, then promptly rolls off the float with a splash. I burst out laughing.

I sit down on the edge of the dock, dipping my toes in the water. The sun's warmer now, and for the first time all day, it actually feels like summer. Noah comes over, shirt damp and sticking to his body, and flops down beside me.

"You always this graceful?" he asks, nodding toward Harry who's now back on the float, flipping off a duck.

"Only on weekends and national holidays," I reply, grinning.

Noah bumps my shoulder gently with his. "You alright now?"

I nod. "Yeah. Still mildly homicidal, but not enough to ruin a weekend getaway."

His eyes search mine for a second longer than they should. "Good," he says, voice lower, softer. "I hate seeing you upset."

There's a pause. Not the awkward kind—just the kind where everything feels like it's teetering too close to something dangerous and exciting. I look away first.

"So," I say, trying to shake the tension. "When do you plan on telling Sandra you're secretly a merman?"

He laughs. "What?"

"You're always in the water. It's suspicious. I feel like you'd have gills. Or webbed toes."

He leans closer, voice near my ear. "Wanna check?"

My breath catches. I don't respond, and he clearly notices.

"Speechless?" he teases, eyes dancing.

I nudge him hard with my elbow. "Cocky today, aren't we?"

"Only because you like it."

"Debatable."

He smirks, like he already knows I'm lying.

---

Later, I find Sandra in the kitchen, making sandwiches with a level of precision that feels... therapeutic.

"Need help?" I ask, leaning against the counter.

She smiles—genuine, a little tired. "Only if you don't mind me bossing you around."

I grin. "You mean like always?"

She hands me the knife. "Cut cucumbers. Diagonally. Don't ask why. It just tastes better."

We fall into a rhythm—chopping, stacking, sneaking bites like kids. For a few minutes, it feels like old times. Before feelings got messy. Before Noah became the unspoken middle of this emotional tug-of-war.

"I'm glad we're doing this," I say.

"What? Sandwich therapy?"

"This weekend. All of us. You and me."

Sandra glances at me. "Yeah. Me too."

There's a pause, and I see the hesitation flicker in her eyes. She's not dumb. She knows something's been shifting. Between me and Noah. And she's trying so hard not to look directly at it.

"You okay?" I ask quietly.

She nods, then shrugs. "I just... sometimes feel like I'm standing in a room full of people shouting and I'm the only one not hearing the secret."

My chest tightens. "San..."

"It's okay. Really. I know I'm probably being dramatic."

"You're not."

We lock eyes. There's something so raw in hers, it makes me want to cry and confess everything all at once. But I don't. I can't. Not yet.

"Let's make Harry the ugly sandwich," I say, lifting a crooked piece of bread.

Sandra laughs, and just like that, the tension breaks. We go back to teasing each other about whose sandwich looks like it was made by a raccoon.

---

That night, the air is cooler. We're all out by the fire pit, wrapped in hoodies and blankets, roasting marshmallows like overgrown children. Harry tells some ridiculous ghost story that ends with him screaming at his own reflection in the window.

Luke stays quiet, unusually quiet. Probably still embarrassed about the slap—my handprint faded from his cheek, but not from the energy in the group. Sandra's curled up in a chair beside Harry, and Noah is next to me, legs stretched out, hoodie hood half on his head.

"Cold?" he asks.

"A little."

He shifts the blanket over so it covers both of us. I hesitate. Then I let it happen.

We sit like that—close but not touching. And that's worse somehow. The almost of it. The not-quite.

Noah shifts beside me, glancing at the fire. "You ever wonder what things would be like if we met differently?"

I look at him. "Differently how?"

He shrugs, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. "I dunno. Not through the group. Just... us. Somewhere else. Somewhere less complicated."

The words hang between us like smoke—light but lingering.

"Would we even talk?" I ask.

He smiles faintly. "You'd talk. I'd listen. And probably annoy you."

He's probably right.

"I think we'd still find each other," I say quietly.

Noah doesn't reply. Just watches the fire like it might tell him something he hasn't figured out yet.

Before I can think too hard, Harry interrupts the moment with full-volume energy.

"I swear to God," he groans, "if Luke burns another marshmallow, I'm calling the fire department for emotional support."

"I'm testing techniques," Luke mutters, squinting at the skewer like he's defusing a bomb. "This is precision craftsmanship."

"You've incinerated four in a row," Sandra says flatly. "This one's on fire again."

"It's caramelized."

"It's a war crime," I chime in, watching black goo drip from the stick like hot tar.

"I'm building character," Luke says, completely deadpan. "And possibly a second fire."

Noah snorts beside me, hiding a laugh behind his hand. "I'm starting to think Luke's trying to summon something."

Harry gasps. "If a demon shows up for a burnt marshmallow ritual, I am out. I'll leave all of you behind."

"No you wouldn't," I say.

"I would! I've seen enough horror movies. First guy to joke about demons? Always gone first."

"That tracks," Noah says.

"Cowards," Luke mutters, still toasting like he's on MasterChef: Campfire Edition.

The mood is light, the jokes bouncing around easily, and for a moment everything feels exactly how it used to. Comfortable. Safe. Before feelings complicated things.

Sandra scoots a little closer to me, pulling her hoodie sleeves down over her hands. "You okay?" she asks quietly.

I nod. "Yeah. Just soaking it in."

She gives me a look. One of those I-know-you're-not-telling-me-everything looks, but she doesn't push.

"I like nights like this," she says instead.

"Me too." And I mean it.

We sit together, her shoulder against mine, and I remember why I've always loved her—why the thought of hurting her makes my stomach twist.

I offer her the bag of marshmallows. "Here. Save one from Luke's reign of terror."

She laughs and takes one. "I feel like I'm adopting it."

Meanwhile, Harry's poking the fire with a stick like he's having some sort of emotional crisis.

"If I die tonight," he says dramatically, "tell my parents I died doing what I loved: annoying the hell out of all of you."

"Wouldn't even need to tell them," Sandra says. "They'd assume."

"I hate all of you," he mutters, but he's grinning.

Noah leans toward me a little, voice low. "How did we end up on this trip with actual lunatics?"

"Speak for yourself," I whisper. "I'm thriving."

He gives me a sideways smile. "Yeah, you are."

The group slips into a quieter lull, fire crackling, the night wrapping around us like something alive. My knee bumps Noah's lightly, and I don't move it.

Neither does he.