"Alright, everyone on," he calls proudly.
Ben hops aboard first, then turns and catches Harper by the hand, steadying her down onto the deck. Maren curtsies when she steps on, which makes Arthur applaud from his spot already sprawled across the bow cushions. I didn't even see him get on just now.
I'm on the dock, one foot on the boat, one still on the weathered planks, when Mason appears beside me. He's been hanging back, loading the last of the drinks into the cooler, checking the rope ties.
His nose is bruised. Purple-green at the bridge, darker under his left eye.
He catches me looking.
"It's fine," he says, smirking, before I can open my mouth.
It is objectively not fine. It makes him look like someone who starts bar fights for fun (which I thought he did back at Harper's engagement party).
He steps down into the boat and turns, offering his hand up to me.
I take it.
His fingers close around mine and he helps me down. The boat shifts under my weight and I stumble forward. His other hand lands on my waist, steadying me, and for exactly one second we're almost flush... and I can smell a hint of his cedar.
His pupils dilate. Lock on me.
Then he lets go, steps back, and turns toward the stern like nothing happened.
But something did. And I guess my stress haze is lower today.
"Anchors aweigh!" Arthur shouts from the bow, pointing forward like a ship captain in a painting. He's shirtless already and the sun catches the broad plane of his shoulders in a way that feels specifically designed to be distracting.
"That's not how anchors work," Knox says from behind the wheel. "We haven't dropped anchor yet. You can't weigh what hasn't been set."
"It's anexpression, Knox."
"It's anautical termwith a specific meaning."
Knox leans over to untie us from the dock, pushes off, and steers us out past the reeds and into open water. The engine's loud enough that you have to raise your voice, so for the first few minutes nobody bothers. We just cruise, wind in our hair, sun on our arms, the tree line alongside the lake sliding past on either side in a long blur of green.
Harper tips her face toward the sky with her eyes closed. Maren hangs one leg over the side, toes dragging in the water, humming something. Arthur stretches out on the bow cushions like a golden retriever in a sunbeam, arms behind his head, chest rising and falling in slow, easy rhythm.
I sit on the bench near the stern, knees pulled up, and just watch. The bruise on Mason's face as he stands at the back rail, squinting across the water. Knox at the wheel, one hand resting on the dashboard. Ben beside him, Harper leaning against Ben's side, his arm hooked around her shoulders.
After ten minutes, Knox cuts the engine somewhere in the middle of the lake, far enough from either shore that the trees look like a painting. The only sound we hear is the water slapping the hull and the creak of the boat adjusting to stillness.
Knox opens the cooler and passes out sodas.
"Who's getting in?" Ben asks after taking a sip, peeling off his shirt and balling it on the bench.
"Is it cold?" Harper peers over the edge.
Ben grabs her around the waist. She shrieks—"Ben—" but he's already stepping off the gunwale, taking her with him. They hit the water with a heavy, satisfyingker-ploosh.
Arthur rolls off the bow like a seal sliding off a rock. Just a splash and a "WHOO!" that echoes off the far shore.
"How is it?" Maren calls.
Arthur surfaces, shaking water from his hair, grinning. "Get in here. Seriously. It's perfect."
Maren strips down to her swimsuit and jumps from the side, clutching her nose. She comes up gasping and laughing. "It isnotperfect!"
"Your body adjusts!" Arthur says. "Give it a second!"
