Lips parted, Penn eyes my hip, where a thin string ties my bikini bottoms together. “I don’t,” he says roughly. “Especially not with you. But I’m trying to be good.”
“Now you decide to be good,” I grumble.
He pulls me closer. “Let’s be clear, Wynne,” he says, his breath hot against my ear. “I’m holding back for you. So the second you don’t want to be so good anymore—when you’re ready to let go of your rules—I am more than happy to obey.”
Heat blazes low in my belly as I shift back and meet his eyes. “Good to know,” I say. “Should the rules change, I’ll have my people get in touch with your people.”
He laughs, but the sound gets swallowed up by a loud, earsplitting scream. Followed by a lot of splashing.
Alarmed, I look overhead, convinced the entire sky might fall—that I’ve angered the MASH gods yet again. And I might be right, because when Penn jogs away, I follow him to the pool, which has just begun to drain. Quickly.
“What’s happening?” It’s Juliet, the dental hygienist.
Guests scramble out of the pool, and I meet Bridget’s wide eyes across the deck. Grimacing, she lifts her drink, like,Well, what are you gonna do?
A great question.
I don’t cry. Or yell. Or bolt to the nearest hose to replace the water, like I did the fish.
Instead, I start laughing. Deliriously.
My cackles only get louder when Mac Davis, The Disco Diner’s greatest benefactor, who’s wearing banana-print swim trunks andwho brought a megaphone for unknown reasons, lifts it and shouts, “Pool’s closed! Repeat: Pool out of commission.”
He and Penn wrap the pool’s stepladder with makeshift caution tape in the form of a flamingo-covered garland while I fully spiral.
Nothing is playing out how it should. And so far, nothing in the horrifically bright-colored cocktails has been strong enough to make me forget.
I head back to the bar to fill my cup with more of what might actually be lighter fluid mixed with red no. 5 concentrate. En route, I’m intercepted by Bridget, who swerves us in the opposite direction, to the kitchen. “How about some shots of water, hmm?”
I poke a finger into her cheek. “You. Told me. To drink up.”
“Drink up,” she repeats. “Not drink until you throw up and start reciting e. e. cummings poems to strangers. Let’s make sure that remains a onetime thing.”
I laugh. “When did I do that?”
Bridget gives me a look, one twinged with sadness. I’ve come to recognize it as herOh, yeah, my best friend isn’t really my best friendface. “Paris,” she explains. “You were carrying a lot of hearts with you that night.”
We pass a dance party and stumble into the kitchen, where all three islands are littered with party wreckage. Between catering trays from Madre’s and drink tubs full of Capri-Suns lie stacks of abandoned paper plates, half-drunk beer cans, and discarded wrappers from the temporary tattoos Bridget insisted would be a hit. She wasn’t wrong.
“B,” I tell her. “You plan thebestparties.”
She passes me a red Solo cup full of water and pats my head. “Next time, I’ll add ‘no megaphones’ to the invitation.”
I sit and sip obediently, but soon Bridget’s pulled back outside by Mac’s boyfriend, who mentions something about a limbo stick. After waving goodbye, I dip a chip in guacamole, then miss my mouth entirely, dropping the scoop down my chest.
That’s how hot, shirtless Penn finds me: alone in the kitchen, looking like I’ve been slimed. Like I’m a failed contestant on a Nickelodeon game show.
He hands me a napkin. “Where’s a scarf-bib when you need one, huh?”
I dab between the triangles of my bikini top. “It’s sneaky guacamole. Too slippery.”
“Better look out for that slippery guac,” he agrees. Then he pops a straw into a Capri-Sun and takes a drink, watching me.
“I love rum,” I respond, thoughtfully tapping a chip into the air. “Someone said rum is in those drinks. Rum is what’s up. Rum and me…” I twist two fingers together. “Like this.”
As if she’s been standing offstage, waiting for me to cause more chaos, Bridget swoops back inside with those teacher instincts, quickly wiping up the mess with her pool towel. When she’s done, Penn loops an arm over her shoulder, and they stare at me like two concerned parents. The room is notnotspinning.
I shrug. “I was overserved.”
