“What the—” Everett says as he finds his footing. “Sutton, Gabe was just on picture forty-five of Riley and Chloe’s first ballet class.”
“You can look at pictures another time,” I say, pulling him to one side of the deck where the rigging blocks us from view.
“Do youknowwhat a Gabe slideshow is like?” he asks.
“Yes, I’ve been through more of them than you have,” I point out. Technically, though, I realize, there’s a chance this isn’t true. I know Gabe was already a big fan of the photo montage in college, sitting us all down and running through the literal hundreds of pictures he took over summer or winter vacation, on weekend trips he and Zoey would take, at least 40 percent of themalways blurry or duplicates. But while I had assumed the habit originated back then, there’s a chance he’s always been like that. That even in middle school, he was showing his friends—read, Everett—slideshows of his science projects or his three cats. I wouldn’t put it past him.
Everett, I can tell, is thinking the same thing, but to his credit, he doesn’t say anything.
“We have a problem,” I say.
Everett raises an eyebrow. “Do we.”
“Laurel caught on to our—” I wave a hand between us, because while she would define what we’re doing differently than I would, I don’t want Everett to know that “—bickering.”
“Sutton,” Everett says. “The captain picked up on our bickering. Everyone at the marina picked up on it. Hell, the otherboatson the water right now can probably—”
“I get the point,” I cut in, holding up a hand to silence him. “It’s a problem.”
“I didn’t come here to argue with you,” Everett says.
“Neither didI,” I say. But I didn’t go to Gabe’s baby shower to argue with him either, or Davi’s birthday party, or Laurel and Stephen’s anniversary. And yet. I realize that my back molars are, in fact, gritting painfully together. I try to unclench my jaw. “But we are, and it’s what’s putting Laurel in a weird mood this week.”
Everett’s mouth ticks, like he might find what I just said funny. “You don’t think she might be a little more focused on, I don’t know, her divorce? Herself? I don’t think our issues are front of mind for her this week, Sutton.”
“Are you joking?” I scoff, disbelieving. “Everett,weare the whole reason this trip hasn’t happened for the last four years.”
A dubious expression flits across Everett’s eyebrows before he’s shaking his head. “I think you think we matter too much.”
“I don’t thinkwematter,” I say, gesturing between the two of us. “I think the fact that we broke a very important pact with absolutely no consideration for our friends and what it would do to them matters.”
“Oh my god,” Everett says, almost groans, tugging a hand roughly through his hair. “When are you going to let go of the stupid pact? It sounds so childish.”
I balk. “Excuse me, it is notchildish. It’s the thing that made this work for so many years.”
Everett runs a hand down his face. “It was a joke,” he says. “The pact was a joke to begin with.”
“What does that mean?” I ask. Everett opens his mouth to respond, shuts it again, and it’s enough to drop a new hot thread of anger through me. “Right,” I say, throwing up a defeated hand. “You can’t believe any of this. You’re just so above it all.”
Everett’s brow creases. “That’s not—” He breaks off, eyes drifting over my shoulder and mouth pressing into a thin line. I glance behind me, heart jumping into my throat and excuses flooding my mouth at Laurel standing there, cheeks flushed.
“Are you kidding?” she says, and the look on her face could shrink me down ten sizes.
“Laurel,” I say. “We were just talking—”
“Clearly,” she says. Then, shoulders hunching up to her ears, “No, you know what? I don’t want to hear it. I’m sick of this.”
“Laurel, we really were trying to talk things through,” Everett says, and it feels odd, uncomfortable even, to suddenly be on the same side.
“Great,” Laurel says. She pushes us in the direction of where the captain is sitting by the wheel, looking bored. “Then you won’t mind continuing yourconversation.” Her words drip with sarcasm, disdain, and I don’t blame her.
“What—” I say, feet slipping against the boards as she marches us along. “Laurel—”
“In you go,” she says, stopping us in front of the door to the little cabin.
Everett and I exchange a glance. “We’ll behave,” he says to her. “Seriously.”
“I don’t want you to behave,” Laurel says through her own gritted teeth. “I want you to move past this shit between you.”
