“The beach. You can breathe again.” Cameron shoots me a delightfully dry look. “That’s a cause worthy of celebration.”
“I don’t think I can drink yet. Alcohol and cold medicine famously don’t get along.”
“We’ll do enough for you.”
I haven’t seen Arthur in person since he left the clinic on Saturday for Qualifying. He’d thought the movie put me to sleep—but it hadn’t. Not for long, at least. I kept waking up, startled that he was still there next to me, warm and real. He’d pat my shoulder and make a joke about being too scared to move and doctor’s orders and then I was out again. When he did eventually slip out of bed, he arranged pillows where he used to be, collected his stuff, and stood by the window. Not staring at me, nothing Edward Cullen creepy. Just… existing in the same space for another moment.
Once we’re parked, Cameron leads me to a sun-bleached wooden gate protecting the private beach. “Safest spot in the city. No photographs allowed.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s a nude beach.”
“It’s a—excuse me?”
“Nude beach,” he repeats, perpetually chill. “We always come here. Oh, are you, like, not cool with seeing that?”
“No. I mean, I don’t know.”
Cameron frowns. “You can totally stay dressed. And I can text everyone? We can find someplace else to go.”
My mind is a broken hamster wheel, no longer squeaking. Cameron is wearing a black shirt over white swim trunks, his pale legs and arms sticking out like gangly vegetable roots, and oh no, I’m imagining him naked, big time, no way out. Blushing, I tip my head down so the wide-brimmed sun hat I bought at a supermarket will cover my red cheeks. Okay. Nude beach.Privatebeach. No grainy photographs online could be worth it. I can keep my JoyDivision shirt and cargo shorts on. Sure, Arthur will be lounging on the sands in various scraps of clothing—or not—and I’ll look like a Hot Topic employee. But so it goes.
“I’m ready,” I tell Cameron, my fingers balling into determined fists.
We find our group down on the clean white sand yards away from the water. Delaney is on a huge striped blanket, and Arthur is standing ankle-deep in the frothy waves. He’s in the short-shorts version of swim trunks, his muscular thighs and sculpted back on full display, sunscreen glinting off every perfect line in his body.
I cross my arms over my very clothed chest.
“Hey, Lilah!” Delaney beams, and my heart thuds with appreciation at the distraction-slash-formal-announcement of my arrival. She’s also dressed in a short pink cover-up, her long legs tipped with tassel-covered sandals, and I could kiss her for not being naked.
“Welcome to the real Zandvoort,” she says as I sit next to her. “Sarah had to deal with schedules, but she’s meeting us later.”
“I’m surprised you could fit nude beach intoyourschedule.”
She smirks. “Trying to have more ‘fun’ as the kids say.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Arthur isn’t turned toward the water anymore. I ignore it. Him. Whatever. “Did you bring extra sunscreen?”
“Yeah, but ask Cam.” She laughs. “He has the heavy-duty chemicals.”
“In my bag,” Cameron says, never looking up from the thick architecture magazine now on his lap. “Del, you’re going to get sunstroke without SPF 50.”
“Have I ever?”
“There was that one time, in Monaco.”
“I didn’t have sunstroke, I was pissed.”
“Why?”
“You guys forgot I was meeting you on that yacht. I walked ten miles to watch you sail away.”
Cameron taps his chin. “See, I remember texting you that I’d pick you up with the lifeboat.”
“I didn’t feel like drowning.”
“I’m a good sailor!”
