“So this is like a ‘buddy’ camping trip?” Handsome Ted rubs his perfect scruffy beard, clearly fishing for something.
“It’s a wedding,” Ethan answers in his best service industry voice from his donut shop days: the one that’s undeniably friendly but backed by a barely perceptible edge of open hostility. He hands the radio back to Ted. The man came throughwith a means to communicate with our formerly AWOL engaged couple. I’ll give him that much.
“Need a date?” Ted’s shameless. And hot. Did I mention Ted’s hot?
I hold my breath, waiting to see if Ethan will jump in like a territorial duke in a Regency romance novel.
She’s spoken for, he’d growl.
I’d storm off, yelling,How dare you speak for me, Mr. Powell!And then he’d kiss me furiously against an upturned canoe. He doesn’t do any of that, obviously. He continues filling out the equipment rental release.
It’s possible I’ve been watchingBridgertonin the wake of my divorce.
“Charlotte?” Ted asks. He folds his arms across his chest, flexing his pecs. It’s an impressive maneuver that I’ve never before seen executed with such…gusto.
It’s then I realize I’m staring at a stranger’s pecs, and my last shred of self-awareness shocks the rest of my brain back to life. “Oh, no. No date,” I answer after a short but embarrassing pause. “It’s not a date function so much as a quarter-life crisis and the culmination of years of mistreatment as a teacher in the American education system.”
Ethan mutters, “Jesus Christ.”
“I’m hoping our arrival will inspire a short cooling-off period—”
“Do we grab one of the canoes out back?” Ethan interrupts me. “We’re in a rush.”
Ted takes the forms from Ethan and looks them up and down, scanning for deficiencies.
“Ethan Powell,” Ted murmurs. Unease bubbles beneath mybreastbone as Ted’s eyes ping between Ethan, the form, and Ethan again, like a pinball. “Are you that singer from that alien show?”
If Ethan could will the floor to open up and suck him to Earth’s core, I suspect he would, but then he clears his throat, pulls his shoulders back, and assembles a fake smile. It’s not one of his best. “Lemonface. Yep. That’s me. Are you a fan?”
“God, no.” Ted’s eyes bug out of his skull as his expression melts from casual to panic-stricken like he’s a Dalí clock. “Not that you weren’t great. You were just more of my little sister’s thing. She had a poster of you guys on her wall. She was obsessed with that show and played the soundtrack every morning before school. Can I get a picture for her?”
Ethan nods stiffly, and Ted hands me his cell phone to take the picture. I’ve been downgraded from hot girl to Instagram boyfriend in under a minute.
“We really need to be on our way,” Ethan tells Ted apologetically. I hand the phone back to Ted and chase Ethan out the door.
Ethan lifts the first canoe he sees over his head. It’s a neon orange fiberglass one. “Grab the paddles,” he instructs, barely looking at me. I douse myself in bug spray and then follow his instructions. Quickly, we transition the boat into the water and row in tandem.
I notice the air first. It’s a fresh, verdant breeze that’s thinned out from the sticky heat into something crisp and light but no less warm. The pleasant air seeps into my skin, and I can’t help but luxuriate in it, tilting my chin toward the sky, a flower curling into the sunshine. Rays of sunlight pour through the blanket of trees above me, making me squint. There arejust so many trees in the woods. Which sounds idiotic, but that doesn’t make it any less true.
“This is actually nice,” I exhale to no one in particular, and then lower my gaze to the horizon, paddling onward.
At the first point in the chain of lakes where the water’s too shallow, we heave the canoe over our heads. We have to trudge across the small spit of land before we can place the boat back in the water. When we’re floating again, he hands me a map while oaring on both sides.
“I think we’re headed in the right direction,” I say.
He grunts in a very un-Ethan-y manner. Ethan’s not a grunter. I put my map down and place my paddle back in the water. I speed up my strokes to keep us straight.
“Are we okay?” My stomach flattens from the humiliation of asking one of the most insecure and quietly vulnerable questions a person can ask another person, second only toWhat are we?“You seem…perturbed.”
“Yeah, no. Sorry. I…Can you believe that guy?Need a date?” He mimics Ted in his best big, dumb oaf voice. “I was standing right there.”
“What difference does that make?”
“He doesn’t know anything about us. We could be the ones getting married for all he knows.” Indignation powers each of his strokes. “And then he asks for a picture ‘for his sister’ after hitting on you right in front of me? Come on, bro. There’s no sister. Just admit you watch the CW.”
I sidestep the sister accusation because, frankly, I’m not sure how to unpack that one. “I don’t think anyone would look at us and assume ‘married couple.’ ” I pick up my pace. Drunken, indoor spite-row workouts didn’t prepare me for an actual current.
“Why? Is itsoimpossible to imagine yourself married to me?”
