I scoop a spoonful of oats into my mouth. “ ‘Endless consternation.’ ”
“Flawless.” His forehead crinkles, like he’s working overtime to hide his amusement. “You should be the songwriter.”
I swallow and drape my hands around his neck, letting my pouch of oatmeal dangle behind him. “So,theEthan Powell has finally written a song about me?”
My comment turns the tips of his ears an adorable shade of pink. “I’ve written dozens of songs about you.”
“What?”
“You’d have known that if I’d made it into your Spotify Wrapped.”
The phrase “dozens of songs” shouldn’t make my brain clunk around my head like a hunk of ice in a blender, but I can’t seem to stop fixating on theWhat will this mean?s and theFor how long?s and theHow will this end?s and just simply exist in the present.
I bury my face into his neck, where he smells as sweet as ever. He can’t read the anxiety on my face if he can’t see it.
With his finger, he tips my chin to his, and my tension releases into the sheer pleasure of Ethan’s mouth on mine, the way his hand cups my jaw. The way his body presses against mine and I press back. The physical sensation of being this close to him in every way is enough to overpower any whirring doubt.
“Nice shirt,” he says, his voice a low hum.
“Sorry. I didn’t have anything clean left. You can use my washing machine when we get back.”
“You should keep it,” he says, letting his lips drag along my neck. Pleasure crackles down my body. “Seraphina is a duofrom the Bay Area. They’ve got this folky pop electronic thing going on. I think you’d like them. They’re on the playlist.”
“What playlist?”
“Yours. The ‘End of the World’ playlist. For when we have to rebuild society together. Remember?” I pull my face back and catch a glimpse of his breezy smile. “When I hear music I think you’d like, I add it to the playlist.”
My stomach somersaults, and suddenly, I’m a performer in a community theater production ofPeter Panand an overeager stagehand has just yanked me into the air by my waist. It’s possible I leave my body, because whatisthat? Who curates secret playlists for friends they’ve imagined having casual sex with? What kind of fuckboy head game is he playing at?
“Charley. Don’t.” He squeezes my waist. The pressure of it brings me back down to earth. “It’s not a big thing. I’m a musician with a weakness for curation and lists. That’s all it is. Please, don’t run into the woods.”
“I’m not going to run,” I promise. “I can’t. I’m too sore from the nude five K.”
Air sputters from his lips. “Good.” He kisses me again, and I feel a bit more myself. Or whatever version of myself hooks up with Ethan in the woods. “Our canoe’s still on the other side, but I saw Ted when I was making coffee, and he can take us over to the campsite for the wedding.”
The wedding.I’d nearly let myself forget.
“But he has to work a couple more hours before his cousin can cover his shift.”
“A couple hours?” I shake my head. “That’s not good enough. I still haven’t gotten Laurel alone.”
“Chill.” He groans into my bare shoulder. It’s so addictive,stealing every touch like we’re running out of time. It almost crowds out my worry about Laurel.
“You can pull her aside for a little sister time as soon as we get there,” he reminds me. “I’ll even run interference.”
“You’d do that?” I ask, tilting my head to get a better look at his sleepy, sweet expression.
“It’s still just a conversation, right? Then I’m on your team, Beekman.” His words seep their way inside, sticking to me like chocolate syrup.He’s on my team now.But I guess he always has been. “I’ll tackle anyone who gets in your way. Even Petey.”
“We both know you can’t take down Petey.”
“I cannot,” he agrees without an ounce of wounded machismo.
Sun streams through the trees in bursts of light, dappling his face in the early morning glow. He looks like magic. He’s a leading man in need of an equally enchanting costar.
“Oh. Don’t move,” I instruct. I inch back into the van, framing up the shot in my head. His body stays stock-still with the rigidity of a nervous child who has a spider perched on his nose. He relaxes a touch when I reappear with his camera.
“The light is incredible.” The sun is that perfect tangerine hue we only get in Minnesota during these elongated hours in late June. When the light feels endless yet the days are still too short.
