Page 27 of Cabin Fever

“Shut up.”

He smirks, and just like that, we’re back to normal. Kind of. Exactly as it played out when we were kids. It wasn’t a good idea then, and it certainly isn’t one now. He still flirts exactly like he used to, and we live in different states. What do I think is going to happen? That we’ll somehow fall in love and upend our lives to be together?

We’re at a wedding. We’re trapped in a room together. Both of us have romance on the brain, and I’m an emotional wreck. I’m surprised we haven’t made some sort of pact to use each other’s bodies as emotional support for one week only. I’m grateful Finn’s in the bathroom when I have that thought, otherwise I may have said it out loud.

After Finn finishes his nighttime routine and gets back in bed, he flicks off his reading light. Not relishing the idea of him staring at me from the dark, I do the same and set my book on the floor. We lie there in the pitch black, and my body tunes in to every sound he makes. The rush of his breath. The whisper of his body against the sheets.

“Tomorrow,” he says, nearly making me jump.

“Hm?”

“Cozumel.”

“Uh, right. The Jeep thing.”

“Where are we going again?”

Dahlia and Theo made this plan. Originally, I wasn’t a huge fan of me being invited along with the three of them, but it meant a lot to Dahlia. And six hours sounded manageable. You know, when I wasn’t going to be spending every damn minute with Finn.

“We’re going to that beach on the far side of the island. Snorkeling. I was bribed with a promise of tacos.”

“Obviously.”

I grin to myself in the dark. Tacos used to be Finn’s favorite food. I wonder if they still are.

“Just thinking about whether I can fit in a run before we disembark,” he says.

“Hm. Pondering the mysteries of the universe.”

He chuckles. “‘Night, Harper.”

“Goodnight, Finn.”

Chapter Ten

The original plan was to get away from the crowds, our own included, and enjoy a relaxing day on the beach together before the wedding. Dahlia invited me. Theo invited Finn. And now, the two of us have a secret plan: get Theo to tell Dahlia the truth.

Dahlia’s in full sparkle mode as we ride the tender into Cozumel. She’s pointing out watercolors like a cruise commercial—“Look how turquoise!” I try to match her energy, and for the first time in what feels like months, I’m nearly successful.

At one point, she eyes me suspiciously, then glances at Finn, and panic climbs my spine. I shake my head, using our telepathic sister connection to convince her that nothing is happening with me and Finn.

She only raises an eyebrow. I ignore her, knowing from past experience that if I dig in, it’ll only solidify her theory. But as Finn makes some stupid joke about finding a topless beach to help Theo get over his fear of showing his nipples, my laugh is nearly giddy.

I kissed Finn Gallagher. For real. My teenage self would slap me. Out of jealousy, to be clear.

The Jeep Dahlia reserved is orange, dented, and older than any of us by the look of the literal silver key. The rental guy hands it to Theo like he's passing off his aging mother-in-law.

We all pile in, and Theo starts it up, test-revving the engine. He adjusts the mirrors with two fingers, then pulls out onto the coast road. The wind comes over the windshield and tears Dahlia's ponytail apart. She shrieks and grabs her hat as Theo laughs. For the first time in days, it’s as if the gap-toothed nine-year-old surfaces in his thirty-two-year-old face. He yells over the engine, “STILL THE ONLY ONE OF US WHO CAN DRIVE STICK,” and Finn yells back, “I HIT ONE CURB!”

“I THOUGHT IT WAS A MAILBOX??” Dahlia cries out, still holding her hat down with both hands.

My recollection is that it was a curb and then a mailbox, but I keep that to myself.

The east side of the island is nothing like the port. Ten minutes out, the souvenir stands fall away, and everything around us becomes wild and empty. Scrub jungle on one side, crystal blue ocean on the other.

The waves turn white against the coast. No hotels. No bars. Nobody but us, the pelicans, and an occasional taxi blasting cumbia, heading the other direction. We stop at a beach that’s only a scoop of white sand between two shelves of black rock and a palapa shack at the tree line with smoke coming off a grill.

The four of us are in the water before the engine finishes ticking.