Page 7

JOSH

There is absolutely no way she intended to run six miles this morning. She looks like she’s going to keel over as we stop in front of the hotel. “Are you going to stalk me every day?” she demands, breathing so heavily she barely gets the words out.

“I hope not,” I reply. “This barely counted as a workout.”

She is currently leaning over, palms pressed to her thighs, as she tries to catch her breath. She looks up to glare at me and I get a glimpse of very ample cleavage before I remember myself.

“Look,” I say, “all you have to do is promise you won’t run alone at five AM anymore.”

She straightens. In the early morning light, flushed and bare-faced and doe-eyed, she looks a lot younger and a lot more innocent than she probably is.

“You are way too scared of strangers, and I would just like to point out that, from a legal perspective, the specificity of that statement renders it useless. Tomorrow, for instance, I could run at 5:05.”

“It’s really a wonder no one’s beaten you to death,” I tell her wearily. “And I’m not talking about strangers. I’m talking about the people who know you best.”

She smirks, flips a middle finger at me, and walks off.

I’m free of her at last, but I can’t go to the room yet since Sloane will be asleep—not that I’d want to go there if she was awake. I took the couch last night, which didn’t improve the situation between us. It just seemed like the right thing to do. I can’t pick up where we left off last summer, not when she’d be thinking it meant something. Not when I know I’d be extracting myself again at the trip’s end, which is the kind of shit my father and brother would do.

I go to the lounge chairs by the pool and watch the sun slowly emerge from behind Diamond Head, thinking about what a messed-up situation this is. All the secrets weigh on me even more than they did yesterday.

Babysitting my brother’s pain-in-the-ass girlfriend is not what I need right now.

I think of her running in the dark by herself and stifle a quiet groan. And telling me she could fight ten guys at once when she barely hits my rib cage. My brother has brought home some troubling women before, but Drew Wilson is—hands down—the worst.

* * *

An hour later we’re seated at breakfast when Drew strolls up, her plate from the buffet heaped to overflowing with carbohydrates.

“Well, good morning, Joshua, Sloane,” she says with exaggerated cordiality, setting her plate down across from Sloane and pulling out a chair. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“I have a philosophical objection to buffets,” I reply.

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not even fully seated and you’ve managed to make breakfast dull,” she says. “What’s the problem? Too much pleasure?”

“It’s a waste of food,” I tell her. “Half of it ends up in the trash.” I know she won’t understand. It’s not as if this buffet is actually taking food out of other people’s mouths. It’s just easier not to see it. It’s easier not to think about the kids at the camp, how one breakfast like this would be something they’d remember the rest of their lives.

Drew gives me the most exaggerated smile possible as she shoves half a chocolate croissant in her mouth. “I plan to eat way more than normal this week if it makes you feel any better. They won’t be throwing out that much.”

“American excess is repellent to people who’ve actually witnessed true poverty,” Sloane says, looking pointedly at Drew’s plate, her voice rife with condescension.

“Oh, yeah?” Drew asks, her eyes darting from the expensive purse hanging off the back of Sloane’s chair to the mug in her hands. “How’s that oversized cappuccino, by the way? American excess is often quite tasty, I find.”

Excellent. Sloane has decided to be as judgmental as possible, and Drew has decided to bait her. Just what this shitshow of a trip needs.

My parents arrive with plates from the buffet, oblivious to the growing tension at the table, and my mother pulls out her trusty guidebook—Oahu, The Adventure of a Lifetime—which she opens before sliding it my way.

“The hike for today is called Pillboxes,” she says. “There are these small military bunkers built into a mountain. Amazing views.”

The Baileys have never taken a relaxed family trip once so this doesn’t surprise me, but the trail looks steep as shit. Not impossible, but also nothing my mother should be attempting at the moment.

“Mom,” I say carefully, “this looks like a lot to bite off. Maybe today can be more about relaxation?”

“I’m fine,” she says, refusing to meet my eye. “I think that first picture is deceptive.”

I look to my father for backup. He’s the last person I want to be siding with, but desperate times call for desperate measures. He’s too busy checking his email to notice.

Sloane taps on her watch with a frown. “I may have to bow out. I scheduled a manicure for ten.”