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Dad’s standing now too, joining the hug, and I’ve got my arms around both of them, trying to keep myself upright. “I… Congratulations, you guys. I’m… I didn’t…”
“See this coming?” Dad finishes for me. He laughs a little. Draws back. “Neither did I, to be honest. Susan and I have been friends for so many years, I never thought…” They break off to smile at one another, and ugh, if they kiss right now I’m going to die. I side-step away from the hug-fest and cast another glance at Josh.
It hurts almost physically to look at him right now. My step-brother. My first kiss. The guy I daydreamed about for years. The guy it took me ages to get over, the guy who still makes my chest ache because of the way he ran from me. The guy who has only, unfortunately, gotten ten times hotter with age.
He’s watching me too. For once, I can’t read the expression in his stormy gaze. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say he looks concerned, maybe sad.
At least one person here knows how to react appropriately, then.
“Wow, you look so wonderful. I can’t believe how long it’s been.” Susan is watching me too, patting my shoulders again as though making sure I’m real. “You’re a woman now, Pau. And gosh, doesn’t she look beautiful, Josh? Look how lovely she’s become.”
Josh’s gaze never wavers. Never breaks from mine. “She looks great,” he says, voice low and full of an energy I can’t read.
My cheeks burn, red-hot. It worked for Cersei Lannister, I think, unbidden. Shut up, inner Becca, I scold myself immediately after.
This is not happening. This cannot happen.
“Well.” Dad claps his hands. “Now that the awkward part is over with—” I resist a horrible urge to laugh out loud at that, “—should we do a bonfire on the beach tonight?”
“I’ll go buy some firewood,” I volunteer at once. “The corner store still sells those bundles right?”
“Last I checked,” Dad says.
“I’ll go with you.” Josh catches my eye again, and my stomach sinks. That was exactly what I’d been hoping to avoid.
But I can’t exactly turn him down, not with Dad and Susan standing right here, so much hope in their eyes. They want this to work. They want us to be friends.
We’ll have to learn to be more than friends, if we’ve just become family.
So I nod, and swallow the mix of fear and, admittedly, a small dash of excitement in my throat.
“You remember the way?” Dad asks, but it’s a rhetorical question. Josh and I walk off the porch without bothering to dignify that with a response—of course we know the way. We walked to this store almost every single day the summer we all stayed here. Mr. Johnson used to give us free sample-sized slurpees from the ice machines and let us read the magazines without paying as long as we didn’t fold the pages.
Josh and I fall into step on the dark road. There aren’t any street lights out here, so we navigate by the porch lights of the other cabins, most of which are occupied at this time of year. It’s the start of summer, so everyone is excited to get away from the city, head out to their cabins for this first breath of warm air.
We walk in silence for the first few hundred yards. Every time I glance over at him, I catch Josh staring at me from the corner of his eye. But every time I open my mouth to say something, break the tension between us, which is so thick you could probably cut it and serve it for dessert, he turns away again.
My throat feels tight from nerves, every muscle in my body on high alert. Whenever he looks away, I can’t help letting my eyes drift over his body. I can’t get over how different he looks now—he’s not the scrawny boy I remember in my distant daydreams. He’s a man now. And what a man.
But at the same time, I can still see the old Josh in there. Mostly in the cant of his head, the way his long, narrow hands tap out a pattern against his jean pockets as we walk, a habit he had back then too. He walks the same way, almost a strut, like he owns the whole place, like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
He probably doesn’t. I mean, look at him. How many girls does he have falling all over him on a daily basis at home?
Where does he live now? I can’t remember. After a year of way too frequent Facebook stalking, I blocked his posts from my feed in an effort to forget about him. It worked, until now. I don’t know where he went to college—he’s a year ahead of me, so he probably just graduated. I don’t know what he’s doing with his life, what his plans are. All I remember is what 16-year-old Josh told me years ago. Back then, he daydreamed about becoming an architect. I don’t know if he’s still on that track or if he has some new dream now, if he changed his mind. I know I changed mine—I used to want to be a painter. Now I’m studying for a hospitality degree so I can try working abroad when I graduate. It seemed like the thing to do. Pick a practical career.
“How are the hospitality studies going?” he asks, as if reading my mind.
Dad must have told him.
I swallow hard. “Fine.”
“Far cry from painting,” he points out.
I cast him a sideways glare. “How’s the architecture degree working out?”
“One year left,” he replies, surprising me. My eyes widen.
“You’re actually going for it?”
He laughs. It sounds a little bitter. “I always knew what I wanted to do. It’s a five-year masters degree though, and a lot more work than I expected.” He shakes his head, turns to look at the road ahead again.
“Worth it though?” I ask.
“It’s always worth chasing your dreams.”
The way he says it, it sounds almost accusatory. Like I’m not chasing mine. I side-eye him, but he’s avoiding eye contact now. “Well, I envy you,” I say. “It took me longer to figure out what I really wanted.”
“To run the front desk of a hotel?” He smirks.
I elbow him without thinking, the way I would’ve years ago. The contact sends a spark along my skin, and I jump a little, involuntary.
Josh’s smirk only widens.
“It’s a good job,” I reply, defensive. “It’s steady work, and you can work almost anywhere. One of the easiest ways to move abroad for a job—there’s some countries that sponsor visas for anyone who wants to work in the industry.”
“Because nobody really wants to work in that industry,” Josh counters. “What happened to your painting?”
“I still paint. On the side.”
“You were so good, though.”
I shake my head. “I was good for a fifteen-year-old, Josh. I wasn’t brilliant or anything.”
“I thought you were,” he says, so low I think I misheard. But when I look at him again, his eyes are distant, unfocused.
“Well. I’m sure we both thought differently back then,” I say. “About a lot of things.” I let my voice go a little sarcastic at the end. But if he notices, he doesn’t say.
“I remember this walk being shorter,” he comments as we continue along.
“You didn’t need to come,” I point out.
He laughs. I cast a sideways glance at him but he only shrugs at me. “Just trying to be polite.”
Polite. Right. Good. I pretend it doesn’t sting—I’d thought he might actually want to spend time with me. Guess not. But it’s better that way. He’s only being polite—not interested.
Because I don’t want him to be interested. That would be very, very bad.
So I tell myself.
We round the corner off of the isolated road toward the wider road to the store. Instead of dirt, it’s a gravel road now, and the gravel crunches under our shoes. I slip on it, and he catches my arm, steadies me, so fast it had to be instinct. For a moment, we both pause, and I look at his hand where it’s wrapped around my shoulder, his fingers branding red-hot imprints into my skin.
He lets go then, but I can still feel his touch. Lingering. Reminding me.
“Where did you wind up going to school?” I ask, just to change the subject.
As we start walking again, though, he sticks closer beside me. Close enough that our arms brush every few steps, and once his fingers graze along mine. It could be an accident. It must be, because he doesn’t react, doesn’t act like he’s noticed. But it’s too coincidental. He’s doing this on purpose. Trying to drive me crazy.
“Kent State, out in Ohio.”
“Wow. Long way from Georgia.”
He catches my eye, a funny look in his. “We’ve been out in Cleveland for the last three years,” he says. “Though, obviously we’re moving back home now.”
I laugh a little, because what else can I do? I forgot, of course, why we’re both here. The insane situation that landed us in this mess. “Did you know about them?” I ask.
“Not until this morning.” He laughs too. “It’s just like Mom to pull something like this.”
“You don’t think it’s crazy?” My eyebrows rise.
“Of course it is. But hey, life is short.” He shrugs. “You have to do what makes you happy. Go for what you want.”
He’s eying me again as he says that, and suddenly I’m aware that we’re standing very close once more. I catch the scent of his body wash, something piney, and underneath it, the familiar scent that’s all him. Oak and mud after a stormy rain, hot and savory all at once. It makes me inhale again, sharper.
“I guess.”
He lifts an eyebrow. Grins that crooked grin I’ve missed so much. “You don’t sound convinced.”
“Well, sometimes you have to be practical too. You can’t always have what you want.”
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” he quips. His gaze rakes over me as he says it, and my body clenches reflexively at the glance.
He is definitely flirting.
Isn’t he?
Before I can reply, he walks ahead of me, toward the store in the distance. I trail after him, heart in my throat.
Mr. Johnson still works here, apparently. We’re barely inside the door when he greets us both by name, grinning. “Look how grown up you two are now. Never thought I’d see the pair of you again.” He glances back and forth between us, a knowing glint in his eye. “Here alone this year, or with family again?”
My cheeks flush.
“Here together,” Josh answers. He nudges my shoulder as he does. “With family too.”
“Oh wonderful. I love reunion stories. What can I get for you today?”
“I need some wood,” I speak up.
Josh at least waits until Mr. Johnson ducks behind the counter to fetch it before he leans over and whispers in my ear. “That’s what she said.”
I elbow him again. He shoves back, gently, just enough to push me off-balance. When I catch myself, I find I’m leaning against him. He stays there, shoulder against mine, warmth flooding between us.
When Mr. Johnson returns, I jump again, away from Josh, suddenly pulled back into reality. We can’t be doing this, flirting, touching, as if nothing’s changed.
Josh insists on paying, so I grab the wood and throw it over my shoulder.
“Let me carry that,” he protests, but I ignore him and wave goodbye to Mr. Johnson, already halfway out the door of the store.
“Possessive of your wood?” Josh asks with a smirk, trailing after me.
“I did say I needed it,” I shoot back with a grin.
“You know, it’s generally more enjoyable when you share it.”
“What, wood or burdens?”
