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I also just don’t want to.
We take about five minutes to emerge onto the sandy stretch of beach past the woods. This is further than I ventured before, and I glance around the peaceful lake, noting the pinpricks of light surrounding it on both the Alleghany and Glenmont sides.
Wes drops my hand and pulls his sweaty shirt over his head.
The fire turns into an inferno.
“What are you doing?”
“Do you normally wear a shirt swimming?” Wes asks, smirking.
I didn’t think this through, which is extremely unlike me. Because now I’m faced with a new dilemma. I’m wearing a sports bra under my shirt, which is less revealing than my bikini top, but I’m wearing a thong underneath my running shorts.
I can either leave my shorts on or show Weston Cole a lot more of me than any other guy has ever seen.
He reads the indecision on my face. “I won’t look, Maeve. I’ll go in first.”
Once again, his thoughtfulness surprises me. But I’m not hesitating because I don’t want him to see me in my underwear.
I’m stalling because I do.
And the same thrill that propelled me to say yes to this excursion, to keep our palms pressed together, causes me to whip my spandex tank top off in one smooth motion.
My black sports bra doesn’t reveal much, but it shows off the toned abdominal muscles I’ve worked hard for. Wes glances at the defined planes of my stomach a couple of times, and I can’t help but relish each peep, especially considering the fact his own carved physique makes it clear he spends plenty of time in the gym.
Summoning all the courage I can muster, I pull off my running shorts as well. Sure enough, I’m wearing a hot pink lacy thong. The satisfaction of watching Wes’s astonished expression is enough to make stripping worth it.
I kick off my sneakers and sprint toward the dark water, submerging myself in the freezing depths.
“Fuck, I feel like I’m taking an ice bath,” Wes complains as he follows in after me.
“You get used to it,” I tell him. I can already feel my muscles loosening, numbing in the cool water. I float on my back, staring up at the stars. Unlike last night, I actually can see the bursts of light scattered across the heavens.
“I saw your parents sitting together. At the game last fall,” I tell Wes, keeping my gaze on the stars twinkling overhead.
“Were you surprised?”
“More sad, I think. After what you told me—that they were acting like everything was normal…”
“They both care too much about appearing perfect. Doesn’t matter what the truth is; it’s all about what people think.”
“That’s why you act like you don’t,” I observe. It’s one of my brother’s most common complaints about Wes: how he always appears unflappable and relaxed on the field, even in the final minutes of the game. Whereas Liam has a two-hour pregame ritual he keeps consistent to the minute.
“Who says it’s an act?” Wes raises an eyebrow.
“Isn’t it?” I challenge.
“The fact that you can’t tell says a lot.” Wes smirks slightly.
“Who says I can’t tell?” I refute. “But if this whole football thing doesn’t work out, you could have a future in acting.”
“There’s an old saying that applies to me: ‘you can’t lose a game if you don’t play the game.’”
“I don’t think Nike has actually been around for all that long,” I respond.
Wes laughs loudly enough to startle a few birds from their perches in the trees surrounding the lakeshore. “It’s Shakespeare, Stevens.” I eye him dubiously, and he chuckles again. “Look it up. I didn’t think there was a single high schooler in the country who managed to escape the sad fate of readingRomeo and Juliet.”
“I read it; I didn’t memorize it.”
