THAT FIRST SUMMER—THE LAST NIGHT
It’s toolate to be out here, and we both know it.
The sky’s gone black, the stars burning low and steady above us, flickering in and out of sight behind thin streaks of cloud. The grass is cool beneath the blanket we dragged from my trunk, but the warmth of the day still lingers in the dirt, rising in lazy waves.
There’s a pond to the right of us, maybe fifteen yards off. It’s not natural—just a runoff catch that the grounds crew carved out years ago to keep the lower fields from flooding. Now, it’s overgrown and murky, full of bullfrogs and dragonflies, with the occasional beer can half-sunk in the reeds. But tonight, it’s still. Quiet. Reflecting pieces of the sky like it’s trying to matter.
Quinn’s stretched out beside me, flat on her back, her arm draped loosely over her stomach. Her hair’s fanned out over the blanket, dark against the faded plaid, and she smells like sunscreen and mint gum and cherry almond shampoo.
We’ve been here for hours. Long enough for the bonfire we half built to sputter out, leaving behind nothing but ash and embers. It’s quiet now, just the distant chirp of crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves.
“You’re gonna miss me,” she says suddenly, her voice light, lazy.
I snort, shifting onto my side to face her. “Yeah?”
She grins, her eyes still on the sky. “So much.”
I let my fingers drift across her arm, slow and deliberate, tracing the ridge of her wrist bone. Her skin is warm, sun-kissed and soft. “You’re acting like I’m never gonna see you again. We’re going to the same school.”
Quinn hums like she’s unconvinced. “It’ll be different.”
“You mean because I won’t get to watch you sass entitled rich guys for tips?”
She turns her head, arching a brow. “Please. That’s your favorite show.”
“I mean ...” I shrug. “It’s pretty good.”
Her grin widens. “Told you. You’re gonna miss mesomuch.”
I don’t answer right away, just let my fingers wander higher, curling lightly around her elbow, my thumb brushing the inside of her arm. Her pulse flutters beneath my fingertips, fast and unsteady.
“Very true,” I say quietly.
This summer has been its own little world. Familiar, self-contained, easy to hold on to.
At work, we move like clockwork—circling each other, trading quips, slipping notes into each other’s pockets when no one’s looking. And outside of work, it’s the same. Familiar. Steady. Something I can trust to make sense, no matter what else doesn’t.
Because our time together has been contained. A set number of days stretched across shifts at Sycamore, late-night drives, and mornings spent lying in the grass behind the club, still half-asleep. Even if we didn’t want to crawl inside each other’s skin, we’d still be practically forced to. The job keeps us in each other’s orbit.
But all of that’s about to shift.
College is different. It’s loud and sprawling, full of people and choices and space. No shifts to anchor us. No break room glances. Just an open campus and too many directions we could go.
And even with her lying next to me, close enough to touch, the thought of losing this—of losing her—wraps tight around my ribs, solid and sharp.
“You’re gonna miss me, too,” I murmur.
Her eyes drop, fingers tracing something invisible against my arm. “Maybe.”
I smile, trailing my touch lower, down to her wrist. “Maybe?”
She exhales, soft and slow, like she’s buying time. “I’m not good at . . .” Her voice dips. “At keeping people.”
I know what she means. She doesn’t have to explain.
I’ve seen it in the way she keeps her distance even when she’s standing right next to someone. The way her messages go unanswered, her friendships left half-formed. Like if she never gets too close, it won’t hurt when people leave. Like if she doesn’t hold on, she can’t be the one dropped.
“You won’t lose me,” I say.
