Wes shrugs. “Why not all three?”
Jace laughs and elbows him. “Man’s got wisdom.”
Ford places the orders while Logan digs through cabinets, pulling out a few bottles and a stack of mismatched glasses. Hewaves a bottle of tequila toward me. “You drink, Frankie?”
My mouth goes dry. I know better. Alcohol and the suppressants I’m on are a bad mix, I learned that in college. They make me lower my guard too fast. But liquid courage sounds good right now and tequila always makes me happy.
I nod. “Yeah. A little.”
Jace snatches a bottle of mixer and another of tequila from Logan and starts pouring. He lines up the glasses and adds bottled lime juice, some sugar, and ice. He flashes a cocky grin over his shoulder. “House rule. First time back, you gotta have a drink.”
I laugh. “You just made that up.”
Jace winks back at me and sticks his tongue out.A shiny metal ball glints off the tip.
Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck.I can only imagine what it would feel like to have him...
I stomp the thought down.
He turns back to the counter and tops off the glasses with a margarita mixer, giving each a quick, practiced stir with a metal straw, then slides one toward Logan to pass to me.
Logan takes the drink and hands it over. Our fingers brush as I take it from him. Warmth spreads along my arm. The chill from the ice is the only thing grounding my senses at this point.
I need to pace myself. Small sips, and it should keep me from losing control. Pale green and rimmed with salt, the drinkcarries a bright hint of lime that reaches my nose before it touches my lips. I sip slow. A sweet tartness floods my tongue, chased quickly by the familiar, smooth burn of tequila that curls into my chest.
My stomach clenches, already on edge from too many suppressant pills today.
We fall into familiar rhythms while we wait for the food. They trade jabs about who botched their last drill, argue over which horror villain is most overrated, and groan over bus rides that lasted too long with too little air conditioning for their away hockey games.
I listen, sipping my drink. The alcohol pools in my belly. My body tingles with the sensation of being lighter and heavier all at once.
Ford rests his back against the counter by the stove and shoots me a grin. “Still hate pineapple on pizza?”
I smirk and tilt my glass. “Always.”
Logan groans. “You wound me, Kie.”
Their laughter fills the kitchen. I haven’t heard that nickname in forever.
It hits me hard with nostalgia, like the clock has turned back and we were never ripped away from each other.
11 years ago…
It’s the final challenge of the day and the sun is brutal, but everyone has turned out to watch the last round. My team vs. the other fourth-year group. We’re the two best, having beaten out six others. Snack Shack tokens are on the line, and those are gold, so we aren’t spending real money to get snacks.
My team is, of course, the guys and me. Whenever they let us pick, we always go for each other. I can’t trust anyone else. We’ve been waiting for this matchup since lunch.
Campers crowd the shore and dock to watch.
Counselor Ted stands on his crate, megaphone in one hand and bullhorn in the other.“First team to get to the flag earns Snack Shack tokens for the next two days! Participants, get to your starting positions!”
The course is an inflatable obstacle course that bounces on the lake, right over the safe diving point. Only campers who are experienced swimmers can take part.
Each station has a different challenge: tunnel crawl, narrow beam, cargo net, and a swim sprint. Once the baton hits the last hand, the person climbs the ladder beside the slide, rides it down, and swims the last stretch to grab the flag on the floating dock.
We spread out to our starting points. Ford takes the first leg with the tunnel crawl.
Logan waits at the pillowy beam that crosses a patch of water.
