“Or we could get wild and plan to be real friends, period. Like we can comment on each other’s Instagram, even.”
I gasp. “Sir, such liberties.”
“It’s not like I suggested texting.”
I shudder. “Do you know some people even like to speak on the phone? Like call other people and talk? My mom does this to me. I don’t like it.”
“Ben does it to me too,” Sawyer says. “He’s worn me down over time.”
“Natalie too. Those two can’t be trusted, upending societal norms and kicking it old school.”
“Is that a yes to commenting on your Instagram?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “If I comment on yours, is it going to send you into an existential spiral where you try to squeeze the meaning out of every syllable?”
He answers with a polite smile.
“So that’s just a me thing then,” I say, which makes him laugh. “Sure, Instagram is fine.”
“Now I’m dying to know. What would happen if Ididtext you?”
“Depends on the text. Is it, ‘You up?’” That’s current code for a booty call.
“Uh, no. I heard you loud and clear last night. It’d probably be something more like ‘I whipped my egg whites, but they didn’t do that thing like yours did.’ You know. Meaty stuff.”
“That’s eggy stuff.”
“Right. I don’t know how I even feed myself.”
I consider his question for real. “Maybe send a text, and I’ll see how it feels when the text comes in.”
“Fair enough. But we’re good, right?”
“We’re good.” We’re good if I don’t look at him too long and notice the way his hair falls into his eye just so. It’s ridiculous for a businessman. He needs to get in for a cut. And we’re good if I don’t look at his hands and remember that neck rub. I love when a man has strong, confident hands.
“It was good to see you, Tab. I better get your luggage up to the office.”
Natalie yanks the door open, shoves my suitcase out, and closes the door again.
“She’s the worst,” I say loudly.
Sawyer grabs it and brings it to the ATV. I watch as he fastens it, feeling like this goodbye is unfinished. When he grips the handlebars like he’s about to sling his leg over it, I say, “Wait!” He stops and turns. “Should we hug?”
He considers it for a second, then gives a single shake of his head and a tight smile. “Give me about a year and I’ll be ready for that.” Then he’s on the ATV, the motor roaring to life, and in seconds, he’s disappeared into the trees.
Chapter 25
Eight Years Ago
Istareddownatmy shoes for the first day of work. They were serviceable black Doc Martens, the kind made to handle the scuffs, scrapes, and dropped food and pans of a busy commercial kitchen.
It was strange to see them and not the sneakers I usually pulled on to hit the ground running on my first day at Oak Crest. Today, like summers past, I was going to Roanoke. But instead of catching the camp shuttle from the airport, I’d be going to Martin’s, an upscale restaurant whose head chef had hired me as a prep cook.
It was a half step above dishwasher, but I was lucky to get it since my only formal kitchen experience had been taking over from Marge for six weeks at Oak Crest when she’d quit the previous summer.
Grace was home for the summer too, but I got the car since she could ride with my dad or walk to the hardware store. I’d parked a block down from the restaurant, not even wanting to park behind it as directed out of fear I’d accidentally take someone’s unofficial space.
This was going to be a long hot summer spent in the bowels of the kitchen. A big part of me already missed Oak Crest and the rush of first-day excitement when each new session of fresh campers started, of the blessed breezes that sometimes blew off the lake, of late nights around campfires and lazy afternoons in the woods. Natalie. Ben.
