"This won't be the last time, right?"

Wynn rolled onto his side, frowning down at Alfie. In these sweet, early days of summer, the grass was still soft and verdant, but by August, there would be nothing but dead, prickly stalks.

"I mean, yeah, if you can get more weed—"

"No," Alfie said, sitting up abruptly. "I mean… this." He gestured to the space between them. "You and me. Hanging out." He glanced down at his lap, and Wynn saw his jaw was tight.

Wynn sat up, too. It took a considerable amount of effort. He wasn't even sure if the joint they'd smoked had even kicked in—Wynn had no idea what it felt like to actually be high, of course—but between that and the vodka and the sunshine, he felt pleasantly sleepy.

"What do you mean?" he said, cocking his head, offering Alfie a crooked—and confused—smile. "Of course this won't be the last time."

They were at the summer spot. The summer spot was more than just a little bend in the creek, further upstream than most people bothered to go, more than the shushing of the long grass, the shade of a dogwood tree, and a rusted lunchbox of teenage contraband tucked away in a fallen log.

The summer spot was Wynn's home, in a way the house he'd grown up in had never been. When he was there, with Alfie, hidden by the drape of the dogwood leaves, Wynn could feel something, a bright sense of possibility, of wonder, that he hadn't been able to find anywhere else.

He saw Alfie all the time, of course. At school, leaning against Caroline Sinclair's locker as Alfie got his books. At his house, sprawled across his bed as Alfie curled his feet underneath him in the chair at the desk, muttering under his breath to his homework. In town, examining the dusty aisles of the drugstore, trying to assess just how much of the stale candy they'd be able to smuggle into the movie theater.

But the summer spot was for just the two of them, a warm coal burning steadily at the core of their friendship.

"I just know you're busy this summer," Alfie mumbled.

Alfie was still resolutely not meeting Wynn's eye. The patch of shade they'd found was sun-dappled with late afternoon light, and Wynn could see little streaks of gold in Alfie's normally mousy hair. The summer spot made everything more beautiful, Wynn thought, as though the sky refracted differently here, made things a little brighter, a little crisper.

It was strange to see Alfie like this—insecure and unsure, like he couldn't find his footing. But, then again, that was the magic of the summer spot. Wynn could be brave. Alfie could be soft.

Wynn elbowed him.

"These are our last few months of freedom before senior year," he said. "You're gonna be fuckin' glad when school starts so I'll leave you alone for once."

The corner of Alfie's lips quirked up.

"Seriously," Wynn said. He sloshed the remaining vodka in the bottle Peter White's brother had gotten for them, holding it up as if he were making a toast at a wedding. "I'm really serious about this. Seriously."

"But are you serious?" Alfie said, his normal sly expression slowly reappearing.

"Shut up," Wynn said, elbowing Alfie again. "This bottle is proof. You know my dad would freak out if we got caught. You think I would risk that for just anyone?"

To celebrate the end of school, Wynn had turned to Peter White, who was the person to go to for illicit substances. Peter had leveraged his connections well and now was like Schrödinger's friend, simultaneously part of every friend group at Niobrara High without ever actually being in one.

Peter White's brother had sold them a plastic pint of the cheapest vodka and a pack of cigarettes for an absurd mark-up. He must have felt at least a little guilty, because he threw in a joint for free—poorly-rolled and mostly tobacco, but a joint none the less. Their bounty felt indulgent and almost obscene, as tantalizing and full of promise as the summer itself.

Alfie rolled his eyes, but he was smiling now.

"All right, all right, I get it," he said. He tilted his head back, looking up at the leaves, sunlight sparkling across his cheekbones, his bottom lip, his throat. "Whatever. Just… don't get too cool for me, okay?"

He said it casually enough that it wasn't casual at all.

They'd spent a long, lazy Saturday trying to get as far as they could through the vodka, which had been difficult, considering they both hated the taste and only had one flat can of Coke to share between them for a chaser. They'd talked and not talked, as the mood suited them. They'd tried to smoke the joint but hadn't felt anything remarkable. They'd simply existed, laying side-by-side in the grass as the sun rolled across the sky, shoulders and arms touching, a single soul that had somehow managed to find its way into two separate bodies.

Wynn reached out and put his hand on Alfie's shoulder. Alfie had always been on the small side—thin if you were being charitable, scrawny if you weren't. He knew—or hoped, at the very least—that the touch would convey more than any words could. Would prove that, if Wynn's mind was a house, there were entire wings and floors devoted to Alfie, whole hallways and closets and grand ballrooms full of memories of their friendship.

Alfie turned his head, pressing his lips to Wynn's knuckles. Not a kiss, exactly, just a connection—all clear, message received. Wynn smiled as he squeezed his friend's shoulder once before withdrawing his hand.

"I'd never ditch you, Alfie," Wynn said. "Couldn't even if I wanted to."

"Okay," Alfie said, surprisingly mollified.

Wynn knew Alfie believed him. But the breeze was warm and light, his thoughts pleasantly cushioned in alcohol, and Wynn felt young and brave and invincible. It was a day for making declarations, a day for spilling his heart without worrying about regretting it later.

"Here," Wynn said, jumping up, any trace of his sleepiness gone. "I'll prove it." He fished the little pocket knife out of the lunchbox. It was dull and dirty—they'd used it for everything from cutting up apple slices to prying opening the outer shell of a clock radio Alfie had once found lying on the side of the road. He'd taken it apart and promptly gotten bored when he couldn't immediately figure out how to put it back together.

"Please don't tell me you wanna do some kind of blood pact," Alfie drawled, and Wynn rolled his eyes. "You're great, but I'd rather not swap blood-borne pathogens, if it's all the same to you."

"No, you asshole," Wynn said. "I was gonna do something nice but now maybe I won't."

"No, wait," Alfie said, perking up. "I want the nice thing."

Wynn grinned.

"Okay, fine," he said. He got up, brushing the grass off his clothes. He stood in front of the dogwood tree, regarding the trunk carefully, turning the knife over and over in his hand.

Alfie stood up, too, watching him.

"The nice thing is… the tree? Hate to break it to you, buddy, but this has been around for a while. Ow—"

Wynn punched Alfie in the arm.

"Jeez, man, you gotta pull those a little," Alfie grumbled. "You're twice my size."

"Yeah, well, you have twice as much attitude as a normal person," Wynn said, but he reached over and rubbed Alfie's shoulder where he'd punched it. "Sorry."

"Just wait," Alfie said. "Once I get that growth spurt my mom has been promising me for… ten years now, I'm gonna beat you up."

Wynn laughed, ignoring Alfie as he set about his task.

They'd been coming to the summer spot for years now—it seemed silly to Wynn that they'd waited this long to do this, but perhaps some part of them had simply known that now was the perfect moment for it.

It was more difficult than Wynn expected, and he had to stop to switch hands halfway through, his forearm and fingers aching. Alfie could usually be counted on to provide a running commentary on any given situation—whether or not anyone had asked for it—but he was quiet now. There was only the wind in the trees and the rough scrape of knife against bark.

"Okay," Wynn said at last, tossing the knife aside. "Jesus, that was a lot harder than I expected. It only takes a few minutes in movies."

He stepped back, shaking out his aching hand as he admired his handiwork. Scratched into the trunk, in sloping, slightly uneven letters:

ALFIE+WYNN

Alfie was still quiet, and Wynn turned. Alfie was standing motionless, one fist pressed to his mouth, staring at the dogwood tree with his head cocked. Without saying anything, he stepped forward and traced the tip of his finger over the letters, spelling out their names, etched together into the bark.

"Why did you do this?" Alfie asked, and his voice sounded strange.

"Er…" Wynn said, flushing slightly. He shifted from one foot to the other, embarrassed now. "I just thought, y'know… It was—it was a friendship thing. Because you were worried that—I just thought—"

Wynn didn't finish because Alfie had all but jumped him, throwing his skinny arms around Wynn and pulling him into a surprisingly strong hug.

"Uh—" Wynn choked out.

Alfie stepped back, beaming.

"I love it," he said. He reached out, poking the A of his name. "Friendship tree."

"Friendship tree," Wynn agreed, nodding.

They looked at their names.

"Aren't you worried someone will see?" Alfie asked after a moment. Wynn shot him a strange look.

"Why would I care?" Wynn asked. "It's not like people don't know we're friends."

"Yeah, but…"

There it was again—Alfie, vulnerable and earnest, in a way he wasn't anywhere else.

"But what?"

"Well, you know what people say," Alfie said darkly.

"I don't give a shit what people say," Wynn said. He wanted Alfie to know—needed him to know—that whatever cruel slurs their classmates hurled at Alfie, it had never, and could never, change how Wynn felt about Alfie.

"Okay," Alfie said.

Alfie was still tracing the letters, and Wynn reached out, too, dragging the tip of his finger along the rough wounds in the wood. Their fingertips met in the middle of the W of Wynn's name.

"It's gonna be a good summer, Alfie," Wynn said with a grin.

"Yeah," Alfie said, returning Wynn's smile. "It is."