8
Since it’s already late in the afternoon, there’s no time to do anything before dinner. So the boys retreat to their tent, and we all unpack. I stash all my food and toiletries in the food locker outside and check my telescope for visual damage; it seems to have survived the bumpy trip on top of the SUV and arrived intact. Then I try to call Mom to let her know I arrived intact. But there’s no service in the tent cabin. There’s Wi-Fi at the lodge, so I go ahead and text—both to her and to Avani—and trust that my messages will go through when I get a signal.
Reagan disappears, so Summer and I set out and explore the Camp Owl section of the compound on our own. There’s a picnic table between our tent and the boys’, and a small trailhead behind us, with a sign warning that the trail feeds into the national forest; Muir Camping Compound absolves itself of responsibility should hikers choose to leave their property. A group of wild, unsupervised kids is running into the woods here, so it can’t be all that scary.
We avoid the screaming kids and follow a fastidiously landscaped trail: cream-colored rocks banded by the occasional flowering shrub and a steady line of path lights. The trail leads to a cedar-shingled bathhouse.
“Whoa,” Summer whispers appreciatively when we peek inside, and I’m feeling the same way. It’s practically a spa, one that’s themed to match our beautiful surroundings, and even nicer in person than it was in the online photos: stained wood countertops, stone benches, pretty lanterns hanging from iron hooks near the mirrors. Unlike our tents, there’s electricity here, and a woman is charging her cell phone while she blow-dries her hair. There’s even a small sauna in the back.
“I’m getting naked with Kendrick in that sauna later,” Summer tells me as we step back outside.
“Too much information,” I say.
She laughs. “If you want to get naked with someone, I wouldn’t care. Are you still hung up on Brett?”
“Umm . . .”
“He told me you guys hooked up.”
What? “We didn’t—not like that.” It was just a kiss, for the love of Pete.
“You’re so easy to embarrass,” she says, grinning. “Did you know your ears turn red? That’s so cute.”
Jesus.
“Hey, I was just teasing,” she says, slapping my arm playfully. “Brett’s sweet. And I like how he’s so cool with everyone. Like, I never would have hung out with Lennon in a million years because I didn’t know how cool he was.”
I’m not sure how to take this. I think I understand what she’s trying to say, and maybe there’s a core of earnestness in there somewhere. But I think she’s also implying that Lennon wasn’t okay until Brett decided he was.
“You and Lennon used to be a thing, huh?”
My body stills. “Who told you that?”
“I just remember seeing you together at school all the time.”
“We were just friends,” I insist. “Nothing else.”
Lie.
One that Summer seems to buy. With a shrug, she says, “I think you guys would make a good couple.”
“No,” I say, and it sounds like a dog barking. “Absolutely not. We aren’t even friends anymore.”
She holds up both hands in surrender. “Hey, I only call ’em like I see ’em. Think about it, Miss Astrology.”
I won’t. And I don’t bother to correct her again—not about her word mix-up or Lennon. It’s true that people at school used to tease us about being best friends—which was often said with a wink and air quotations—and rumors were spread that we were more. That’s precisely one of the reasons we decided to conduct the Great Experiment privately. To avoid gossip at school. Mainly, though, to avoid my dad finding out. Because no way in hell would Diamond Dan allow his daughter to date the son of two heathen women.
Anyway, I don’t know why I care that Summer assumed something was going on between Lennon and me. I think I should be more concerned that Brett told Summer we hooked up. Maybe Summer heard it wrong or made assumptions. She’s making it sound like he was bragging, but I shouldn’t assume the worst. He could have been telling her that he liked me, for all I know.
Anything’s possible. But now I’m self-conscious about my ears flaming up, which makes me want to avoid the entire topic. I discreetly make sure my bob covers the telltale redness and don’t say anything further.
By the time we’ve finished walking the path around our area of the camp, we spot Reagan and the boys lounging at the picnic table between our tents. I’m a little worried Summer might try to tease me about Brett in front of the group, but she just runs to Kendrick, throwing her arms around him and begging for a piggy-back ride. As though the whole conversation about Brett and Lennon is forgotten.
Good.
It’s nearly time for dinner service, so we all decide to trek back up to the lodge. We aren’t the only ones. Small groups of campers are headed in the same direction, and once the pavilion is in sight, we join dozens of other guests. Wineglasses in hand, they mingle on rattan-and–carved wood outdoor furniture overflowing with plush pillows on a massive wraparound deck that overlooks a beautiful rocky valley. Everything is suffused with golden light from the setting sun. It’s photographic. Literally. Brett is breaking out his phone to take pictures as a waiter circulates with a tray of hors d’oeuvres.
Brett whistles. “They must make a killing here.”
“Maybe not,” Kendrick says, eyeing a bar that’s been set up outside the dining area on a side deck, away from the stunning views. “That wine they’re serving isn’t cheap.”
“Think they’ll serve us?” Brett asks with a devious smile.
“That’s the same bartender from last year,” Reagan says, shaking her head. “He’s a dick. I think he’s Candy’s cousin, or something. He’ll probably remember me.”
“I’ll try,” Summer says. “He won’t know me, and I look legal.”
She casually strides to the bar and flashes the bartender a smile. After several seconds of small talk, she turns around and returns empty-handed.
“No way,” Brett says, disappointed. “He wouldn’t do it?”
“You were right, Reagan. He’s a dick,” Summer reports. “Says he was warned by Candy that a group of underage teens had just checked in, and we’re not to be served alcohol.”
“We’ll see about that,” Brett says, and turns to Lennon. “We need a plan to get that wine.”
“I’ll get right on that,” Lennon deadpans.
Brett laughs, either unbothered by Lennon’s sarcasm or not noticing it. Nothing ever seems to bother Brett. He’s always so happy-go-lucky and at ease with his life. I wish I could be more like that.
We trail a group of retirees and investment bankers in catalog-perfect outdoor clothes. Reagan spots a place for us to sit inside the pavilion, and we follow her lead to a large, round table. It’s set with modern-rustic china, and the confusing number of glasses and utensils intimidates me. I’m also sitting between Brett and Lennon, which makes me nervous. It’s exciting to have Brett so close, and he’s pretending to stab my hand with a fork, his mood fun and playful. But I’m self-conscious and trying to play it cool.
And then there’s Lennon. I wish I could just block him out. While Brett’s presence feels light and capricious—he’s moved on to fake-stabbing Reagan, and she’s laughing in that husky voice of hers—Lennon’s feels . . . solid. Weighty. Like I can’t forget that his leg is a few inches from mine. If Brett is Sirius, brighter than anything else in the night sky, Lennon is the moon: often dark and hidden, but closer than any star. Always there.
One after the other, each table is served the first of four courses, which is some sort of zucchini-and-basil soup. Once it’s on the table, I realize how sorry I am that I’ve only had Lennon’s gifted fudge to eat today, and forget all about the silly tableware and practically inhale the soup. I don’t even care if I’m using the correct spoon. The second course is grilled scallops with some sort of fancy sauce and a tiny salad. The scallops smell amazing. I’m all in.
“Someone’s feeling plucky,” Lennon notes, gesturing toward my plate with his knife. “Hive-wise.”
“Scallops are a shellfish with which I’m compatible,” I tell him stoically. Shrimp and crab are iffy, but anything in the mollusk family is low-risk.
“Oh yeah, that’s right,” he says, nodding slowly.
We both eat in silence for several seconds.
Then he asks, “Remember when we had that shrimp scampi?”
“You never forget a trip to the ER.”
I was fifteen, and at the time, Sunday dinner with the Mackenzies was a regular event. It was just takeout, typically, and a movie in the living room. Sunny is the chef of the Mackenzie family; Mac, not so much. So it was a big deal when Mac decided she’d make something from scratch. It turned out pretty good, but for some reason, I had a major allergic reaction. Face swelling up, throat closing, trouble breathing—the works. Mac freaked out and took all the blame. My parents were out to dinner, so Sunny rushed me to the hospital emergency room in her car.
“Bad shrimp! Bad shrimp!” Lennon says, mocking Sunny in a high-pitched voice.
Sunny had yelled that at the nurse in front of the entire ER waiting room. Loudly. We repeated it for months out of context. It was our inside joke. Anything that went wrong, we blamed it on “bad shrimp.” It never got old.
It’s still funny. I chuckle softly with a mouthful of scallop and nearly choke.
Lennon’s eyes slide toward mine. The corners of his mouth turn up as he struggles with a smile.
Okay, hell has officially frozen over. Pigs flying. Lightning strikes. It’s all happening. Because we are both smiling at each other. Actual smiles!
What’s going on here? First peanut butter fudge, now this?
Just stay calm, I tell myself. It doesn’t mean anything. Enemies share a laugh now and then. I keep my eyes on my plate and try to act normal. But when the third course comes, some kind of braised meat—leg of lamb, I think—and Brett has the rest of the group focused on tracking the location of the bartender, I pick up the next fork in my place setting and accidentally bump his hand. He’s left-handed, so his right hand is propped on the edge of the table. And it stays there, even when I snatch my own hand back.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
He shakes his head dismissively. “So many forks. And why do we need two spoons? I already used one for the soup. Are they backup spoons?”
“One pair of fancy chopsticks would have saved them some major dishwashing,” I say.
“Amen to that.”
My mom taught him how use chopsticks. The Korean kind, made of stainless steel.
“What’s that quote from that martial arts movie Once Upon a Time in China?” I ask. “Jet Li says it when he sees the Western place setting.”
“ ‘Why so many swords and daggers on the table?’ ” Lennon quotes.
“That’s it. God, you were obsessed with martial arts movies.”
“Jet Li is the king,” he says before taking a sip of water from his glass.
“I thought it was Bruce Lee.”
“Bruce Lee was a god.”
“Oh, that’s right,” I say. “You made me watch so many of those movies.”
“And you liked most of them.”
I did.
Lennon picks at his braised lamb. “I also seem to remember watching an awful lot of old Star Trek episodes, and not even the good ones. All because someone had a crush on a certain Klingon.”
It’s true. Worf was my everything. I still follow the actor who played him, Michael Dorn, online. And I’ve probably seen every Worf meme on the internet. “I’m not ashamed.”
Before I can say anything else, Brett’s arm shoots out in front of me. I’m forced to lean back while he taps Lennon’s shoulder.
“Dude, are you seeing this?” Brett says.
“You know she’s sitting here, right?” Lennon says, slipping back into glum-and-dour mode.
Brett glances at me. “Oh sorry, Zorie.” He chuckles and flashes me a sheepish smile before focusing on Lennon again. “But check it out. The bartender leaves the bar unattended. All of those bottles are just sitting there.”
Lennon’s disinterested stare doesn’t seem to have any effect on Brett.
“For the taking,” Brett elaborates.
“There are a hundred people sitting here,” Lennon says.
Brett groans and lets his head loll backward for a moment. “Not now. Later. After dinner. People can’t sit here forever.”
“Everyone heads to the bonfire below the Sunset Deck,” Reagan confirms.
“The bartender’s walking back to the bar,” Lennon points out.
“So we find a way to divert him,” Brett says. “We just need people’s attention on the bonfire while we figure out a way to get him to leave the bar. Then, boom! We plunder his stash.”
I don’t like this plan. We’re surrounded by people. This isn’t like playing pranks on teachers, like that time Mr. Soniak exited English class to go to the restroom and left his phone unlocked on his desk, and Brett jumped out of his chair and used it to take photos of his ass before Mr. Soniak returned . . . which Brett later claimed was worth the detention he got.
Kendrick gives Brett a distrustful look. “Call me crazy, but isn’t that stealing?”
“It’s the very definition,” Lennon mumbles.
“You would know,” Brett says, waggling his brows.
I glance at Lennon, and he looks . . . embarrassed. I wonder what that’s all about.
“Look, people. They aren’t selling the wine,” Brett argues. “It’s free to all the guests. If I asked for a second helping of this braised sheep—”
“Lamb,” Lennon corrects in a weary voice.
“—they would bring it to me. It’s all built into the cost. We’re just getting our money’s worth.”
“My mom’s money, you mean,” Reagan says.
Brett grins. “Your mom is hot.”
“Gross,” Reagan says, smacking his shoulder with the backs of her fingers. And it is gross, but she doesn’t seem all that upset about it. Not about that, and not about Brett’s dicey proposal. Even Kendrick, who I would consider sensible, is convinced by Brett’s arguments. So maybe my bad feelings about it are unwarranted.
After Reagan informs us that we’re all going horseback riding tomorrow, Brett continues to hatch a wine-thieving plan throughout the rest of dinner. Dessert is served—some sort of weird strawberry sorbet with balsamic vinegar that I skip, because strawberries are on the “no” list when I’m having hive issues. And when guests begin filing outside to the Sunset Deck, lured by the scent of wood smoke and the sounds of acoustic guitar, opportunities to divert the bartender dwindle.
“I’ll figure something out,” Brett assures us. “The night is young.”
Reagan tugs him by the arm. “Come on. Let’s walk around.”
He flashes his dazzling grin at her and allows himself to be dragged from the table, briefly linking elbows with her as he makes some joke that I can’t hear. They’re so easy together, so touchy and lighthearted. I wish I could be as bold as Reagan. I wish he were linking arms with me.
But more than anything, I wish I didn’t feel Lennon’s gaze on my face. All that memory dredging we did over dinner is overlapping in my brain with Summer’s earlier assumptions about my relationship with Lennon. And a troublesome thought suddenly balloons.
Bogus gossip about my so-called hookup with Brett reached Summer’s ears.
Did it reach Lennon’s, too?
It bothers me that it might have, and it bothers me that I care. Then again, my caring about Lennon was never the problem. It was his caring about me. And a little peanut butter fudge and fond memories of bad shrimp aren’t enough to convince me that anything has changed.