Chapter 12
I FLOAT ON MY back, letting the water support my weight, staring up through the fading light.
The world is reduced to the sound of lapping water against my ears and the distant, lonely cry of a loon.
The sun, now low on the horizon, has turned the sky above the pines into a palette of lavender and apricot, reflecting faintly on the water’s still surface.
I’ve always loved this feeling of weightlessness.
I used to sneak down here late at night during my high school years.
Looking back, it seems kind of dangerous, coming out here alone in the dark—but back then, it felt like a sanctuary.
There’s a particular memory that surfaces: A summer night after a brutal preliminary pageant round, I swam out until my arms burned, trying to wash off the scent of fake tan and frustration.
But usually, I’d just come out here to float—letting the water hold me up, letting the pressure melt away.
I sigh, letting my head sink a little lower. From under the surface, I can hear a steady splashing.
I roll over, treading water, and see Nate slicing through the gentle waves toward me, paddling a neon-yellow kayak with easy, powerful strokes. Even from here, I can see he’s ditched the T-shirt.
When he gets closer, I see he’s towing a hot pink inner tube.
“Wanna ride?”
I swim over to the kayak, grabbing the side for support as I hoist myself out of the cold lake and flop ungracefully into the pink tube. It’s slightly deflated, smelling faintly of sunscreen and stale vinyl.
“Thanks,” I say, leaning back and closing my eyes, soaking up the last warm rays. “Okay, off you go, twice around the lake.”
Nate laughs. “By ‘ride’ I was kind of thinking more like ‘float here and chill.’”
I crack open one eye to look at him. He’s glowing, the low-hanging sun catching the droplets in his hair and tracing the sharp line of his jaw. He looks like a movie hero, captured in the perfect golden hour light.
I reach a lazy hand into the water and splash him.
“Hey!” he says, laughing and wiping water from his eyes.
I shrug. “Payback.”
“Come on now, is that any way to treat your friends?”
“Are we friends?”
I’m not sure that’s the word I’d use to describe someone you made out with once, and who is now living in your home for ten days because his sister—your mortal enemy—is marrying your brother.
He tilts his head to the side. “Isn’t that what we agreed the other day, at the parade?”
“To be just friends?” I clarify.
“Not ‘just friends.’” He wrinkles his nose like the phrase offends him. “Just… friends.”
I shrug again, then stretch, letting both hands drift through the water and come to rest behind my head.
“Okay. I suppose we could be.” As I say the words, I realize I mean them.
We both agreed it would be too complicated—and too ill-fated, given our differences—to try anything romantic.
But I enjoy spending time with Nate. He’s easy and fun to be around.
And I never know what wacky thing is going to come out of his mouth next.
Case in point, he turns to me and says, “As your friend, I feel I should warn you that your brothers are about to go the way of Stannis and Renly.”
I furrow my brow. “What?”
“Game of Thrones,” Nate says. “The warring brothers?”
“Never watched it.”
He looks at me with an expression of horror. “Okay, well, actually, genuinely, as your friend, we need to correct that. But what I was saying before is that I saw Pete and Cooper get into an actual tug-of-war over who gets to use the long-handled grilling spatula.”
I smile. “As your friend, I should tell you that’s another Bennet family tradition. For some reason, Dad refuses to buy more than one—so when multiple people are grilling, there’s always a fight over who has to use the dinky kitchen spatula.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Any other traditions I should brace myself for over the next week?”
“Hmm…” I start counting off on my fingers. “Mom will usually make breakfast for everyone. She’s always up super early, and food is her love language. Definitely lots of boat days. We also play board games most nights after dinner.”
“Board games?” Nate asks, his tone intrigued. “Like, Monopoly?”
“Monopoly, Ticket to Ride, Sorry!—not Pictionary; that one got banned after someone threw the timer across the room when their team failed to guess ‘penguin’ based on a very obvious drawing.”
Nate grins. “It was you, wasn’t it?”
I shrug, letting my eyes drift up to the fading cotton candy sky. “No comment.”
“Sounds fun growing up with so many siblings.”
“It was fun. Usually.”
Nate gently trails his hand in the water next to the kayak, disturbing the stillness. I try not to notice how strong his hands look. “Not always?”
“It could be pretty loud.” I laugh. “Pete and Linney are twins—they were like this crazy tornado of energy. They both did sports, and Linney was the head of, like, five clubs. They were always in motion. And Cooper had a million friends. Our house became the go-to hang place—probably because of Mom’s gourmet snacks.
” Nate chuckles. “It always felt like the house was packed with too many people. Most afternoons, I’d go hide in my room. It was my safe place, you know?”
He nods, then grimaces. “I’m sorry, by the way, for Cara taking your room.”
“Oh, that’s fi—” I start to wave him off, but he stops me.
“It’s not fine. It sucks. I get it. Also, sorry I took over Camp Bennet. If it makes you feel any better, today I woke up with what I’m pretty sure was a dead cricket in my hair, so…”
“It does, thank you.”
I look up at the brownish-gold waves of his hair, imagining what it would feel like to run my fingers through the strands.
“It’s so cool you have practically a Michelin-starred chef mom,” Nate says—and I’m grateful for the interruption. My thoughts were drifting somewhere dangerously un-friend-like…
“My mom sucked at cooking except when she made grilled cheese,” Nate continues.
“Her grilled cheese sandwiches were the best in the world. They weren’t fancy or anything—I think it was something about the quality of the bread or the amount of butter, and leaving them on low heat till the outsides were perfectly golden. ”
“Sounds like the ultimate comfort food.” I offer him a small, sad smile.
“Oh, it was. But it was also a work of art. I’ve tried to make it, and it’s never the same. I’m always too impatient or put the heat up too high. And I think I’ve tried every diner grilled cheese from Mobile to Montgomery, but they never live up. Not even close.”
“Do you mind if I—can I ask—how old were you when she…”
“I was seventeen. Cara was eleven.”
I let out a sigh. “I can’t even imagine. I’m so sorry, Nate. I’m sure it doesn’t mean much coming from me, but—”
“It does.” His voice is low. He swallows then looks back at me, smiling. “Look at us—a regular Lady and the Tramp friendship. ‘The LA Girl and the Country Boy.’”
I laugh. “Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it.”
“Eh, I think it works. Should we shake on it?”
“I think we’ve proven that can be pretty dangerous.” I raise an eyebrow at him. “I’d hate to risk this deep, enduring”—I pause to look at an invisible watch—“twelve-minute-old friendship.”
He gives me a soft grin. “You’re probably right.”
The silence lengthens. The sun has dipped low enough that the bright gold has mellowed, casting a dusky rose glow over the water, and Nate’s face is half-shadowed.
He stops trailing his hand in the water, and his eyes, which are usually full of easy humor, darken with a more serious intent as he studies my face.
He slowly lifts one hand and reaches toward me. For a second, I forget how to breathe, wondering if he’s going to break our agreement. Instead, his fingertips barely graze my cheek before they move up, gently extracting a tiny, dark piece of debris from my wet hair.
He holds up the minuscule piece of brownish-green weed between his thumb and forefinger. “Seaweed.” His voice is almost a whisper.
“Lakeweed,” I correct, just as softly.
The gesture is practical and intimate all at once, and the air tightens around us again.
And then—
“Nikki! Need your help with something!” It’s my dad, standing on the dock and waving an overly enthusiastic arm.
The tension breaks like a snapped rubber band.
Nate and I smile at each other, both a little embarrassed.
“Come on,” he says. “I’ll tow you in.”
I FIND DAD IN the garage, surrounded by what could only be called a heap of junk.
“Do you want this bike?”
I glance to where he’s pointing, to a child-size bike with training wheels and sparkly streamers hanging from the handlebars. “Um, no? You could ask Linney if she wants it for Anna Carol though.”
Dad nods. Then turns back to the pile of nails and screws he’s sorting on the workbench.
“What’re you doing out here?” I ask, wading past a disassembled baby crib with chipping paint. Beside it is splintery rocking chair I remember from my grandmother’s house.
“Just trying to get everything sorted before the big day.”
It’s classic Dad. When Mom would throw her annual Christmas party, Dad would volunteer to “straighten up the mudroom” or “sweep the garage”—spaces that party guests would never see.
But Mom never gave him a hard time for it.
She was happy to rule her domain inside the house and let Dad contribute in his own way.
Still, that doesn’t mean I can’t give him a little grief.
“Right, because I think Cooper and Cara plan to have the ceremony right here, behind the lawn mower.”
Dad barely cracks a smile, just keeps separating the rusty screws from the clean ones. “It needs to be done at some point.”
“Okay, Dad.” Maybe this is his version of Swedish Death Cleaning—that thing where people are encouraged to clean out their homes instead of leaving it for the next generation to have to deal with after they pass.
A thought crosses my mind as I remember that awkward conversation we stumbled upon at the parade, between my dad and Mrs. Musgrove.
“Dad, are you and Mom thinking of selling the house?”
He busies himself with riffling through another box. “I know you love this place, kiddo. But y’all are all grown up, and it’s a lot of work to keep it up.”
Which is not a no.
“Well, I guess I should tell you that I didn’t re-sign my lease in LA, so if you sell this place, I might be crashing in your condo, or whatever, for the near future.” I can hear the bitterness creeping into my voice.
“You didn’t re-sign?” Dad asks, his brows knitting.
I force myself to smile and give a little shrug, trying to downplay my current lack of housing.
I don’t want to worry him. “Just wanted to try something new. Get more space. I’ve been looking up listings online, and I think I’ve found a good one.
” A total lie. I haven’t even cracked open my laptop since I got home.
“You sure you’re alright? Do you need money?”
“Dad, I’m fine,” I insist. “Just wish I got the memo on all the life-altering changes being hurled at me this summer.”
He pauses, setting down a handful of nails. “Look, I know this is hard for you. This whole thing.”
I shift my weight, kicking at a loose piece of plywood. “It’s not hard.” Another lie. “It’s just… fast. Why does everyone suddenly think throwing together a wedding at the lake in ten days is a good idea? Cooper and Cara are twenty-six. And Cara is… Cara.”
I didn’t mean to let the last part slip out, but Dad just looks at me, his expression softening slightly.
“Your brother is happy, sweetheart. Truly happy. And your mother is thrilled to have a reason to pull out her whole party-planning arsenal.”
“So, what, you’re just going along with it to make Mom happy?”
Dad picks up a small, chipped ceramic knob and turns it over in his hand. A brief shadow, a flash of something unreadable, flickers across his face, but then it’s gone.
“Look, I know you think it’s crazy,” he says, his gaze returning to the messy workbench. “But trust me, one day, you’ll do crazy things to make the person you love smile.”