Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The sharp scent of artificial coconut stings my nose as I rub sunscreen into my arms and chest. The sun is bright, but the wind is biting, churning the lake into restless waves. The harsh weather is probably why the beach is emptier than usual—not that I’m complaining.
Hardly anyone’s swimming. My focus settles on a small cluster of teenage girls shivering and laughing in the waist-deep water.
After a few minutes, they emerge from the lake and wrap themselves in towels, sand sticking to their calves as they trudge across the beach. Their whispers turn into giggles as they pass, sneaking quick glances in my direction.
One of the girls—brunette and tan—peels off from the group and approaches the lifeguard tower. She stands beneath me, waving.
I lower my sunglasses. “Can I help you with something?”
“My friend thinks you’re cute,” the brunette says, pointing toward the group of girls. “The one in the yellow bikini. Her name’s Cassidy. She’s wondering if she can have your number.”
I shoot a glance in Cassidy’s direction. She’s objectively attractive. Even though I’m one hundred percent gay, I spent many years pretending to be straight, and I can certainly recognize a pretty girl when I see one.
Her ginger hair falls to her shoulders in tight curls. She’s the kind of girl high school me would’ve pretended to like to fit in. Her pale skin is covered in freckles, her eyes a vibrant shade of emerald. Her bikini bottoms hug her ass in all the right places.
And sure, I can appreciate a nice ass. I just prefer it when it’s paired with a nice dick, too.
“Sorry. I have a girlfriend,” I reply, defaulting to my usual excuse.
The brunette frowns. “Shame. She’s a lucky girl.” She winks, then trots back to her friends.
I watch her deliver the bad news to Cassidy. Her shoulders slump with defeat, her lower lip protruding into a pout.
I chuckle quietly under my breath. It’s not like I try to attract girls—it just happens. Even though it’s not the attention I want, it still gives my ego a little boost.
Once the girls leave, the beach falls silent. With no one swimming, I decide to eat my packed lunch. I grab my cooler and pull out a turkey sandwich wrapped in plastic. This morning, I’d made an identical sandwich for Maddie’s lunchbox.
I unwrap the sandwich and take a bite. A big glob of mustard oozes onto the corner of my mouth. I use my thumb to wipe it away, then lick it clean. The cheap bread mushes and sticks to the roof of my mouth.
As I chew, my eyes sweep across the beach.
An osprey perches in a nearby tree, motionless, eyes locked on the lake like it’s waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
The edge of the beach merges into a state park with several acres of protected lakeshore and dunes.
It’s not uncommon to see wildlife around here.
Movement flickers at the edge of my vision. I glance over—and there he is. A man crouched on a dune, hunched over a plant with a notebook in hand, pen tucked behind his ear. The same guy from the parade. It’s hard to forget an annoyingly pretty face like that.
Brushing crumbs off my bare chest, I climb down from the lifeguard tower. Sand shifts under my feet as I cross the beach and stop in front of him, my shadow spilling over him. He startles, glancing up at me.
“Hey,” I greet awkwardly, giving him a small wave. “You’re the weird plant guy.”
He frowns as he stands. “And you’re the plant murderer.”
I roll my eyes. “It was an accident.”
“A careless accident.”
“Sure. Whatever.” I’m not wasting my energy arguing. “What are you doing here?”
“Why is it any of your business?”
“You’re on my beach.”
An amused smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Your beach?”
I cross my arms. “Yeah. I’m a lifeguard here.”
“I can see that,” he says, eyes sweeping over my uniform. “If you must know, I’m a botany graduate student at Lakeview University. I’m in town for the summer doing research funded by the DNR.”
I suddenly notice the cover of the spiral-bound notebook clutched in his arms. It’s decorated with overlapping stickers—some with the university’s emblem, activism slogans, and countless pride flags. I stare at the rainbow ones for a few seconds longer than I should.
His expression hardens as he follows my gaze. Shit. He totally thinks I’m a homophobe.
I clear my throat. “Botany. That’s plants, right?”
The words sound dumber out loud than they did in my head. Heat creeps up the back of my neck.
He nods slowly. “Yeah. Plants.”
“Oh,” I say, scratching at my neck. “That’s cool, I guess.”
He cracks a small smile, revealing dazzling white teeth with a small gap between his front two—an imperfection that somehow makes him even cuter.
He outstretches his hand, and I hesitantly shake it.
I’m sure my palm is noticeably sweaty. Hopefully he blames it on the fact that I’ve been standing in the sun all day.
“I’m Hunter Davis,” he says.
“Mason Burke.” I shove my hand into my pocket as soon as he lets go. “So… you’re spending the whole summer just staring at plants? Sounds boring.”
Hunter laughs under his breath, eyes crinkling at the corners. The sound catches me off guard—light and warm, like a breeze slipping beneath your shirt on a hot day.
He may be annoying, but if I have to share the beach with him all summer, at least he’s easy on the eyes.
“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” he says. “My research focuses on how invasive plants affect the pollination rates of native threatened species.”
I nod like I understand. “Sounds interesting.”
He flashes me a doubtful look. “You don’t have to say that. Most people think it’s boring.”
“I don’t think it’s boring,” I say quickly, letting out a sheepish laugh. “I just… don’t really know much about it.”
“Fair,” Hunter says, shrugging. “I’m used to that—from people like you.”
My jaw tenses. “People like me…?”
“Small-town folks,” he clarifies. “Environmentalism isn’t exactly popular around these parts.”
I exhale softly. “Yeah, well, I’m not like that.”
He studies me, expression unreadable. “Alright,” he says, but he doesn’t sound convinced.
I understand why he’s skeptical. Claremont Shores is extremely conservative. Any discussion of eco-friendliness is deemed to be liberal propaganda. Folks out here love their red meat barbecues, gas-guzzling pickup trucks, and plastic disposables.
I shift on my feet, desperate to shake off the heavy silence. “So, uh… I should get back to work,” I mutter, nodding toward the lifeguard tower.
“Yeah, me too. See you around, Mason.”
“Yeah,” I reply, turning sharply on my heel. “See you.”
I climb back up the tower and spend the rest of my shift completely distracted. Thank God for my reflective sunglasses—no one can tell I’m staring straight at Hunter. I watch him like a hawk as he stomps across the dunes and examines plants, takes measurements, and snaps pictures.
By midday, it’s way too hot for the oversized black hoodie he’s wearing.
He shrugs it off and knots the sleeves around his waist, leaving just a striped T-shirt clinging to his lean frame.
He’s all fine lines and long limbs, not bulky like me, but beautiful nonetheless.
Almost delicate. His wrists are narrow, his fingers nimble as they brush over a leaf.
I can’t help but imagine how they’d feel against my skin.
With a groan, I drag a hand through my hair and force myself to look away.
This is going to be a long, torturous summer.
***
I don’t know why I’m Googling “Pitcher’s Thistle” while sitting at the Old Harbor Tavern, sipping a beer. I remember that’s the name of the endangered plant Hunter was so worked up about. His passion intrigues me.
My brow furrows as I click through research articles. Turns out, the plant only grows in the Great Lakes region. Its leaves are covered with spines, and it blooms with bulbous pink flowers. It’s endangered due to a bunch of factors I only half understand.
I wish I cared about anything as much as Hunter seems to care about plants.
I used to. Back in high school, I was class president.
Most of my “big initiatives” were things like petitioning for better soda flavors in the vending machines or organizing spirit week themes—not exactly earth-shattering stuff.
But even then, I knew I wanted more. Watching my family struggle with bills and mental health lit a fire in me.
I wanted to fight for change, to be the guy who didn’t just talk about problems but actually did something to fix them.
But that version of me feels long gone. These days, I’m just trying to keep my head above water, taking it one day at a time.
The bell above the bar door chimes as it opens, a gust of warm air sweeping inside. I glance over my shoulder and spot Aliyah, a fellow lifeguard and only real friend in Claremont Shores. We agreed to meet here after my shift to catch up.
I politely pocket my phone as Aliyah slides onto the stool beside me, her hand clapping my shoulder.
She’s wearing a skintight yellow dress that hugs every curve and glows against her warm brown skin.
Her black hair falls to her elbows in a cascade of knotless braids that sway with each step.
As she sits down, I catch a whiff of her perfume—the familiar mixture of jasmine, mandarin, and notes of brown sugar.
She’s a beautiful girl, and she probably would be my type if I was straight. We’ve grown impossibly close over the past two summers, which leads most people in my life to think we’re dating, or at least hooking up.
“Hey, Mase,” she chirps.
“Hi,” I reply, sharper and flatter than I’d intended.
Aliyah’s eyes widen. “Jesus. What’s wrong with you? Got a stick up your ass?”
I give her a small smile and shake my head. “No. Sorry. Just… distracted. How are you?”
“Exhausted, as always.”