Chapter Ten
Ashton
The sun is unbearably bright today—so bright that even with my sunglasses on, I have to squint as I scan the crowded beach. I lie on my towel with my arms folded under my head, staring at the lake that looks like a sheet of glittering blue.
It’s the first scorching hot weekend of summer, and it seems half the town has migrated to the shoreline.
Kids shriek as they sprint in and out of the waves, leaving muddy footprints and lopsided sandcastles behind them.
Teenagers splash and dunk each other underwater, earning scoldings from the lifeguard.
Tourists stroll across the pier with dripping ice cream cones, damp swimsuits clinging to sunburned skin.
Beside me, Phoebe lies on her stomach, chin propped in her hands. She came with me out of pity—I know she did—because even though Luke’s whole friend group invited both of us to this beach day, they’re really his friends, not mine.
A volleyball suddenly smacks into my forehead with a dull thump before rolling away in the sand.
I wince, muttering a curse as I shoot Luke a glare. He’s already laughing as he jogs over to retrieve the ball.
“C’mon, man. Play with us!” he calls.
I shake my head firmly. “I’m good. I’ve gotta work on my tan.”
Luke gives me an incredulous look. “You work outside all day—”
“Exactly.” I point to the stark tan lines wrapping around my biceps. “Farmer’s tan. Needs fixing.”
He groans and turns to Phoebe. “What about you?”
She snorts. “No way. I’m not getting sweaty and having sand stuck to my skin all day. Gross.”
Luke sighs dramatically. “You two are so lame. You deserve each other.” He trudges back toward the group, ball tucked beneath his arm.
Finally alone, Phoebe and I settle into a comfortable silence.
Laughter erupts behind us where Luke and the others are setting up the volleyball net.
Someone cracks open a beer, the hiss cutting through the warm, muggy air.
Another voice shouts for sunscreen. They’re loud and carefree, so effortlessly at ease in ways I’ve never been.
Phoebe’s toe nudges my calf. “Hey,” she murmurs, her voice dropping to a whisper. “What’s going on with you? Have you thought any more about what we talked about last time? You know… experimenting?”
A hard swallow sticks in my throat. I keep my gaze fixed on the cloudless sky, refusing to meet her eyes.
“Not here, Phoebe,” I grit out.
“We’re alone,” she scoffs lightly. “Nobody’s listening.”
I clamp my jaw shut and fiddle with the towel beneath me, bunching the warm fabric into tight fists.
“Oh my god,” she mutters, inching closer. “You did something. I can see it all over your face.”
I shoot her an icy glare. “Stop,” I beg. “I didn’t actually… do anything. I just…”
My throat dries up, the words dying on my tongue.
Phoebe’s glossy lips curve into a smirk. “You watched gay porn, didn’t you?”
Heat prickles my skin. I push up on my elbows. “I’m leaving—”
“Wait, stay,” she blurts, catching my wrist. “I’m sorry, Ash. I swear I’m not making fun of you. I just… I want to make sure you’re okay.”
I settle back on the towel, hands folded on my bare stomach. “I’m okay,” I say softly. “Just… still figuring stuff out, I guess.”
Phoebe hums thoughtfully beside me as she scans the beach, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand. Finally, she tilts her head toward the lifeguard tower.
“What about him?” she asks. “You think he’s cute?”
My gaze travels up the wooden tower, landing on a tall, broad figure standing at the top. My stomach lurches. I recognize him instantly.
Mason Burke.
When we were in high school, he was captain of the swim team, class president, hometown golden boy.
One of Luke’s buddies in high school, always surrounded by girls giggling at everything that came out of his mouth.
He’s obnoxiously hot—sculpted muscles, light brown hair sun-streaked from hours on the beach, sunglasses pushed up on his head.
I remember Luke saying he left town to go to college, but maybe he’s just home for the summer.
“Well?” Phoebe prods.
I blow out a shaky breath. “He’s… objectively attractive, yes.” I shift on my towel. “But definitely not my type.”
She squints at me. “You know him?”
“Yeah. You don’t remember him? That’s Mason Burke. He and Luke were friends in high school.” I glance back toward the lifeguard tower. “He was… popular.”
She props her head up with one hand. “Oh, yeah. The name does sound familiar.” She lowers her sunglasses for a better look, openly checking Mason out before nodding in approval. “He’s hot.” She glances back at me, curiosity glinting in her eyes. “So if Mr. Washboard Abs isn’t your type, what is?”
I bite my lip, considering her question. Do I even have a type?
The mechanic from that video flashes in my mind—tattooed arms, a hint of hair on his chest, sweat gleaming down his torso. The roughness of him. The confidence. The way he didn’t apologize for taking control.
And honestly, even with women, I’d always gravitated toward the ones with a bit of an edge. Part of what drew me to Phoebe in the first place was how effortlessly she commanded the bedroom. She wanted what she wanted, and she took it. It meant I didn’t have to overthink every second.
For some reason, when I think about my ideal man, my brain conjures up images of Troy. Come to think of it, he shares a lot of characteristics with that mechanic from that video. Was my subconscious being a pervert and imagining it was him?
A muscle ticks in my jaw as I stare at the sand, letting a handful slip between my fingers. “I guess… I like guys who are a little rough around the edges, y’know?”
She wiggles her eyebrows. “You like bad boys, huh?”
I huff and nudge her shoulder. “Shut up.”
She snickers and rolls onto her back, hands tucked beneath her head of wind-tousled curls.
My face feels hot, blood simmering beneath my skin, though I can’t tell if it’s from the sun or from openly talking about my taste in men. Probably both. To be safe, I grab the sunscreen and smooth a thin layer across my cheeks.
As I rub the lotion into my arms, Luke’s voice pipes up behind me as he chats with his friends, volleyball tucked under his arm.
“Yo, do you see that guy?” one of them snorts. “Dude has his nails painted. Bright pink.”
I don’t turn around, but I recognize that low, gravelly voice as Ethan’s. He’s between Luke and me in age, and the three of us have been friends since we met in Boy Scouts.
“Yeah, what the hell is up with that?” another one of Luke’s friends chimes in. “Wearing that crap out in public… it’s confusing for kids.”
“Right?” Luke says, laughing. “Like, nobody wants to see that at the beach.”
A knot tightens in my stomach. My hands freeze where they’ve been rubbing sunscreen into my shoulders, arms still crossed over my chest, the lotion half-absorbed.
Their words cut through me like a blade—which is ridiculous, because none of this is new.
Luke and his buddies have made comments like this before.
I’ve spent years trying to shrug it off, chalking it up to the same recycled ignorance they inherited from their families.
Luke especially. He’s so much like our dad—stubborn, blissful in his ignorance, charming only when it benefits him.
I like to think I took after Mom instead. She’s gentle and timid in a way Dad never was. Growing up, I secretly wished they’d get a divorce. I actually prayed for it sometimes in church, begging God to set her free. My father never treated her with the decency she deserved.
Over the years, his coldness smothered her spark. Now she’s a shadow of the woman she once was—dimmed, quiet, tucked beneath him like she’s forgotten she was ever allowed to shine.
Dad used to call me a mama’s boy whenever I messed up or cried or didn’t act tough enough for his liking. He meant it as an insult. But honestly? If being like her is the alternative, I’ll take it.
At least I didn’t end up like Luke.
Phoebe must notice the agony on my face. Her fingers slide across the towel and close around my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. When I look over, she’s already watching me, her expression gentle and steady.
“They’re idiots,” she says quietly. “Ignore them.”
I nod, but my throat feels tight. God, I wish it were that easy.
No matter how hard I try, their voices manage to burrow under my skin. Every narrow-minded comment is another reminder of why I never let myself explore any of this—why I buried it so deep it almost felt fictional. Letting the truth surface never felt like a real option.
I love Luke. He’s not just my brother—he’s my best friend. The thought of him learning the truth about me and hating me for it is unbearable.
Phoebe squeezes my hand again, grounding me, but the ache in my chest lingers long after.