Chapter 9
IF THE FOUNDING FATHERS had ever experienced a hangover as brutal as the one I’m nursing this Fourth of July, I think they would have devised a holiday with a little less cannon fire.
I wince at the howl of a siren cutting through the air, alerting me to the start of the parade. I’m sitting on the edge of the sidewalk, downtown, where we’ve parked to enjoy the festivities as floats go by tossing candy and toys and swag into the singing crowd.
I was so exhausted and tipsy last night that I crashed out as soon as I hit the cot mattress, and I’ve barely had a moment to process any of it: Cara and Cooper’s engagement, the fact that my mom suggested they throw the wedding pretty much immediately, my whole conversation with Nate on the dock…
“Is this spot taken?” Nate asks from over my shoulder. I’d almost forgotten that he and his dad were joining us for today’s festivities. But now, my whole body has jolted awake again, as if I just sat on a firework.
“All yours.” I gesture to the curb beside me, trying to act casual and unbothered by his closeness.
Hazy memories from last night rush my mind as Nate takes a seat, his shoulders brushing mine.
The spontaneousness of that kiss, the intensity of it.
My hands running over his rippled muscles, wet with lake water.
The way I felt like I was melting into him.
Then, both of us swimming back to shore, forced to separate immediately and praying no one had seen our kiss from all the way on the yard.
I grab one of the paper fans the Lake Thomas town council just tossed out from their float and try to cool the heat rising along my skin. Try to convince myself the warmth on my cheeks and along my neck is definitely from the July sun, and not from Nate sitting inches away from me.
“Hey! Did we miss the Musgrove Real Estate float?” my dad asks, coming over to stand behind us. “I heard they’re giving out Snickers this year.”
He and Mom got a late start this morning and told the rest of us to go ahead and claim a good spot along the parade route. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve risen before my mother—I wonder if she’s also not feeling great this morning. Too much champagne, celebrating.
“Oh, by the way, Nikki,” Dad adds, “I moved your stuff out of Camp Bennet. Nate’s going to need it.”
I look between the two men, confused. “For what?”
“For him to sleep in,” Dad says.
For some reason, the mention of Nate sleeping has my face on fire again.
“Dad, I’m sleeping there. Because Cara has my room, remember?”
“Honey, the house is full up. You can share with Cara or find somewhere else. But we couldn’t have Nate stay in a hotel for the next ten days.”
The next ten days?
Fighting through the fog of my hangover and my not-yet-fully-
awake brain, it finally clicks.
“He’s staying until the wedding?” I turn to Nate. “You’re staying until the wedding?”
Nate shrugs and smiles. “Your parents mentioned needing some help to prep the house and yard. I guess that gazebo needs some work. Said I was happy to help.”
“Happy to help?” I repeat, my voice coming out squeakier than intended. I notice Nate’s smile brings out his dimples. I shake my head, trying to make sense of this.
Mom joins us before Nate or Dad can respond to my distress. Despite her possible hangover, she’s looking as Diane Lane chic as ever in her pressed white shirt and pleated khaki slacks.
“Mr. Lancolm is heading back home tonight,” she says, giving me a warning look, “but your father’s right: Nate and Cara will stay with us until the wedding. There’s just so much to do!”
“There wouldn’t be if you hadn’t insisted on this crash wedding…” I mumble to myself.
“Nate has graciously offered to lend his carpentry skills to some repairs around the house before the big day,” Mom continues. “Starting with the gazebo.”
“Like I said,” Nate says easily. “I’m happy to—”
“Help. Yeah. Got that,” I say.
My parents drift over to where Cooper is standing with Cara and her dad a little ways away, under the shade of a large oak. Linney gestures to me that she’s going to take the kids to the porta-potties, and I give her a grimace. Good luck.
For a moment, there’s just silence.
Well, silence, and a group of clowns buzzing out “When the Saints Go Marching In” on the kazoo.
I turn to Nate.
“So… you’re staying here?” I feel like I have to say it out loud again to make sure my brain isn’t just misfiring from all the other chaos of the past day and a half.
He nods. “Looks like it.”
He nudges my shoulder with his, and I feel a zing of something down my arm. I wonder if Nate feels it, too, because suddenly, he’s looking at me intently.
“Hey, um… about last night,” he starts. “And the… handshake.”
“The handshake,” I repeat, remembering exactly what he’s talking about. Not just a silly handshake. Also falling into the lake together. The kiss. Our limbs intertwined under the water. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit how good it felt—to just let go. Have a little fun.
But in the sober light of day, I can’t forget who he is. Cara Lancolm’s brother. And not even remotely the kind of person I would normally date. It would never work between us. We’re way too different. I’m polished and ambitious, he’s a goofy mess. I live in LA, he lives in Alabama.
I need to make it clear what happened last night can’t happen again.
Because it’s a simple, undeniable fact. This could never turn into anything other than a massive embarrassment.
I’m already worried about the unwanted attention that could come from the press catching wind of Cara and Cooper’s relationship, fully aware that the blowback will likely hit me harder than either of them.
How they’ve even managed to keep each other a secret this long is already astounding—though I have to remember that Cara knows how to keep relationships secret when she wants to.
And if there was something between me and Nate, Lord knows what the media would make of it. I can’t risk unraveling my life all over again. And certainly not for someone who is just on a totally different life track than I am—if he’s even on one at all.
Instinctively, I look over my shoulder to make sure no one is close enough to overhear us. Luckily, right at that moment, the high school marching band launches into a surprisingly good rendition of “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.”
But before I can lower my voice to let him down easy, Nate clears his throat.
“Like I said last night, I’m not looking for anything serious,” he says. “Besides, we’re pretty different people—I don’t think we’d be a good fit.”
I press my lips together and blink away the sting. Even though I was going to say exactly the same thing, it still feels like a rejection coming from him. Maybe I’m just annoyed that he got to say it first.
“Of course,” I say, waving him off. “I’m not looking for that either. With you, I mean.” I force a little laugh. “I’m heading back to LA on the fourteenth anyway. Last night was just a stupid drunk thing.”
“Okay, good,” Nate says after a beat. “Glad we’re on the same page. Plus, your family’s being nice enough to host me—I wouldn’t want to make things weird.”
“Got it,” I say, eyes trained on the parade, where a local Boy Scout troop is tossing bubblegum. “I agree.”
“I mean, I’m not saying I didn’t like it,” Nate insists. “I did. It was great. Amazing. I mean, kind of a surprise since you’re such a smoke show.”
“Thank y—Wait—what?” I stop scanning the crowd and look back at Nate. “Why is that a surprise?”
He shrugs. “Attractive women are usually meh kissers.”
“They are?”
Nate nods. “It’s like how good-looking guys aren’t funny.”
You’re funny, I think. And hot.
“Because they’ve never had to be, you know?” Nate continues. At the bewildered look on my face, he adds, “I’m trying to pay you a compliment, Nicole. It’s impressive that you were able to overcome the limitations of your birth.”
A root beer Dum-Dum skitters toward us, tossed from one of the floats. “The limitations of my birth being… that I’m a ‘smoke show.’”
“Exactly.” Nate reaches for the lollipop. He offers it to me, and I shake my head. He unwraps it and pops into his mouth. “You’re making incredible strides for the smoke show population. Opening a lot of doors.”
Despite the awkwardness of this whole situation, I laugh.
He looks back toward the parade, sucking thoughtfully on the lollipop. After a moment he says, “I just mean you’re beautiful and a great kisser.” His voice is sincere now, and I can’t suppress the shiver of delight that runs through me.
“Guess you can’t judge a book by its cover,” I say with a grin. Which is true. There’s nothing about Nate’s affable slacker vibe that signals “technically adept kisser.” And yet…“I think you are also, you know, attractive, and, um, a great kisser.”
“Thank you.” He crunches through the last bit of candy and tosses the stick into a plastic bag.
It is kind of unreal to me that this guy is the greatest makeout I’ve had in years.
Maybe the greatest makeout of my whole life.
But I’m probably just remembering it through the haze of tequila.
The edges of the memory blurred by liquor and pent-up sexual frustration.
Even so, I can’t stop the thought that if I leaned over now and pressed my lips to his, I’d still be able to taste sugar and sarsaparilla.
Beside me, Nate has stilled, and his eyes are locked on my mouth. I realize I’ve tipped toward him, my lips slightly parted.
He’s still watching me, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
And then—BOOM. The sound of antique gunfire from the Revolutionary War reenactors ricochets off the brick buildings around the square. Nate’s hand flies to his chest; mine to my mouth.
“Oh my god,” I gasp, heart hammering.
He blinks, dazed, then grins. “Was that… the universe taking aim at us?”
“Feels personal,” I say, my voice half a laugh, half a breathless whisper.