Chapter 12
ETHAN- FOURTH OF JULY WEEKEND
Tony called on a random Tuesday while I was buried in decks and timelines and pretending to care about a budget meeting.
“Alright,” he said, no hello, “you’ve officially disappeared.”
“I’ve been busy,” I said.
“Yeah. Busy being domesticated. Fourth of July’s coming up, man. Summer’s gonna be gone before we know it. We’re doing something epic this year.”
I half smiled. “Like what, the Cape again?”
“Forget the Cape,” he said. “We’re going big. The Hamptons. Westhampton. My cousin’s uncle’s place. Huge house. Deck, beach access, the works.”
I sat up.
“The Hamptons?”
“Yep.”
Just hearing it unlocked something old in my chest—college summers, too many beers, all of us crammed into one house like nothing in life mattered yet.
“We haven’t had the whole crew together in forever,” Tony went on. “Beth, Chris, Dan, Mark. Everybody. No flakes. No plus-ones we don’t like. Just us. One last blowout before we’re all too old and boring.”
I stared at my calendar.
He wasn’t wrong.
Somewhere along the way, my world had narrowed to work and Sage. Couple dinners. Couple weekends. Couple everything.
I couldn’t remember the last time it was just the guys.
“I’m in,” I said automatically.
Then I winced.
“…I just have to talk to Sage.”
Tony went quiet.
“That bad, huh?”
“She doesn’t love group trips,” I said carefully. “She gets jealous. Day drinking makes it worse.”
“We’ve all seen it,” he said. “Dude… it’s been three months. You shouldn’t need permission.”
“I’m in love,” I said.
Even to me, it sounded defensive.
Tony sighed. “Fine. Make it couples. Beth’s bringing that firefighter guy. Less chaos. But you better show up. We miss you.”
That landed harder than anything else.
We miss you.
By the time we hung up, the house was booked.
The Hamptons felt like a victory lap.
Westhampton was buzzing—traffic inching along dune-lined roads, music spilling from open car windows, people already sunburned by noon. The house Tony scored was ridiculous in the way only Hamptons houses are: weathered shingles, wraparound deck, enough bedrooms to lose people in.
Everyone was giddy.
Beth kept laughing like she couldn’t believe this was real life. Chris cracked open beers before the bags were even unpacked. Mark disappeared to scout the beach. Dan was already arguing about playlists.
It felt good to be back inside the noise of my friends.
To remember who I was before everything became couple-centric.
Sage fit in instantly.
She always did.
On the beach, she was magnetic—turquoise bikini, skin glowing, sunglasses low on her nose. She laughed loud, played hard, kissed me like she wanted everyone watching to know I was hers.
And I liked that.
I liked how she wound herself around me during volleyball breaks, how she whispered in my ear when someone made a bad call, how she drank straight from the cooler like it was hers.
It felt like the best version of us.
For a while.
The beer count crept up without anyone really tracking it. Someone switched to canned cocktails. The sun climbed higher. Time loosened.
I noticed the shift before the blowup.
The way Sage’s eyes stayed a little too sharp.
The way she tracked movement instead of moments.
The faint sweetness on her breath when she leaned in—alcohol layered under coconut sunscreen.
Her laugh went brittle.
Her touches got possessive.
I should’ve pulled her aside earlier.
Instead, I let it simmer.
“I saw that.”
I turned. “Saw what?”
Her mouth was already tight.
“You looking.”
“At who?”
She didn’t answer right away—just watched me, eyes glassy now, pupils blown wide.
“That girl,” she said finally, jerking her chin down the beach. “You stared at her ass.”
Here we go.
“Sage,” I said quietly, “I didn’t.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
People were close enough now that pretending not to listen took effort.
I smiled—slow, knowing. The smile I always used when we danced this dance.
“Baby,” I murmured, stepping closer, “you’re the only thing I’ve looked at all day.”
She scoffed, but her breath hit my cheek as she leaned in.
“Bullshit.”
Her hand came out of nowhere.
SMACK.
The sound cracked through the air.
It wasn’t playful.
But it wasn’t unfamiliar either.
My head snapped slightly to the side, more shock than pain.
I laughed under my breath, adrenaline already spiking.
“Sage,” I warned softly.
Her eyes flicked around—quick, assessing.
She saw it too.
Beth staring.
Chris frozen mid-sip.
Mark looking away too late.
That awareness should’ve stopped her.
Instead, it lit her up.
“Don’t fucking lie to me,” she said—and hit me again.
SMACK.
Harder.
This time, heat flared across my cheek.
I sucked in a breath.
The old pull sparked anyway—anger curling hot and tight in my gut, desire threading right through it. The same toxic fuse we always lit.
I grabbed her wrist as she pulled back for a third strike.
Too fast.
Too hard.
She gasped.
I felt it immediately—the strength in my grip, the sharp inhale, the sudden stillness.
I let go like I’d been burned.
Red fingerprints bloomed on her skin.
Clear. Immediate.
My stomach dropped.
“Oh—fuck,” I said under my breath. “Sage. I didn’t mean—”
She looked at her wrist.
Then at me.
And something shifted.
Not fear.
Not shame.
Something darker.
“Did you just grab me?” she said, voice low.
I opened my mouth—
But she stepped into me instead, pressing her body hard against mine, mouth brushing my ear.
“See?” she whispered. “You like it when I push you.”
Her breath was warm. Sweet. Alcohol-heavy.
My pulse kicked harder despite myself.
I looked past her shoulder and caught Tony’s eye.
He didn’t look amused.
He looked tired.
Like this wasn’t shocking anymore—just uncomfortable.
Beth’s expression mirrored it. Concern edged with resignation.
That hit harder than the slap.
This wasn’t entertainment.
It was ruining the day.
Sage’s fingers curled into my shirt, nails scraping skin.
“You want me,” she murmured. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”
I did want her.
That was the problem.
The anger, the jealousy, the hunger—it all braided together until it felt indistinguishable from desire.
But standing there, sand sticking to my skin, friends watching like they didn’t know where to look—
For the first time, it didn’t feel hot.
It felt old.
“Let’s go inside,” I said quietly. “Now.”
She smiled.
Not sweet.
Victorious.
“Thought so.”
And as she dragged me toward the house, her wrist still marked from my grip, my cheek still burning from her hand, one ugly thought kept circling:
This used to feel like foreplay.
Now it just felt like something everyone else was done watching.
Sage’s fingers were still hooked in my shirt, her body pressed hard to mine, breath warm and sweet against my jaw. Not sloppy. Not falling-down drunk.
Just… fueled.
“You like this,” she murmured. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”
I did.
That was the problem.
But I also knew we couldn’t keep doing it here.
Not on the beach.
Not in front of everyone.
Not with the house full of people who didn’t sign up for this.
I wrapped my hand around her wrist—careful this time—and leaned in close.
“Come on,” I said low. “Inside. Now.”
She smirked. “Why? Afraid someone’s watching?”
“Yes,” I said flatly. “Because they are.”
That annoyed her.
I felt it instantly—the way her body went rigid, the way her eyes sharpened.
I steered her toward the cabana anyway, my hand firm at her lower back, guiding her fast past the deck doors and down the short wooden steps. I could hear laughter inside the house. Music. Someone yelling about another round.
Exactly why I didn’t want this spilling there.
The cabana door slammed shut behind us.
She rounded on me immediately.
“You embarrassed?” she snapped. “You don’t want them seeing what you’re into?”
I exhaled hard. “I don’t want this turning into a scene.”
“This?” she laughed. “You mean you getting caught?”
“I didn’t get caught doing anything.”
“Bullshit.”
She stepped closer, chest brushing mine, eyes glassy now—not unfocused, just too bright.
I smelled it again. Alcohol. Tequila maybe. Sweet and sharp on her breath.
Not drunk.
But enough to loosen the edges.
“Have you had a lot to drink?” I asked.
Her eyes flashed.
“Oh my God,” she scoffed. “Here we go.”
“I’m asking because every time you drink like this—”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re looking for a fight.”
There it was.
The thing I’d been thinking all afternoon.
The thing I should’ve kept in my head.
Her face went still.
“What did you just say?”
I hesitated. Too late.
“I’m just wondering if the alcohol’s… amplifying things.”
Her laugh was sharp and humorless.
“Did you just call me crazy?”
“No—”
“Did you just call me fucking crazy?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
She stepped into me hard, palms flat on my chest, shoving once—not enough to move me, just enough to provoke.
“I know what I saw,” she said. “I saw you checking out that girl’s ass. Don’t gaslight me.”
“Sage—”
“Say I’m wrong,” she demanded. “Say it.”
I didn’t answer fast enough.
Her hand came up again.
SMACK.
Heat flared across my cheek.
Not playful.
But not unfamiliar either.
My pulse kicked hard anyway.
“Sage,” I warned, voice low.
Her mouth curved. “There it is.”
She hit me again—open palm, sharp crack—then kissed me immediately after, teeth grazing my lip, breath hot and demanding.
It was the same switch we always flipped.
Anger → heat.
Jealousy → hunger.
Rage → need.
I grabbed her wrists, pinned them briefly to the cabana wall—not hurting her, but holding her there, close enough that her body pressed fully into mine.
“Enough,” I said.
She smiled like I’d just dared her.
“You don’t mean that.”
Her knee nudged between my thighs. Her hips rolled once, deliberate.
I groaned despite myself.
She felt it.
Her eyes darkened with triumph.
“There,” she whispered. “That’s what this is. You get hard when I push you. You get off on me losing my mind over you.”