“Summer, did you meet Pete?” Anita asks, gesturing to the guy I’d met a week ago carrying bags of ice across the campground. Obviously, she knew we’d met and I shoot her a glare before smiling at the boy wearing a white T-shirt over his blue trunks and a cap that says “Ocean Beach Marina.”
“We’ve run into each other but, no, we haven’t officially met.” I offer my hand. He takes it and I notice callouses on his fingertips.
“Nice to meet you, Summer.” His warm eyes and hand hold mine a beat longer than necessary. When it reaches the awkward point, I slowly withdraw and avert my eyes down to the water. Ivy and Justin are floating together on their surfboards in the water. A guy named Whit, who I recognize from Justin’s Jeep the day we arrived, paddles out to meet them.
“I thought you worked at the campground,” I say, nodding at the hat.
He adjusts the brim. “I do, but we all pull shifts at the marina occasionally.”
“Summer just graduated from high school in Tennessee,” Anita offers.
“Near Nashville.”
Pete nods in recognition. “Do you like it there?”
“I do. I mean, I’m looking forward to moving on to college. I’m going to Vanderbilt.” I hope no one can hear the waver in my voice. For some reason when people ask me about my life, about back home, I feel like such a liar for leaving out Mason. It’s dumb, but that’s how deep into him I was. Am? Don’t think about him. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about him.
He holds up his bottle of water and smiles. “I applied to Vandy. Too expensive though.”
“And you’re a sophomore?”
“Yeah, me and Justin. Whit and Nick finally graduated this year.”
Anita goes around the rest of the group, pointing out a few other people. Maggie, who’s a friend of Ivy’s. A lone figure wanders up the beach carrying something in his hand.
“That’s Nick,” she says. “He’s our resident enigma. He got a football scholarship to the Citadel but desperately wants to major in art and photography.”
I squint, trying to get a better look at the guy on the beach. Something tells me that Nick and I may have encountered one another already.
Ivy, Justin, and Whit continue playing out of the water while the others clean and set up for dinner. I feel a little out of place with nothing to do, but Anita assures me it’s fine. I’m a guest. Pete and Bobby pull a heavy, metal fire pit from the porch near the house and load it with coals.
“Ride it in,” Bobby shouts and I look toward the water again. Ivy and Justin have caught a wave on their surfboards. Whit lingers a little further out, waiting on his board.
“Ouch,” Pete says, when Ivy crashes into the waves but Justin rides the swooping wave all the way to the shore, hopping off before it hits the sand. He runs back out to help Ivy.
“Impressive,” I say, keeping my eyes on Whit. A wave rolls toward him and he flattens out, using his well-defined arms to paddle toward the shore. He’s up in a smooth, clean motion and I can’t take my eyes off of him. I’d never watched surfers closely before. It looks so easy but it can’t be. Whit’s formidable stomach muscles tense as he rides the wave in.
Anita nods. “Yeah, they’re the best out of all of us. When Justin and the others set their sights on something, they’re pretty determined. Surfing was a big passion for both of them for a long time.”
“And now?” I ask, curious about his passions.
Anita gave me a quick glance. “School. Work. The military. They all have goals outside this little strip of beach.”
“Hungry?” Pete asks, handing me a metal skewer with a hot dog on the end.
“Thanks.” I hold it over the fire. Justin, Whit, and Ivy finally come out of the water and I listen as they take turns in the shower under the porch. When they reappear, Justin’s wearing dry shorts and an orange hoodie. The zipper stops midway up his bare chest and I struggle to pull my eyes away. Whit trudges up the steps a few minutes later, drying off with a red-striped towel. Lord he’s ripped. They grab bottles of soda out of the cooler and lean against the railing, reliving their time in the water. Next to one another they’re like two Greek gods. Golden brown skin, muscles like carved marble. Justin’s hair is dark, shaggy on top but short in the back. His eyes match the late afternoon sky.
Whit is his opposite with blond hair that hangs past his sharp jaw down to his shoulders. His eyes are deep green, intense. A striped towel hangs around his waist and my eyes sweep over the deep-set V of his hipbones and the scattering of blond hair under his belly button. I glance up and find him watching me watch him.
Jesus.
I look away, hoping the red on my cheeks can be blamed on the fire and focus on the blaze. Luckily Anita breaks the awkward moment by shouting, “If you think I’m cooking your dinner, Justin Hawkins, you’re crazy.”
He walks up to Anita and pushes her out of the way, grabbing a rod and skewering three hotdogs down the metal. “I can fend for myself,” he says, swatting her as she walks over to the table to fix a plate for Sibley.
He eases in next to me, so comfortable in his skin and with this group, roasting his dinner over the fire. After a minute he raises an eyebrow and says, “You have a good time today?”
I take a deep breath. “I did. It was nice to be around some other people—you know other than my mom and the Florence County records keeper.”