Page 35 of Things We Tell Ourselves

“I need a pool like this,” she sighs, dropping back against the water, letting it tickle the edges of her forehead; the top half of her floats as she touches the bottom with her toes.

Easton stands over Sadie’s well-oiled back. “Done,” he announces, slapping her on the butt.

She jumps, swinging her hand back to protect her rear end from another slap, but Easton’s already jumping in the pool.

Not long after the guys start racing each other from one side of the pool to the other, Sadie lifts her head, grabbing her sunglasses from below her chair.

“Hey, Cammy,” she says, sliding on her shades.

The nickname doesn’t annoy her as much as the assumption that she’ll answer to it.

“Did Delilah—” the sound of the guys’ splashing as they swim up to her side of the pool drowns Sadie out.

As a hand grabs the side of the pool, Camille waits until both of them surface, out of breath. “Easton wins!”

“That’s right,” he cheers, pounding his chest with his fists like an ape, turning to Wade, who looks unaffected by the loss, “bow down to the king!”

Wade falls onto his back in the water. “You wish,” he says, slowly swimming toward Camille. Her eyes are on his shoulders, flexing with each light stroke when she returns her attention to the pool chairs.

“What was that?” she asks, seeing Sadie starting to sit up.

She’s curled her elbow under herself, the back of her bikini still untied. “I was asking if Delilah told you if Marcy was going to bring us out some drinks, but I’ll go ask.”

Wade turns toward Sadie, and Camille knows her intentions. As Sadie sits up, she’s going to flash him before she grabs the strings, if she even bothers trying to cover her chest.

“I’ll do it,” Camille volunteers before Wade can get a good look at Sadie.

“You don’t need to hunt Marcy down for drinks,” Wade grumbles.

On the pool chair, Sadie stops and lays back down.

“Oh, no,” Camille assures him quickly, “it’s no big deal.” She’s up and out of the pool, caring more about keeping Sadie from flashing everyone than them see her in her bikini. She swipes her wrap from the chair, slipping on her shoes as she flings her arms inside the coverup, not daring to look back. She can feel eyes on her, but she isn’t brave enough to see if it’s him or not.

“Skinny margarita and cucumber water,” Sadie calls, laying her forehead in the crook of her arm.

“Sure,” Camille replies, fighting the urge to not kick the end of her chair as she walks by, “I’ll let her know.”

Walking up to the main house, she can see the guys playing in the pool in the glass reflection. Knowing her time in the pool is ticking down the closer it gets to the big meeting tonight, all she wants to do is spin around and jump back in. Her eyes flicker to the reflection of Sadie laying out in the sun, her top still untied. Would she be able to taste spit in cucumber water?

Eleven

Camille walks into the main house to the smell of fresh-cut strawberries and toast.

“Looking for a snack?” Marcy asks, walking out from the chef’s kitchen, hidden by the tall cabinet doors.

She’s carrying out a circular tray full of fruit, sliced meats, and sliced avocado with toast halves in the middle. Camille walks up, meeting her on the opposite of the island where Marcy lays the tray. She eyes the tray hungrily, realizing how empty her stomach feels.

“Sadie requests a skinny margarita and cucumber water.” Camille can’t take her eyes off of the fresh strawberries. “Is that for us?”

“This,” Marcy waves her right hand dramatically over the tray as if she were showcasing it to more than an audience of one, “is for anyone, but this,” She points at the line of avocado slices and fruit, “is for little miss princess.”

Camille frowns. “That’s it?”

“This is what you get,” she says while walking over to the refrigerator, “when you’re vegan, gluten-free, keto, and strictly organic.” She opens the freezer and pulls out a bottle of tequila.

Camille glances out the back window toward the pool. “No wonder she’s so demanding. She’s mad because she’s hungry.”

Marcy lets out a snort, setting the cold bottle on the counter. “Don’t worry. The tequila should make it better.”

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