Page 136 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

“I hate all of you,” Wes mutters.

Aimee steals his pancake and kisses his cheek at the same time. “No, you don’t.”

*

Packing up takesforever. Mainly because nobody is helpful.

Cam’s trying to fold the tent like it’s an origami puzzle from hell, Aimee’s sat on a tree stump eating trail mix out of the bag with zero intention of lifting a finger, and Wes is muttering to himself about the injustice of mosquito bites in non-consensual crevices.

“I just think,” Cam grunts, wrestling with the tent poles, “this is a deliberate design flaw. You shouldn’t need a PhD to compress nylon.”

“You don’thavea PhD,” Wes points out, kicking at a half-buried tent peg. “You barely passed high school chemistry.”

“I passed it withstyle,” Cam says smugly. “And in my defence, chemistry is my only weakness.”

Aimee hums. “I failed chemistry. I refused to memorize the periodic table on principle.”

“Is that a principle?” I ask, tossing the cooler into the back of the SUV.

“It is now.”

Somehow, we manage to get everything crammed into the trunk. It’s an unholy game of camping Tetris, but we win.

By the time we all pile into the car, we’re sun-tired, sugar-crashed, and covered in approximately eighty percent woodland debris. Cam’s in the passenger seat playing DJ, and Aimee is nestled in the middle of the backseat with her legs tossed across Wes’s lap.

I pull onto the road with a contented sigh; and then, the chaos begins.

Cam puts on an eighties power ballad playlist and starts dramatically lip-syncing along, using a half-empty water bottle as a mic.

“I will crash this car,” Wes warns flatly.

“You’re not even driving,” I laugh, eyeing him in the rear view mirror.

“I will grab the wheel.”

Aimee giggles. “Let him have his moment, he’s clearly in his feelings.”

“I’m performing,” Cam says, gesturing wildly. “Let melive.”

“Can you perform with the window open?” Wes says, cracking his. “Your voice is giving me hives.”

Aimee snorts and tosses a granola bar at Cam’s head. “Next one’s going out the window.”

Cam pouts. “I can’t believe this is the thanks I get for making us pancakes.”

“Pancakes that gave me digestive anxiety,” Wes grumbles.

“You’re all ungrateful.”

“True,” Aimee says cheerfully. “But we’re cute.”

Cam turns up the volume in defiance.

We drive like that for miles—bickering and laughing and snacking on leftover snacks. I glance in the mirror as Aimee falls asleep. Wes is watching her with that quiet, guarded softness he never admits to having, and the car smells like us; like vanilla and alpha musk andher.

I feel it in my chest, then; that low, humming pull:

I want her in this pack.

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