Page 97 of Our Scorching Summer

We fly out tomorrow. Can’t wait to see you in the Azores :)

Avery

Me to Lil <3 Love you!!!

Lily

<3 you, talk later

* * *

For the past hour,Tara, Tate, Nico, and I have been sipping on fruity brunch cocktails. The famous travel vloggers have been regaling us with stories of their recent adventures.

Tate pulls off his hat, brushing his fingers through short coils of dense hair as he tells us about a recent diving calamity thatalmostcost him a ten-thousand-dollar camera.

This entire morning has felt like a trembling canister of pressure ready to explode. Whether you’re sleeping with them—like when the guy I was seeing needed me to take acandidphoto of him every five seconds—or sharing a spread of pastries on a weekday morning, meeting quasi-famous people is strange.

They’re obviously normal people. The kind of ordinary people whose lives you can map out with a diagram.

Tate proposing to Tara on the Amalfi Coast, April 27.

Vlog Titled:TARA’S HILARIOUS CRYING FACE.

Tara learning to speak Russian, Summer 2010.

Playlist Titled:???? ????? ????.

Do my own readers want to know me that personally? Would they even care about what my day-to-day life looks like outside of Zoe Mona?

I did receive an interview request from Ever Printing’s management team a few days ago. Apparently, some independent magazines wanted to cover my writing journey and howCoastal Flingearned such a spotlight.

There’s no way I could open myself up to publicity like that. Surrendering my identity would only cause a mess of problems.

The thoughts inflate in my mind like a bouncy castle, and I hop around in my daydreams. Everyone else at the table we snagged at Parque Lage remains captivated by Tate’s face-off with death. I feel kinda bad for spacing out, but I already heard about this on their latest vlog.

“I’m so sorry, but I have to ask, you guys really aren’tknocking boots?” Tara serves the question to our side of the table, snapping me out of my thoughts. There’s a tinge of pink beneath her tawny skin, which is as drenched with sweat as mine is from sitting in the sun.

I feel like I’m under the lens of a microscope. It can’t bethatobvious we’re hooking up.

“No, we’re just friends,” I clarify, not giving Nico a chance to open his mouth. He rolls his eyes and takes another bite of his kiwi.

“Huh.” Tara widens her eyes with skepticism, but my answer seems to be enough to satisfy the probing for the time being.

“When did you guys see each other last?” I try to change the subject, stretching my legs under the table.

“Oh yes. Nico, why don’t you tell us?” Tate’s voice practically erupts with glee as he shoots a narrowed gaze toward my friend. “When was the last time we saw each other?”

Strange.

I turn to Nico, waiting for his response.

“Can you let it go?” Nico readjusts himself in his seat, and his arms fold into their defensive posture. Tense forearms, veins at the ready, and the briefest curl of his fingers. “It’s not my fault I got the dates mixed up. It said three-dash-two. It was meant to be March second,notFebruary third.”

An honest mistake.

“We called you the same week to confirm.” Tara raises one of her perfectly plucked brows at him. That’s the look of someone who’s been burned by Nico’s bad planning patterns.

“I thought you were being overly cautious.” He tries to brush it off, but I can tell Nico is uncomfortable from the bounce of his feet.

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