Page 75 of Just Friends

Dinner was skillet pizzas with thick chunks of mozzarella and fresh basil that we ate straight from the pan on the back porch as the sun set, music blaring. The smell of Lo’s citronella candle and Cam’s heavy-duty bug spray hung heavy in the air, and we made up ghost stories when one of the Edison bulb café lights started blinking. We took turns jumping off the dock as the stars sparked to life in the sky, the sun winking out, not to be seen again until morning.

When everyone finally retreated to the house for bed, our feet were dragging, our eyelids fluttering closed. That is, until I remembered the couch bed, and then I came to life again, jump-starting like a car battery.

Now it’s just us and the crickets chirping in the distance, our friends long since fallen asleep in each other’s arms.

The dock groans as Alex and I stop at the edge and sit, sliding our feet into the dark surface of the water. I expected it to be warm, still holding heat from the sunshine, but it’s cool silk against my overly warm skin.

“If a water moccasin eats my foot off, I’m blaming you,” I tell him, and a laugh huffs out of him, echoing across the water.

“As you should,” he says. A smile tugs at my lips, and I don’t fight to hold it back.

We fall silent, our shoulders brushing, and it feels like old times. Like before I had this secret attraction growing inside me. Things were simpler when it wasn’t there, when I didn’t want to know how his skin would feel under my palms and what his body looks like beneath those clothes.

“You okay?” Alex asks, not looking at me. His gaze is still fixed on the inky water in front of us, and that makes it easier to be truthful. Or at least partly truthful.

“I don’t know,” I whisper, and then he does look at me, his eyes as dark as the sky around us. He holds my gaze for a long moment, his breath syncing with mine, and I feel like I did earlier today, when his hands were wrapped around my waist in the lake and water gathered on the edges of his eyelashes—that he is a reflection of me.

“What’s wrong?”

Thoughts spin around me like a tropical storm gaining momentum before it hits shore. How do I explain to him that the stupid bed has made this harmless crush no longer harmless? How do I tell him that since that other night inmybed, with him reading to me, his body warm next to mine, I haven’t been able to stop wishing he was beside me every night? And now that I have the opportunity again, I am absolutelyterrifiedto test my restraint. And even more terrified to leave it all out on this dock, regardless of the consequences.

Ican’ttell him any of that. Not if I don’t want to ruin everything.

“Lo said friendship is the most important thing in a relationship,” I say, voicing the other thought that’s been echoing in my head all day—as Alex handed me the scrunchie from his wrist when I wanted to pull my damp hair off my neck, and when he made my favorite drink without me asking and served it to me as I danced on the counter with his sister, the corner of his mouth hooked in that smile I love so much.

Alex’s shoulders lift as he takes a deep breath, and I wish I could better make out his eyes in the darkness so I could know what he’s thinking. “Do you agree with her?” he asks finally, slow as syrup dripping down pancakes.

I don’t know how to answer, but the truth trips out of me before I can think of something else. “Yes,” I breathe, and then, before I can lose the courage, “Are we making a mistake with the blind dates?”

Alex stills next to me, his body going rigid in a way that can only be achieved through all that discipline he has in the gym. “Why do you ask that?”

“It’s just that…” I trail off, trying to sort out my thoughts, and press my hands under my thighs on the dock to keep them from trembling. “If friendship is the most important, are blind dates really the best way to do this? Shouldn’t we, I don’t know, date our friends?”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Even his breathing is silent. When he finally speaks, it comes out slowly, like he’s chosen his words specifically. “Who do you think we should date?”

I feel his question beneath my skin, burrowing into every one of my atoms. I want to blurt out that maybe we should date each other, just to test it out. But even if hedoesfeel the same way, it feels like the edge of a sharp knife, dangerous and with the ability to slice everything I hold dear to ribbons.

So I push the words down and grapple for anything to get out of this conversation before it can swallow me whole. “I don’t know,” I say finally, hoping I sound more confident than I feel. Then, desperately needing to change the trajectory of the conversation, I ask, “Do you want to swim?”

“You want to swim?” Alex asks, blinking at the sudden change in topic.

I choke back my nerves, feeling on more solid footing the further we get from the conversation. “Yeah, I think it would be fun. It’s hot as hell out here,” I say, pinching the V of my shirt between my finger and thumb and tugging it to create a small breeze to cool me down.

Alex watches me for a long moment, his eyes glinting in the pale moonlight, and I swear I see stars in his eyes. “Okay, Haze. Let’s swim.”

I feel a momentary surge of relief that he let the subject go, but then he stands, his muscles rippling with the movement, and pulls his shirt over his head with one hand. His shirt, still warm from his skin, lands in a heap on the wood planks beside me.

“What are you doing?” I squeak out when his fingers slide into the waistband of his shorts, pushing so the curves of his hip bones are revealed.

“I’m not putting wet trunks back on,” he says matter-of-factly, and there’s an odd lilt to his voice, a challenge.

I swallow against the lump forming in my throat. “So you’re going to swim in boxers?” I ask, and I don’t know why the thought sends a bolt of lightning through me, because it’s not really any different from what he swam in today.

“Nope,” he says, and the shorts pool at his feet. “Don’t want to get those wet either.”

My face heats as his words register, as images take shape in my mind. “Oh” is all I can say.

I can’t tear my eyes from his exposed stomach, flexing under my gaze, and from the long line of his neck, the pulse pounding there.

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