“I’m getting naked with Kendrick in that sauna later,” Summer tells me as we step back outside.

“Too much information,” I say.

She laughs. “If you want to get naked with someone, I wouldn’t care. Are you still hung up on Brett?”

“Umm . . .”

“He told me you guys hooked up.”

What? “We didn’t—not like that.” It was just a kiss, for the love of Pete.

“You’re so easy to embarrass,” she says, grinning. “Did you know your ears turn red? That’s so cute.”

Jesus.

“Hey, I was just teasing,” she says, slapping my arm playfully. “Brett’s sweet. And I like how he’s so cool with everyone. Like, I never would have hung out with Lennon in a million years because I didn’t know how cool he was.”

I’m not sure how to take this. I think I understand what she’s trying to say, and maybe there’s a core of earnestness in there somewhere. But I think she’s also implying that Lennon wasn’t okay until Brett decided he was.

“You and Lennon used to be a thing, huh?”

My body stills. “Who told you that?”

“I just remember seeing you together at school all the time.”

“We were just friends,” I insist. “Nothing else.”

Lie.

One that Summer seems to buy. With a shrug, she says, “I think you guys would make a good couple.”

“No,” I say, and it sounds like a dog barking. “Absolutely not. We aren’t even friends anymore.”

She holds up both hands in surrender. “Hey, I only call ’em like I see ’em. Think about it, Miss Astrology.”

I won’t. And I don’t bother to correct her again—not about her word mix-up or Lennon. It’s true that people at school used to tease us about being best friends—which was often said with a wink and air quotations—and rumors were spread that we were more. That’s precisely one of the reasons we decided to conduct the Great Experiment privately. To avoid gossip at school. Mainly, though, to avoid my dad finding out. Because no way in hell would Diamond Dan allow his daughter to date the son of two heathen women.

Anyway, I don’t know why I care that Summer assumed something was going on between Lennon and me. I think I should be more concerned that Brett told Summer we hooked up. Maybe Summer heard it wrong or made assumptions. She’s making it sound like he was bragging, but I shouldn’t assume the worst. He could have been telling her that he liked me, for all I know.

Anything’s possible. But now I’m self-conscious about my ears flaming up, which makes me want to avoid the entire topic. I discreetly make sure my bob covers the telltale redness and don’t say anything further.

By the time we’ve finished walking the path around our area of the camp, we spot Reagan and the boys lounging at the picnic table between our tents. I’m a little worried Summer might try to tease me about Brett in front of the group, but she just runs to Kendrick, throwing her arms around him and begging for a piggy-back ride. As though the whole conversation about Brett and Lennon is forgotten.

Good.

It’s nearly time for dinner service, so we all decide to trek back up to the lodge. We aren’t the only ones. Small groups of campers are headed in the same direction, and once the pavilion is in sight, we join dozens of other guests. Wineglasses in hand, they mingle on rattan-and–carved wood outdoor furniture overflowing with plush pillows on a massive wraparound deck that overlooks a beautiful rocky valley. Everything is suffused with golden light from the setting sun. It’s photographic. Literally. Brett is breaking out his phone to take pictures as a waiter circulates with a tray of hors d’oeuvres.

Brett whistles. “They must make a killing here.”

“Maybe not,” Kendrick says, eyeing a bar that’s been set up outside the dining area on a side deck, away from the stunning views. “That wine they’re serving isn’t cheap.”

“Think they’ll serve us?” Brett asks with a devious smile.

“That’s the same bartender from last year,” Reagan says, shaking her head. “He’s a dick. I think he’s Candy’s cousin, or something. He’ll probably remember me.”

“I’ll try,” Summer says. “He won’t know me, and I look legal.”

She casually strides to the bar and flashes the bartender a smile. After several seconds of small talk, she turns around and returns empty-handed.

“No way,” Brett says, disappointed. “He wouldn’t do it?”

“You were right, Reagan. He’s a dick,” Summer reports. “Says he was warned by Candy that a group of underage teens had just checked in, and we’re not to be served alcohol.”

“We’ll see about that,” Brett says, and turns to Lennon. “We need a plan to get that wine.”

“I’ll get right on that,” Lennon deadpans.

Brett laughs, either unbothered by Lennon’s sarcasm or not noticing it. Nothing ever seems to bother Brett. He’s always so happy-go-lucky and at ease with his life. I wish I could be more like that.

We trail a group of retirees and investment bankers in catalog-perfect outdoor clothes. Reagan spots a place for us to sit inside the pavilion, and we follow her lead to a large, round table. It’s set with modern-rustic china, and the confusing number of glasses and utensils intimidates me. I’m also sitting between Brett and Lennon, which makes me nervous. It’s exciting to have Brett so close, and he’s pretending to stab my hand with a fork, his mood fun and playful. But I’m self-conscious and trying to play it cool.

And then there’s Lennon. I wish I could just block him out. While Brett’s presence feels light and capricious—he’s moved on to fake-stabbing Reagan, and she’s laughing in that husky voice of hers—Lennon’s feels . . . solid. Weighty. Like I can’t forget that his leg is a few inches from mine. If Brett is Sirius, brighter than anything else in the night sky, Lennon is the moon: often dark and hidden, but closer than any star. Always there.

One after the other, each table is served the first of four courses, which is some sort of zucchini-and-basil soup. Once it’s on the table, I realize how sorry I am that I’ve only had Lennon’s gifted fudge to eat today, and forget all about the silly tableware and practically inhale the soup. I don’t even care if I’m using the correct spoon. The second course is grilled scallops with some sort of fancy sauce and a tiny salad. The scallops smell amazing. I’m all in.

“Someone’s feeling plucky,” Lennon notes, gesturing toward my plate with his knife. “Hive-wise.”

“Scallops are a shellfish with which I’m compatible,” I tell him stoically. Shrimp and crab are iffy, but anything in the mollusk family is low-risk.

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” he says, nodding slowly.

We both eat in silence for several seconds.

Then he asks, “Remember when we had that shrimp scampi?”

“You never forget a trip to the ER.”

I was fifteen, and at the time, Sunday dinner with the Mackenzies was a regular event. It was just takeout, typically, and a movie in the living room. Sunny is the chef of the Mackenzie family; Mac, not so much. So it was a big deal when Mac decided she’d make something from scratch. It turned out pretty good, but for some reason, I had a major allergic reaction. Face swelling up, throat closing, trouble breathing—the works. Mac freaked out and took all the blame. My parents were out to dinner, so Sunny rushed me to the hospital emergency room in her car.