Cass backs the car into a spot with relatively low sand. We all get out.

Viv is standing near the water, arms hugging her chest, ponytail flipping in the wind, looking out at the distant islands.

The sky’s clear enough tonight that it seems as though you could reach out and touch them. Viv doesn’t turn and see me.

Manny comes up beside her, bumps her shoulder with his elbow, and hands her one of those generic “get smashed fast”

red plastic cups. He walks back up the beach, catches sight of us, cocks his head a bit at the arm Cass has draped over my shoulder. “Nice shirt,” he mutters as he passes me.

It’s one of Cass’s oxfords, loose and knotted at my waist, a flash of stomach over my rolled-up jeans. Not a look I would have tried before.

If I remember right, Manny was the one who welcomed Cass to the island because of his yard boy status. Now the causeway can’t go both ways?

I head over to the cooler, pick up a beer I don’t care about.

No sign of Nic or Hoop.

“Who’s the short fat dude, Sundance?”

“Manny. Good guy. Relax, Spence.” Cass grabs my hand, an aside to me. “Don’t let him get to you. He’s in douchebag mood today.”

“You two are sweet together,” Spence offers unexpectedly, sounding oddly sincere. “Nauseating as that is.”

I mouth, “Is he drunk?”

Cass shakes his head. “It’s not that.”

“Feelin’ sorry for myself, Castle. Just do it, Sundance. Cut me loose. Go back to Hodges.”

“I’m not that guy,” Cass says so firmly—convincing Spence?

Or himself? “Forget it for tonight. Let’s just relax.”

For a while, relaxing works pretty well. Pam has the music cranking, good mix of old and new. It’s a warm night and the sky is filled with a gold that rims the corners of the clouds, and shafts of pinkish light that slant down to the water. The charcoal heats up, the sweet burnt smell singeing our noses.

Cass and I are adding ketchup and mustard to our hot dogs when I see Nic, standing on the pathway that runs from the parking lot to the beach, staring at us, hands balled in his pockets.

Hoop stands behind him, a small, badly dressed, angry shadow.

Nic’s white-faced and stormy-looking, all his features fro-zen, angry, as though he’s watching a nightmare come true.

“Yo, trouble at high noon,” Spence tells Cass, scrolling mustard over his own hot dog so vigorously that the Gulden’s squirts all over the sand.

“Don’t make it worse,” Cass says, shoving a napkin at Spence.

But immediately, it’s worse.

It starts with Nic doing that slow clap-clap thing, guaran-teed to annoy anyone. “Nice job, guys. Snagging both captain and cocaptain. What do they call that? A coup? Nice coup.”

Cass doesn’t say anything, focused on his hot dog. Spence is quiet too.

Nic walks over, chin raised. “Nice coup,” he says again.

“You don’t get it, man,” is all Cass says.

“No?” Nic asks.

“No. This is no preferential thing,” Cass starts. Vivie walks up then. Cass glances at her, back at Nic. “These last months . . .

this whole last year . . . swim drills were all about you, Nicolas Cruz. Nothing about teamwork. You don’t seem to know what that means. If you deserved to be captain or cocaptain, you’d be lining up behind us. Not acting like this.”

“That’s bullshit,” Nic says. “We all know there’s a fucking I in team. You’re not swimming to make me look good. We’re all after I. So I’m just gonna say it. I need this, Somers. You don’t.

Channing? Forget it.”

“You want us to feel sorry for you now? I do. Sundance does,” Spence offers. “Because this West Side Story, us-against-them crap and your shitty attitude is what keeps you stuck, Cruz. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“You’re lecturing me?” Nic shouts. “You’re telling me to be fucking satisfied with what I’ve got? That’s rich. You’re the one who has to take everything.”

Viv has her hand over her mouth. Spence steps forward, shoulders square. Cass grabs his arm.

Dom, Pam, Shaunee, Manny are moving away from the fire toward us now, attention snagged. Hooper assumes roughly the same stance behind Nic as Cass has behind Spence, but without the restraining hand. His is raised, placating. Or just unsure what’s going on.

“Be honest with yourself. At least. I haven’t taken a thing from you that you deserved to have,” Spence says calmly. Cass yanks him back a little, jerking him to the side.

“Stop talking, Spence,” he says.

Instead, Spence takes another step forward, pulling out of Cass’s grip. “You don’t deserve any of it,” he repeats to Nic.

“Nothing, anything. And not her.”

Nic’s fist shoots out so fast it’s a blur and Spence’s head snaps to the left. He staggers back for a second. We watch him stumble—a surreal, slow-mo movie. Nic charges forward, eyes blazing. Ready to hit him again. Cass moves in between them, fending Nic off with a forearm to his chest and grabbing Spence’s arm tightly, yanking it back.

Vivien brushes past me. I try to clutch at her—don’t want her to get in the way of Nic. He doesn’t seem to be seeing straight. But instead of hurrying to him, she’s wiping at the blood gushing from Spence’s nose with one hand, the other cupped around the back of his head.

Nic stares at them, blinking as though he’s just woken up, then shakes off Cass’s arm, backing toward the parking lot.

“I’m good, don’t worry about me,” Spence assures Vivien.

Spence is assuring Vivien?

“You’re hurt,” she says, her voice cracking.

“Flesh wound,” Spence tells her. And he smiles at her in a way I’ve never seen Spence smile at anyone. “Don’t. God, Viv.

Don’t cry. Please. You know that kills me.”

Hooper and I are gaping at them, as is pretty much every else.

“Yeah,” Nic says. “This is just . . . Just . . . well . . . fuck this.”

He turns around, scrubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, starts to walk away.

“Holy shit,” Hoop says.

“Go after him, Gwen,” calls Vivien, still wiping away blood.