Chapter 50

Finally, session 3 is done, campers left early in the morning, and its time for our cottage party.

The second we pull up, I know this is going to be a mistake.

Music is already blasting from inside the cottage. Someone’s yelling on the dock. There are lights strung through the trees, half of them flickering like they were put up five minutes ago.

“…Oh my god,” Emily breathes, grinning. “…This is going to be insane.”

“…We’re not getting sleep,” Caitlyn adds.

“…We’re not trying to get sleep,” Annabelle corrects.

I laugh, grabbing my bag, stepping out into the warm night air. The lake stretches out behind the cottage, black and glassy, reflecting bits of light from the shore.

It smells like summer.

Like alcohol.

Like bad decisions.

“…Kennedyyy!” someone shouts—Reid, already halfway gone, running over and nearly tackling me into a hug.

“…Hi—okay—wow, you’re drunk already,” I laugh.

“…Pre-gamed,” he says proudly.

“…Of course you did.”

Inside is worse.

Or better.

Depends how you look at it.

Music shaking the floors, people dancing in the kitchen, someone yelling over a card game in the corner, bottles everywhere.

Tanner’s on the couch, Noah is arguing about something dumb, Kallie is already laughing so hard she can barely stand.

And then—

I see her.

Quinn.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, red cup in hand, hoodie gone, just an oversized t-shirt and shorts. Hair messy, cheeks already a little flushed.

She’s laughing at something Sam said—

and then her eyes find mine.

And something shifts.

Not sharp like before.

Not tense.

Just—

slow.

Heavy.

“…Oh,” Emily mutters beside me. “…This is going to be interesting.”

“…Shut up,” I whisper.

I look away first.

Of course I do.

Later

I don’t know how many drinks in I am.

Three?

Four?

More?

Everything’s warmer.

Looser.

Louder.

I’m sitting on the dock now, feet in the water, laughing at something Annabelle said five minutes ago that probably wasn’t even that funny.

“…You’re gone,” she tells me.

“…I’m not gone,” I say, slurring slightly. “…I’m just… vibing.”

“…You’re gone,” she repeats.

I grin, leaning back on my hands.

The sky is spinning just a little.

“…You always get like this?” a voice says behind me.

I don’t have to turn around.

“…Quinn,” I mumble, smiling a little. “…Hi.”

She drops down beside me, closer than necessary, shoulder knocking into mine.

“…Hi,” she echos, voice lower than usual—rougher, looser.

I glance at her.

Her eyes are darker like this.

Messier.

“…You’re drunk,” I say.

“…Yeah,” she admits easily. “…So are you.”

“…A little.”

She laughs under her breath.

“…A little?” she repeats. “…Kennedy, you can barely sit straight.”

“…I’m sitting fine,” I protest, immediately leaning too far to one side.

Her hand comes out automatically—steadying me at my arm.

We both freeze.

It lingers.

“…Careful,” she murmurs, voice softer now. “…Wouldn’t want you falling.”

“…You’d catch me,” I say without thinking.

Her grip tightens slightly.

Not pulling away.

“…Yeah,” she says quietly. “…I would.”

Something about that—

the way she say sit—

I look at her again.

Too long this time.

“…You’ve been avoiding me,” she says suddenly.

I blink. “…You’ve been avoiding me.”

“…No, I haven’t.”

“…Yeah, you have.”

She huffs, shaking her head slightly, curls falling into her eyes.

“…We’re really doing this right now?”

“…Maybe,” I say, shrugging lazily. “…Maybe I’m drunk enough to not care.”

She laughs.

But it’s quieter now.

“…You’re so annoying,” she mutters.

“…You like it.”

“…Yeah,” she admits, without hesitation. “…I do.”

That lands.

Harder than it should.

The music drifts from the cottage behind us.

Voices. Laughter.

But out here—

it’s quieter.

Closer.

“…You looked good today,” she says suddenly.

I blink. “…What?”

She shrugs, like it’s nothing.

“…At the dock. You—uh—yeah.”

“…You’re so bad at compliments,” I laugh.

“…Shut up,” she mumbles, bumping her shoulder into mine.

“…No, seriously,” I grin. “…That was terrible.”

“…You’re terrible.”

“…You’re drunk.”

“…So are you.”

We’re both smiling now.

Too much.

Too easy.

And then—

she leans closer.

Not all the way.

Just enough.

“…You know what your problem is?” she murmurs.

“…What?”

“…You think you can just—” she gestures vaguely between us, “…do all that… and not deal with it.”

“…All what?” I whisper.

Her eyes flick to my lips.

Then back up.

“…That,” she says.

My heart stutters.

Even drunk.

“…Maybe I don’t want to deal with it,” I murmur.

“…Too bad,” she says softly. “…I do.”

And then—

she kisses me.

It’s not smooth.

Not planned.

It’s messy.

We both miss slightly at first, laughing against each other’s mouths, hands grabbing onto whatever they can—my arm, her shirt, balance slipping.

“…Wait—” I mumble, laughing—

But then it lands.

And everything else just—

blurs.

It’s clumsy and warm and a little desperate, like neither of us is fully in control. Her hand comes up to my jaw, not steady, just… there, grounding, pulling me closer like she doesn’t want me to move.

“…You’re—” she starts, words slurring against my lips.

“…You’re worse,” I mumble back.

She laughs into the kiss.

It’s not slow.

Not careful.

Just—

too much and not enough at the same time.

We pull apart, barely.

Foreheads knocking together.

“…This is a bad idea,” I whisper.

“…Yeah,” she breathes.

We don’t move away.

“…We should stop.”

“…Yeah.”

We don’t.

And then someone yells from the cottage—

“…SHOTSSS!”

We both flinch.

Start laughing again.

“…We’re so drunk,” I say.

“…So drunk,” she agrees.

She stands—almost falls—grabs my arm to pull me up with her.

“…Come on,” she says, grinning now. “…Don’t die on the dock.”

“…No promises.”

We stumble back together.

Not touching.

But not far apart either.

And by the time the night fully swallows us again—

music, noise, drinks—

It already feels like something that might not be real.

The next morning

My head is pounding.

“…Oh my god,” I groan, face buried in a pillow that is definitely not mine.

Voices murmur somewhere nearby.

Someone laughs.

The smell of coffee drifts through the air.

I sit up slowly.

Bad idea.

“…Water,” I mumble.

“…Same,” someone says across the room.

I glance up—

Quinn.

Sitting on the floor, back against the wall, hair a disaster, sunglasses on indoors.

“…You look like death,” I tell her.

“…You are death,” she replies.

We both groan.

A pause.

“…Last night was… a lot,” she says slowly.

“…Yeah,” I agree.

Silence.

“…I don’t really remember all of it,” I admit.

“…Same.”

Another pause.

Longer.

Then—

a flicker.

A dock.

Laughter.

Her hand on my arm.

My stomach drops.

“…Wait,” I say.

She looks up.

“…Did we—”

She freezes.

“…Oh,” she says.

And just like that—

it hits.

Not blurry anymore.

Not vague.

Real.

And suddenly—

neither of us is laughing.