Page 128 of The Long Way Home
Lexi nods. “It’s charged and waterproof.”
“Unlike Wes’s phone,” Connor says, earning a middle finger from Wes, who’s still rubbing sleep from his face.
“Okay,” Anderson announces, slipping his phone into his pocket. “We’re set. Noon pick-up at the dock. We’ll have the boat for four hours. They’re throwing in some floats and a lily pad thing.”
“I don’t know what that is, but I’m in,” Slone says.
“It’s like a floating mat,” I explain. “You can lie on it or run across it until someone inevitably knocks you into the water.”
“Sounds dangerous. Love that for us,” Wes says.
Everyone scatters after that. Some head upstairs to change, some to help pack snacks and towels. I stay back in the kitchen, putting the coffee stuff away. Rachel lingers by the counter, slicing some strawberries with a small paring knife.
“Do you always wake up early?” she asks, not looking at me.
“Force of habit,” I say, watching her. “Firehouse life, I guess. Even when I’m off, my brain still thinks I need to be up and moving at six.”
“Well, thanks for making coffee. Seriously.”
“You already said that, Sunny,” I say gently, offering a half-smile.
Rachel finally looks up, eyes catching mine.
“I know,” she says. “Just wanted you to know I mean it.”
Before I can respond, Margo calls her name from the other room, asking something about sunscreen. Rachel sets the knife down and walks away, her shoulder brushing mine as she passes.
By the time the clock edges toward noon, the cabin turns into a chaotic flurry of sunscreen, coolers, towels and half-zipped bags. Everyone comes downstairs in waves, dressed for the lake.
“I call shotgun with Wes,” Slone announces, tossing her bag over her shoulder.
“You just want control of the aux,” Wes grumbles, but doesn’t fight her on it.
“I earned it,” she says, already sliding into the front seat of one of the SUVs.
I help Anderson and Connor load the coolers into the back of his car while Margo double-checks that the speaker, the snacks and the SPF 50 are accounted for.
Rachel is the last to step out of the house.
I can’t stop myself from studying her, though I fight the impulse to linger too long. The white cover-up drapes over her frame, loose and semi-sheer, cinched carelessly at the waist. Sunglasses rest atop her head, and her braid has already started to soften at the edges, stray strands curling in the humidity.
She catches my gaze and arches an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, too fast.
I have always loved the views from this house, but she might be my favorite.
Once we’re all outside, we split into two cars and take the long, winding road toward the marina. The lake comes into view slowly at first, glimpses between the trees, teasing. Then suddenly, it’s there all at once, wide and glittering under the early afternoon sun.
It looks like something out of a postcard—calm, green-blue water cradled by steep, wooded hills. Shorelines alternate between jagged rock and soft sand. Private docks jut out from hidden coves, little secrets waiting for discovery. Somehow, time slows the minute you get near it.
By the time we pull into the gravel parking lot at the marina, the sun is high, heat pressing down. Everyone sweats as we haul bags down the dock, shifting on tired feet, waiting for the rental guy to finish his checklist.
“Oh, I also rented a Jet Ski, if anyone’s interested,” Anderson calls.
I catch Rachel’s reaction immediately. Her eyes light up, a grin spreading across her face. She loves riding a damn Jet Ski, loves the speed, the spray of water, the way it makes her feel untamed.
I feel a swell in my chest just watching her. I hope the water lets her be herself again, even if just for a few hours, wild and unstoppable.
