“Damian,” the guy behind the bar said. He did some more of that very interesting leaning. I was trying to remember how to swallow.

“I’ll have a vodka cran,” West said through the giggles. “And two beers—an IPA, whatever you’ve got. What about you, Dash? His name’s Dash.”

“Hi, Dash,” Damian said.

My face was hot. Pins and needles ran across my chest. My throat had closed up.

West was dying by now, but he managed to say, “He’ll have a vodka cran too.”

As West started to pat himself down (although God only knew where he could be carrying a wallet), the bartender (Damian, said a treacherous voice in my head) shook his head. “Everything’s comped. Gerry’s picking up the tab.”

He must have understood our confusion because he tipped his head toward the clearing. It took me a moment to recognize Gerry in the flickering firelight—the real estate developer had opted not to wear a costume, and he was in deep conversation with a woman dressed as a luchador.

“Two vodka crans,” Damian said as he set the glasses on the bar. Two bottles of Rock Top’s IPA followed. “And two beers.”

“Thank you,” West sang out. “Say thank you, Dash.”

I managed “Thanks.”

“See you around, kitty cat.”

As we stepped away from the bar, West said in an unnecessarily loud voice, “Oh my God, he is gorgeous! And he’s totally your type!”

My face still felt like it was on fire, but the pins-and-needles sensation faded as we left the palapa and moved into the shadows beyond the fairy lights.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” West said with another giggle. “Now he’s definitely going to come find you.”

I took a gulp of the vodka cran rather than answer—it was good; not ordinarily my drink, but still good.

Either West took pity on me, or he was still focused on his own problems, because he said, “I don’t know what to do. Bobby’s the first guy I’ve ever been in love with. He’s the first guy I’ve ever shared an apartment with. He knows my family; they’re obsessed with him, of course. But I feel like we’ve gone as far as we can in Hastings Rock. Things aren’t…progressing. I keep thinking if we don’t leave—” He stopped, and his voice had an unexpected catch at the end.

The ideal solution, of course, would be to have a bottomless vodka cran, and to keep drinking until I passed out so that I never had to respond to any of this. But I didn’t have a bottomless vodka cran. And West was wiping his eyes again. I drew a deep breath.

“I feel like I need to be totally upfront and tell you I’m terrible at relationships. Like, horrible. So, I don’t really feel like I’m qualified to give advice.”

“You’re my friend,” West said. And then he laughed softly. “Besides, who else am I going to ask? Damian?”

“Definitely do not ask Damian. He looks like one thousand percent trouble.”

“But hot.”

I dodged that one. “I know you said Deputy Bobby isn’t very…communicative, I guess.” And I didn’t say that part of me found that strange, since it always seemed so easy to talk to Deputy Bobby, since it seemed easy to read his expressions—the little furrow between his eyebrows when I’d lost him with an obscure gaming reference, or the way his mouth turned up at the corner when he was trying not to smile, or those times I caught a glimpse of him, and I knew, even though I couldn’t have listed the reasons, that he was happy right then, in that moment. That things were good. “But,” I continued, “I don’t think he’s a liar.”

“God, no. Bobby is definitely not a liar.”

“So, if he’s telling you he loves you and that he wants to be with you and that everything will be okay, then that’s what he believes.”

West sighed, and in a small voice, he said, “I know.”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“I don’t know. I think it might be what he wants to believe. Or what he thinks he believes. I don’t know.” West put his hand on his neck, and in a softer voice he said, “I don’t know.”

“You and Bobby are great together.” When I heard what I’d said, a wave of—I don’t know what to call it: déjà vu, or disorientation, or maybe just a sense of unreality—swept over me. It was like hearing an echo. That was what everyone had told me. You and Hugo are great together. You and Hugo are perfect. You and Hugo are such a good match. And hearing those words come out of my mouth made me feel like I’d stepped off solid ground. I fumbled for words and managed to add, “You’re going to figure it out.” And then, even though it was like cutting off my own arm, I said, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the move is exactly what you need.”

West took a few deep breaths. Then he said, “Thanks, Dash,” and kissed my cheek. It ought to have set off all my peopling alarms—CODE RED! CODE RED! PHYSICAL PROXIMITY AND EMOTIONS AND TOUCHING!—but I was surprised that it felt…fine. Sweet, actually. Because West was my friend, even if—

I cut off that thought. And then I buried it.

“I guess we should be getting back,” West said. Then he giggled again. “Bobby is going to lose his mind when Damian tracks you down.”

Before I could ask what that meant—not that I wanted to know, not that I had any interest in why Deputy Bobby might have such a strong reaction to a guy, an admittedly hot guy, a guy with muscles that were like, everywhere (I mean, did you know you could have muscles in your back?) who happened to want to, um, talk to me (although I suspected that with Damian, not much talking would be involved)—West started walking, and I hurried to catch up.

When we got back to Deputy Bobby and Fox, Millie and Keme had returned, and the four of them were engaged in conversation with the woman in the luchador costume. She carried her mask under one arm, and she looked familiar—she had a long, almost overdeveloped jaw that gave her a distinctive look. Her boyishly short hair was threaded with silver, and she had crow’s feet, but otherwise, she looked like she was in her twenties: a hard, muscular body that looked strong from being used in the real world rather than from hours in a gym.

“A beer for you,” West said as he handed one of the Rock Tops to Deputy Bobby.

“Thank you,” Deputy Bobby said with a small smile, as he slipped an arm around West’s waist.

West passed the second bottle to Fox. “And one for you.”

“Bless you, my child.”

“Sorry, Millie,” I said. “I thought you and Keme were still off partying.”

“Oh, it’s okay,” she said. “I don’t really like drinking. I’ll probably just have a Coke. Sometimes I have just one beer and I feel SO SLEEPY.”

The woman in the luchador costume rocked slightly on her heels; apparently, she’d never been in Millie’s blast zone before.

Gesturing with his beer to the luchador, Deputy Bobby said, “Jen was just telling us that Keme’s going to do some part-time instruction once the camp is up and running.”

Keme was actually, honest-to-God grinning. I gave him a thumbs-up, and his grin immediately changed to a scowl.

“And he’ll be full-time once he’s eighteen,” Jen said. Her voice was deeper than I expected, and for a moment, I wondered if she might be trans. As though she’d heard the thought, she said, “You have no idea how hard it is to find surf instructors who aren’t raging homophobes and transphobes.”

“Really?” West looked at Deputy Bobby. “You never told me that.”

“It’s not really an issue here,” he said.

Jen shook her head. “It’s an issue pretty much everywhere else. Lots of toxic masculinity—they’re not too keen on women surfing either, by the way. Lots of machismo. Lots of aggression. And like I said, the homophobia and transphobia are off the charts.”

“But this cute guy just tried to pick up Dash,” West said. “And Bobby’s been surfing for ages.”

Deputy Bobby gave me a crooked smile that I couldn’t quite read. And then, to my surprise, he reached out and flicked my cat ears.

“Let me guess,” Jen said with a mock groan. “Damian?”

West burst out laughing.