Page 52 of The Beach Trap

“Oof!”

The noise catches me by surprise, and I look up to see Blake through the back window. She’s standing on something, a stool or a chair—we got new cerulean-blue ones—and she’s got one of the kitchen cabinets in her hands.

It looks like she’s struggling, and my LaCroix is almost empty anyway, so I head back inside.

“Need some help?” I ask.

“I’ve got it,” Blake snaps, even though from the looks of things, she most definitely does not “got it.” Her face is bright red; wisps of her blond hair are stuck to her sweaty forehead and clinging to her safety goggles. She’s got one foot on a stool and another on the kitchen counter as she’s trying to hold the freshly painted door at the right angle to drill it to the hinge.

“Let me,” I say, helping anyway. I refuse to let her turn me into the bad guy when I’m perfectly capable of contributing.

“Hold it a little higher and to the left,” she says.

Someone got bossy over the last two decades.

But she’s the one holding the tool, so I comply and stand still while she drills, closing my eyes tight to protect them from the specks of dust. I should get myself a pair of safety goggles like Blake—but cuter, obviously.

It’s too bad no one’s here to snap a picture of us. It would be Worthington gold. Maybe we can re-create the moment when Henry and Sunny are here tomorrow. I’d have to do an outfitchange—I’m going to be wearing an adorable jumpsuit with blue and white stripes and a red belt tomorrow. It’s the perfect outfit for a casual beach bash, but not right for home construction, no matter how light.

“So,” I say, at the same time she says, “Mind holding this one for me, too?”

“Of course not,” I say, reaching for the cabinet door. “Like this?”

“A little to the left,” she says, and I realize this might be the first conversation we’ve had without one of us—usually me—yelling at the other. It’s not awful. Maybe we can have a temporary cease-fire for the holiday.

“Thanks,” she says after she finishes.

“I’m decent at holding things,” I tell her, “but that’s about where my handiness ends.”

Blake laughs, a series of three quick chuckles that takes me back to the two of us sitting on the bottom bunk talking about the boys we wanted to give us the “lip look.”

The ice between us thaws the tiniest bit, and I decide to keep it going. “Got any plans for the Fourth?”

Blake shakes her head, and when her blond hair falls in front of her face, she doesn’t brush it away, hiding from the world. From me. I wonder if she knows that she does that, or if it’s a mindless tic.

Before I can stop myself, I ask, “You aren’t doing something with the guy you’re seeing?”

Her head pops up, sending her hair flying back. “What are you talking about?”

I can’t exactly tell her I was nosing around her Instagram account, so I say the first plausible thing that comes to mind.

“Henry mentioned you’re seeing someone,” I say, gambling on the fact that (A) Blake confided in Henry about her love lifeand (B) she doesn’t know Henry well enough to know the man doesn’t have a gossiping bone in his body.

If he did know, he wouldn’t have told me—he tries to change the subject every time I bring Blake up, except for when he tells me that I’d like her if I gave her a chance.

But that’s the problem—Ididlike her. At one point, I even loved her in that innocent twelve-year-old way.

“He’s out of town,” Blake says, bringing me back to the moment. Her voice sounds sad, and for a brief moment I see a crack in her hard exterior.

For a reason I can’t explain—whether it’s the sentimentality of the holiday, the memory of the friendship we used to have, or Henry’s influence—I say, “You’re welcome to join us, if you want.”

Blake’s eyes widen, like she’s as surprised to receive my invitation as I was to give it.

“Henry and Sunny are coming over,” I tell her. “Nothing big, we’re just going to barbecue—well, Henry is going to barbecue—and we’re going to watch fireworks on the beach.”

“That sounds nice. Thank you.”

I smile, and a silence that’s almost comfortable settles between us. I’m relieved when her phone buzzes. Her sad eyes light up, and I assume it’s a text from Hairy Legs. The mystery guy she apparently told Henry about, not me.

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