As we descend onto the wooden deck, we both abandon our illusion of normalcy and race for the chair. It’s sitting along the far side of the square deck, its soft, thick cushion the lone pop of color in a string of hard, white plastic lounge chairs. The unicorn chair, as I like to call it. The one comfy, padded lounge chair. A mystical, magical chair amongst a sea of cheap plastic ones. I hip-check Asher and twist toward it, but he lunges from behind me, throwing an arm around my waist.
“Let me go,” I grunt, trying to pull away, my feet kicking at his ankles. But he pulls me tight to his chest and twists us. And then I’m falling. I’m free-falling, until I’m in his lap, on top of the lounge chair. I twist this way and that.
“How much do you hate me right now?” The words whisper against my neck and send a shiver up my spine.
“Hard nine,” I say through gritted teeth, and his chest shakes against me in unreleased laughter. “Let. Me. Go.”
“Gladly,” he says, loosening his arm and reclining back onto the plush green pad.
I stand there for a minute, staring down at him, his head tipped back, eyes closed, laid out on the unicorn chair like a summer prince. At his long, tan legs stretched out in front of him, and the messy golden brown hair that skirts across his forehead. Asher has a swimmer’s body. Broad shoulders, slim waist. Lean muscles I wish I could look at without scowling. But I can’t, because Asher Marin is the absolute worst. And by the end of summer, I’m going to make him regret all of the summers that came before this one. All of the pranks and the snarky comments. It doesn’t matter who started this between us so long ago, because this summer I’m going to finish it.
I’m about to lay my towel on one of the hard plastic monstrosities on the opposite side of the little deck, but then stop. Asher may have speed and brute strength to his advantage, but I’m more patient. He’s a bomb, but I’m a sniper’s bullet.
“Enjoy your chair,” I say, a smile on my face. Then I turn and walk back toward the houses. I veer a little once I get to the top of the stairs, letting him wonder which house I’m going to and what I’ll do there. He can’t see me now; I’m blocked by the hedge of wild bushes that grow along the top of the hill. Let him get used to not knowing where I’m headed—because what I have planned for him this summer? He’ll never see it coming.
Asher
There’s a one-in-four chance Sidney Walters is going to murder me someday. Except no one will ever suspect her, because she’d be neurotic enough to make a checklist—or ten—and cover all of her bases. Sidney would do research (probably annotated) on how to hide my body. She’s been researching it for the last ten months, for all I know. Maybe since we were thirteen and started vacationing together here.
Even though Sidney’s favorite part of summer is screwing with me, she looks innocent. Like now; she is almost certainly about to soak all of my underwear in sugar water (that attracts ants and other bugs, in case you were wondering) or lace my body wash with something only detectable by dogs. And when the neighborhood Chihuahuas start trailing me through town she won’t even bat an eye.
It’s also possible she goes after my food—there was the time she used a syringe to put vinegar in the grapefruit I ate every morning. Total serial killer move, right? Sadly, Sidney could walk right into our cabin with a fistful of syringes and a backpack full of hair remover, and my mom wouldn’t blink an eye. She’d probably offer her a cup of coffee and ask how her senior year had gone before sending her on her way with a smile. Because Sidney Walters is a proverbial ray of sunshine—with everyone but me. Awesome, very likable (if I do say so myself) me.
I fought for this chair—threw half of my oatmeal away for it—so I’m sure as hell going to sit in it. Leaving now would be admitting fear, which is as good as admitting defeat when it comes to Sidney. I close my eyes, put on my headphones, and try to listen to the beats of my favorite song. But my mind keeps