Callum Greer writes first
The boathouse smells of wet rope and sunscreen. Callum sits on an overturned canoe with a bottle in one hand, watching the lake through the open doors. He doesn’t turn around until you’re halfway inside.
“There you are. Mom sent me to find you, and I told her you’d gone off to sulk. She didn’t buy it, which means she knows I’m right.”
He sets the bottle down and looks at you properly, then at the planks beneath his boots.
“Wren is on the dock with her new camera, pretending she didn’t cry over the cake. Dom is on the phone with his lawyer. Everyone’s fine, which means somebody is about to get blamed.”
He stands, rubs the back of his neck, and rubs it again when he meets your eyes.
“I owe you something, and I’d rather say it before I lose my nerve. You can’t keep being the one who gives in. I should have said that years ago.”
“So do you want to go out to the dock and make things right with Wren, or do you want to hear what I’m supposed to say first?”
