"You're doing it wrong."

Nicholai's glare pierces through the heat beating down on our shoulders, the salty breeze ruffling his dark hair. I ignore him, flicking another line out into the sea far below our feet.

"How are you so good at this?" He's fiddling with the fishing pole again, tangling the line around his fingers.

Memories nip at my heels. Long hours spent here with the twins, our toes tangled in discarded fishing line, fingers sticky with ice cream. And later, years later, more hours spent in this very same spot, watching the sun dip below the horizon, Larissa's head cradled against my shoulder. 

An infinite, perfect moment.

But all I say is, "It's in the wrist."

Grumbling, Nicholai reaches for the tacklebox between us. "We're out of bait." He delivers this news as though it's some devastating blow.

I analyze him out of the corner of my eye. The pink, sunkissed flush creeping across his cheekbones. White t-shirt sticking to his overheated skin. Legs swinging over the edge of the pier. He looks a lifetime away from the man in the gray suit who spun me around a lavish salon, reduced to no more than a boy eager to catch his first fish. 

"Wait here." I hand him the fishing pole we rented at the tackle shop earlier that morning, before the sun was hot on our backs and the air thick with humidity. He tosses his aside and accepts the new offering eagerly, reeling in the line with a little too much gusto.

"Slow and steady," I warn him, pedaling backward.

He lifts his middle finger in reply.

Laughing, I pad barefoot down the pier. The tackle shop across the road is saltworn and rundown, but it's got a fantastic selection of gear for rent. I finger the bills in my pocket as I shoulder my way inside, a little bell tinkling overhead to signal my arrival. Wooden floorboards creak underfoot as I slip to the back of the shop, but it's a small space. 

Too small to avoid making eye contact with the guy behind the shop's sand-blasted counter.

I recognize him immediately. Keith. Or maybe it's Kyle.

I'm the first to look away, breaking the awkward spell of silence between us. Maybe it's better that I don't know his name.

It's enough to know he's the one Larissa fucked behind my back, shattering my heart and every good memory we'd ever made in this place.

I hurriedly gather more bait, distracted now. There's a girl the next aisle over with an apron just like Kyle's; I catch a glimpse of a dark braid and square-rimmed glasses, and I almost ask if she'll take mercy on me and meet me at the counter so I can avoid Keith or Kyle or whatever the fuck his name is, but that would be ridiculous and I can barely stomach the thought, so I head to the front, arms full of bait and head low, and mumble vague pleasantries at checkout. To his credit, Keith (I'm going with Keith) doesn't seem to know who I am, or maybe he does and he's just trying to be polite. It's not his fault Larissa cheated, I tell myself over and over again.

Easy to say. Harder to swallow.

I'm so in my own head about him that I nearly knock into a passing runner on my way out of the tackle shop. I see a flash of canary yellow shoes. Recognition washes through me, but Mr. Yellow Shoes doesn't once look back.

Sighing, I cradle the bag of bait to my chest and rejoin a scowling Nicholai on the pier. "The fish aren't going to bite with you glaring at them like that," I inform him, tossing the brown paper bag into his lap.

His scowl deepens as he considers the churning water below. "One fish," he vows. "I just want to catch one fish."

I watch him reel in the line. "What item is this?" I ask calmly. Already knowing the answer.

Twelve, I think to myself.

"Twelve," he mutters, as expected.

I nod. Twelve. Learn how to fish @ the Manhattan Beach Pier. July 2. 10:30 AM.

I have the damn thing memorized because the list is the only reason we're here, the only reason I have any excuse at all to be with him. These stolen moments have become my obsession. 

It's not healthy. It just is.

"Learn how to fish," I recite unnecessarily. He knows the list as well as I do. Better, even. 

I try not to sound too bitter that this—the two of us here, today, sharing the sun and sky and salty air—is just another ticked box on a list of things Nicholai has to accomplish over the summer.

That's what he's paying you for, I remind myself, but my mind wanders to those ragged minutes in the car, the way my name sounded as it broke from his mouth. This is about the list. Once that business is done, so is everything else.

Which is why I should be enjoying these moments. Not watching them go by like some sour, bitter old witch.

Nicholai's fingers graze my cheek, bringing me back to the present, back to him. "Where did you go?"

I blink. "Right here." As if to prove it, I help him bait the hook pinched between his unsure fingers and order him to cast out to a patch of rippling water.

Almost instantly, as if to mock my decision to savor what little time we have left to us, the line snaps taut. "I got one!" Nicholai gasps.

Reeling in his catch is an exercise in patience, but eventually he stands, triumphant, a silver fish the length of his forearm dangling from the line tangled around his fist. "Ha!" he crows. And then, after a long, satisfied pause: "Now what?"

The now what involves another trip to the tackle shop and a styrofoam box filled with ice. Nicholai lugs the thing around like a trophy, all smug superiority as we follow the curve of the beach, heading back to the Dive.

Unsurprisingly, Chester is waiting for us in the parking lot when we arrive. "Your chariot awaits," I deadpan, hesitating on my way to a cold shower and the comfort of my bed.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. What am I waiting for? A goodbye kiss?

"Hold on," Nicholai orders, trotting over to the car. He ducks inside, presumably to ditch his prize. I'm surprised when he emerges with a flat box under one arm and an envelope clutched in his hand.

He saunters toward the bar. "You're the one with the keys," he calls over his shoulder.

Puzzled, but secretly delighted he hasn't left yet, I shoot a quick glance at Chester's expressionless face through the windshield before trotting ahead of Nicholai to grab the door. We slip into the air conditioning, a relief after the relentless heat on the pier.

"Amara."

A shiver of excitement runs down my spine. Ridiculous. I turn to Nicholai, trying not to think about how very sweaty I am right now. "Yes?"

He holds out the envelope. "For you."

Frowning, I take it. My eyes widen when I see what's inside. 

Cash. Cold, hard, cash.

"Nicholai—"

"We're halfway through the list, thanks to your expertise," he tells me, completely at ease. "That's half of what's owed. To keep your...friend off your back."

Half of what's owed. 

Nicholai is here to honor his end of the bargain. Of course he is. Of course...

I curl the envelope closer to my chest, ignoring the fissure cracking painfully through the center of my chest. I want to thank him. And I want to bolt upstairs, lock the door, and hide in bed forever. Instead, all that comes out is a rather inelegant, "Um..."

"Don't think you're off the hook for the rest," he says, shooting me a breathtaking grin as he holds out the box tucked under his arm. "I still need you."

And don't I just hate what those words do to the useless heart chugging along in my chest. Swallowing, I take the box, letting curiosity win out over everything else. "What is it?"

"A little something for Friday night."

I just stare at him. "Friday night?"

"It's the Fourth of July."

"Okay," I say slowly. Where is he going with this? I think of the list, but I'm almost positive there was nothing about the holiday.

"We've got plans," he tells me. After looking at my befuddled expression for a long moment, he adds, "Unless..."

"No," I interject. "I mean, yes. That works. I don't have any plans. But what—"

The uncertainty in his eyes vanishes as his grin widens. "Let's keep it a surprise."

"Nicholai," I complain.

"Bring a bathing suit," he tells me, already backing toward the door. "I'm quite partial to the one you wore to the beach..."

My face flames at the memory. "But where are we going?"

Of course he doesn't answer. He disappears through the door before I can really ramp up my protests. And then I sigh.

There's no point in arguing. The flush under my skin is proof enough that I won't say no to him.

Not again.