The Bucket List

11.1 The Apartment

Black clouds gather on the horizon, threatening rain. But that didn't stop TJ from breaking out the tackle box. He's made himself quite at home on the Dive's shoddy dock, a fishing pole in one hand and a beer in the other.

He tosses me a grin over his shoulder as I approach, wooden planks creaking underfoot. "I come bearing gifts," I tell him, indicating the pack of beer tucked under my arm.

"That'll do."

I lower myself down next to him and dangle my legs over the edge of the dock.

"Long time, no see," TJ jokes, bumping his shoulder against mine.

I shift, a hundred miniscule splinters digging into my bare skin. "I just saw you last night." I yawn, emphasizing the point. "You think ole Ronda's ever gonna give it a rest?"

"As long as the men are young and the beer is cheap...no." TJ grins and gives the fishing pole a flick, sending another line out into the bay. I watch the cork bob against the waves, disappearing and reappearing with the tide.

"So." TJ casts me a sidelong look as he brings a bottle to his lips. "This deal of yours. How's it going?"

I shrug, staring down at my toes. "It's going."

"You'd tell me if you needed help. Right?"

This is the part where I say why yes, of course. Instead, I say, "You worry too much."

"I worry just enough, thank you," he insists, affronted. I grin, gazing out over the water. His next words are softer. Uncertain. "Gabby misses you."

Guilt worms its way into my chest. "I owe her a girl's night. This deal...it isn't forever, you know. I just have to survive the summer."

"Emphasis on survive," TJ mutters.

I elbow him in the ribs. "Hey."

"Kidding." He puts down his beer and twists a strand of my hair around his index finger. "Sort of."

He doesn't push further. Doesn't prod. And really, that's why I love him. I lean back on my hands, lifting my face skyward to soak in the sunshine. Soon enough, the clouds overhead will chase us inside. And this moment—this simple, perfect moment—will end.

But not yet. Not yet.

# # #

The car pulling up to the curb is unfamiliar to me, with its tinted windows and sleek black wheels, but I know who it belongs to immediately.

The passenger door opens, and I slip out from underneath the shelter of the bus stop. Water instantly pelts my skin, my dress. I duck inside the car, cursing.

The rain has come.

"You're late," I accuse, turning to find Nicholai gazing at me with that insufferable smile.

"You're soaking," he murmurs suggestively.

"And your innuendos are getting less and less subtle. Drive."

I relax against the leather seat as he merges into traffic, thoroughly soaked through—just as he observed. Goosebumps erupt along my arms and thighs as the air conditioning kicks into overdrive. I shiver.

"Cold?" He presses a button and hot air blasts against my toes.

"Thanks." I cross my arms. It's too late to regret leaving the blazer at the apartment. An extra layer would've been nice in this downpour. "What's on the agenda today?"

He makes a face, a crease forming between his eyes. "Apartment hunting."

"Hold on." I blink, stupefied. "You're telling me you don't have an apartment."