“So, do more,” she says, just like that. And then she’s water-blasting me right in my eyes.

“Oh, now it’s on,” I say, returning the favor.

Both of us are soaked in seconds.

But mid-water-fight, Autumn nudges me. I follow her gaze and my wingman heart soars. Bri and Q, who’d already been holding hands and walking along the beach, have now paused under the pale moonlight to eat each other’s faces off.

I nearly shout, go, Q! But I summon willpower I didn’t know I had.

“Aww, they’re cute,” Autumn says.

But it only makes me question the Universe’s decision-making.

Because how can the beach be an end and a beginning?

We scavenge for branches and dry wood. Handfuls of the tall wild grass that grows alongside the embankment.

Drop our collection into a pile that somehow Bri turns into a fire.

“Girl Scout troop leader, what can I say,” she says, winking.

We wheel a cooler from Bri’s car, and a giant plastic bowl of cut-up fruit materializes, is passed around and scooped into paper cups. I toss a grape at Q, but he ducks and I hit Bri instead.

And then it’s on.

Grapes of wrath.

Grapes of rafts!

Okay, okay, damn, forget I said it.

Bri holds up a bottle of wine, looks at Q and me as if to say is it cool?

Q nods his consent and then we’re sip, sip, passing.

The wine warm in my belly.

Sea wind warming my cheeks.

The fire jabbing left and right, dancing, dancing.

Autumn’s fingers interlaced in mine, moon on her shoulders, her neck, her lips.

And I can’t imagine a better place than here, now.

Autumn decides to check on her grandma and then Bri steps away to answer a call from Ciara, and I shoot Q a look like maybe we should go. But he’s not close to ready.

“How about we walk a bit,” I suggest.

“I live for long, romantic walks on the beach,” he says, hopping up and swatting sand from his pants.

We amble down the beach, toward the now-closed amusement park, its million colorful bulbs reduced to soft white and pasty orange, just bright enough to prevent planes or birds from crashing into the coasters.

“Q . . .”

“This the part where you tell me you’re sorry again? That you’re trying to make up for lost time?”

I shake my head. “This is the part where I tell you I love you, man,” I say. Because that’s what you say on a night like this. And okay, maybe I’m feeling the wine more than I realize.

“I love you, too, man,” he says back without hesitation.

“No, but I really love you.”

“Okay, bro,” he laughs. “Same.”

“I don’t want to live in a world you aren’t in,” I hear myself say. Which, I think, okay, easy, J. Easy. Be careful here.