“First lesson—like the jab. Why are you to blame? Some of the time, sure. We all screw up. But every time it’s you? That’s bullshit and it’s annoying.”

“I’d be the one saying or doing it. I’d forget to be careful, and something would slip. Then I’d be an oddity instead of a person. Or at least an oddity as well as a person. And I’d feel their feelings shift away.”

“That’s on them. I’d say picking the wrong guy’s on you, but you’ve got to try a few on to see what fits. So, maybe you should try him on. You’re no oddity to any of us, and certainly not to Bran.”

“This doesn’t seem like the time to . . . try anyone on.”

“More bullshit. We could lose. I don’t intend to, but you’ve got to factor it in. Do you want to go out not knowing? Think about it,” she said as she heard bootsteps approach. “And cut yourself—and from where I’m standing him—a break.”

* * *

She could think about it, Sasha decided. She wasn’t sure which brought more stress. Thinking about being with Bran or thinking about riding in an inflatable boat, then diving under the water. They both gave her the jitters.

After breakfast, eaten in shifts, she packed sunscreen, an extra shirt, her sketch pad. Then stopped stalling and went to Bran’s terrace doors.

He glanced up from studying the contents of one of his cases.

“Ready, are you? I’m nearly.”

“I wanted to—to thank you. I found the little bag, the charm, under my pillow. And this.” She touched the necklace.

“They helped?”

“They helped.”

“This.” He stepped over, tapped one of the stones on the necklace. “Cobbled together a bit hastily.”

“I like it. I wanted to give you this.” Taking the leap, she opened her bag, and the sketchbook, to take out the sketch she’d laid inside.

His easy smile faded; his eyes sharpened as he took it. “When did you draw this?”

“Before I met you. It was one of the strongest dreams, recurring. I even painted it, felt I had to. I know things can be changed. A different choice, a different outcome. At least some of the time. And I realized by not showing you, I wasn’t giving you that choice.”

“And what of your choice?”

“I made mine. I guess I made mine by giving that to you.” Gathering her courage, she framed his face with her hands, touched her lips to his. “They’ll be waiting for us,” she said, and turned for the doors.

He closed them with a thought before she reached them.

“Do you think I need a sketch to decide if I want you?”

“I thought you should know that, just like the six of us being here . . . It’s all part of it. And you shouldn’t be bound by that, not for something so personal.”

Nerves frayed, she reached behind her, twisted the knob. “Would you open the doors?”