Not even the calming ambience of a roasting fire and Eliza’s mellow energy could stop me from wincing. Nope. Not talking about that.

When faced with a question a bro does not wish to answer, a common strategy is to deflect and turn it back onto the asker. For instance, asking Eliza, “Why do you care?” In my experience, a different approach has a much higher success rate for avoiding certain topics: the classic change of subject.

“Where’s John?”

“Nice try. Josh is by the pier.”

“And he left you here all by yourself?”

“Whatever,” she muttered. “If he wants to sabotage his shot with me, he can go right ahead. And for the record, I hate limes.” She pulled the wedge out of her drink and hurled it at the flames. It splatted a few feet from the kindling.

“Pretty sure you bring it up every time your mom even attempts to bring one into your house.”

“You’re mean,” she said.

“It was the perfect way to mess with you and Jamal. Two birds.”

Despite the actual bonfire ten feet away from us, Eliza shuddered like her lime had come back from the dead and was now haunting her.

“Can we go for a walk?” she asked. “Starting to feel crowded.”

“Let’s do it.” My sneakers slid as I jumped up. Sure enough, a wide group of hungry teenagers edged towards Jamal’s five-star makeshift establishment. Among them were Josh Daley and Austin, but Eliza had booked it halfway to the ocean before I could ask if she’d seen them. Which answered that.

She didn’t stop until she’d reached the waves. Her shadowy figure was barely visible in the moonlight, even in her white long-sleeved shirt and black shorts. The breeze blew her hair in every direction. She kicked off her flip-flops and threw her phone on top of them.

“In Australia,” Eliza toed the Atlantic Ocean, “we swam every morning. My dorm room was right on the water. My roommate and I’d wake up with a quick beach run and hop in.”

That explained the tan.

“Ever swim at night?” I asked, imagining how the city’s bright lights would look over the water.

“Wanted to.” She stepped until her ankles were covered. “Doing it alone seemed super dangerous, and my friends had studying to do.”

“Nerds,” I coughed, surprised Eliza herself had wanted to do something besides study.

“Like you even know what studying is.”

“Ha. Ha. Everyone knows it’s when you deeply mourn a stud for dying. C’mon, Eliza. Too soon.”

“L-O-L.” Eliza lightly kicked the frigid water. Her splashes vanished into the peaceful waves.

“That’s pretty bold,” I said, “spending so long in 50-degree water.” When, exactly, did Eliza get to be cool?

It occurred to me that if she were a different girl, my move here would be to fulfill her wish of swimming at night and we would plunge, laughing, into the freezing water. Fade to black. Roll the credits. My spontaneity would totally sweep her off her feet, and the walls around her would melt away. It would be just us—no rules, no expectations.