Aiden takes my hand in his as we walk toward the fire. There are sticks and rough ground and hanging limbs to traverse. I feel like I’m supporting Aiden as much as he’s helping me, as we stumble our way along until the glow of the fire penetrates the trees and helps to guide us. Around the fire, everyone has quieted down. Is it just me, or is everyone staring? Aiden’s hand feels hot around mine. Ellis is sitting on my canoe, and gets up. “Here, you guys take it.” He winks when he passes me, and I make a mental note to just volunteer to fill something out for him, so he shuts up about it.

“We were getting sticks for the fire.” I don’t know why I say it, why I’m so panicked about everyone looking at me, like they know what I just did. That my shirt smells like boy, and my skin is all tingly and hot. Kissing Aiden isn’t a crime, but after only kissing Zander, it feels weird. I wonder if it’s something you get used to, kissing new people. If someday I’ll have kissed too many guys to even remember. The thought is weird and foreign, and it makes me a little uncomfortable.

“Where are they?” Jaz asks.

I’m not sure what she means. “What?”

“The sticks.”

I look down at my hands, like I was ever holding any sticks. Everyone laughs, including Aiden next to me, and the sense of dread lifts. We sit on the canoe, and after a few minutes I’ve even convinced myself that no one is looking at us anymore.

AIDEN

“There’s this project I have to do—” Even as I say the words, I’m not sure if I should be. If I should be letting her in like this, laying out the work-in-progress that is my current life. It feels weird wanting to include someone in that. “I might be a little MIA for a while.”

Her face drops—but just for a second, like she refuses to let herself be disappointed.

“I was thinking if you wanted to help me…”

“What are you doing, exactly?” She sounds nervous, like I’m about to suggest she help me with a bank heist. I know rumors have been flying around about me—our old neighbor stopped me at the grocery store last week and told me all about her son’s struggles with alcoholism, and suggested that my (supposed) DUI was a stepping-stone toward worse things to come. I just nodded, because Mrs. Graham is ancient, and it wasn’t worth explaining anything to her. I don’t really care if people talk about me. But I do care if Olivia thinks I’m some sort of delinquent.

“It’s an art project,” I tell her.

“An art project?” She doesn’t sound interested, she sounds disturbed. Like maybe she’d prefer illegal activity.