Cashmere & Cunningham – Summer’s End

By the time I finally got to my room at Rosebriar, it felt like I’d lived three different lives in one week. I dropped my bag on the floor, sat on the edge of my bed, and just stared at the wall for a minute, trying to process everything.

The last days in Sulani had been… weird. Weird and incredible. Awkward and perfect. Some of the best days of my life and also some of the most confusing.

I kept replaying everything — the dancing, the almost‑kiss, Mom’s Momzilla Moment, the beach, the way Evie laughed when she was tired, the way she looked at me when she didn’t know I was looking at her.

And then the morning after. And the sand. And the realization that had hit me like a truck:

I was in trouble.

We still had one full day left after that, and I spent most of it pretending nothing had happened while also thinking about nothing else. Evie acted normal which made things a lot easier for me — so either she had not even noticed what I had been about to do before we got interrupted by retching drunks or maybe she was just better at hiding things than I was. We swam, we ate, we walked around the beaches, we took pictures. She teased me about my sunburn. I teased her about her coconut obsession. After tasting one drink and a snack my mom recommended suddenly everything she ordered had coconut in it. That girl. It was easy and impossible at the same time.

Then came the flight home.

We stopped in Del Sol Valley to drop off Blaine, Lauren, and the babies. Blaine lapped up Evie’s excitement and insisted on giving us the full tour of his house — which, let’s be honest, wasn’t a house so much as a museum‑sized shrine to his family’s legacy. Evie nearly dissolved on the spot. She kept whispering “This is unreal!” under her breath, and I kept pretending I wasn’t watching her reactions like a lunatic. Blaine even gave us a tour of DSV’s hot spots, and I told Evie I would take her back again at some point to explore in more detail.

Back on the plane, Dad opened a bottle of Beaumont champagne — “for a safe trip home,” he said — and for a while, the awkwardness between me and Evie just… dissolved. We clinked glasses. She leaned her head on my shoulder for a few minutes. I didn’t breathe the entire time.

But then the limo pulled up to her apartment building in San Myshuno.

And everything got complicated again.

I didn’t know whether to walk her to her door. I didn’t know if that would be weird. I didn’t know if she wanted me to. I didn’t know if I could handle an elevator ride alone with her without combusting.

Dad noticed. Of course he noticed.

He gave me the tiniest head‑tilt — the kind that meant, Go. Don’t be an idiot.

So I shot out of the limo after her.

The elevator ride was awkward. She stood close. She smelled like coconut. I stood stiff. She smiled. I panicked internally.

But I was glad I didn’t let her go up alone.

At her door, she turned to me, eyes soft in the hallway light. “Thank you,” she said. “For everything. This was the best time of my life.” She hugged me.

I melted. Fully. Irretrievably.

She asked me in. I pointed vaguely toward the elevator, meaning the limo, the family, the whole situation. “Can’t…”

She nodded, not offended, just… sweet. Which made it worse.

I turned to leave, then turned back. “Hey, wanna get together later this week? After we both recover a little. I mean, you bought the new bikini — might as well get all the use out of it by our pool, right?”

Her face lit up. “Sounds great! Yes! Tomorrow?”

“I can’t. Dad signed us up for the regatta the day after, so we need to train some. I’ll call you afterwards?”

“Can’t wait. Bye, Nate.”

I left smiling like an idiot.

Pool Time

A few days later, I drove out to San Myshuno to pick her up — she doesn’t have a car, I used to think for financial reasons but after seeing how terrible a driver she is I think it’s for the safety of all mankind, and honestly, I didn’t mind the excuse to spend an hour alone with her. When I pulled up she was already waiting outside. The moment she slid into the passenger seat, she looked me over and frowned.

“You’re turning your head like you’re ninety,” she said.

“I’m fine,” I lied, gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly.

“You’re not fine when you have to turn your entire upper body to look to a side,” she said, giving me that look — the one that made me feel seen and exposed at the same time.

By the time we got back to Rosebriar, the stiffness was impossible to hide. Shoulders tight, back sore, everything aching. Dad had pushed us hard. “Old Guard tradition,” he said. “If we’re racing, we’re winning.” We had. But now my shoulder, neck, and upper back felt like one solid unit. Every twist and movement hurt.

Embarrassingly, Dad was mostly fine.

I needed a workout schedule. He had one.
Officially because he was a doctor and always told us to take care of our bodies — it’s the only one we get.
Unofficially, we all knew it was because he wanted his hot wife to want him. Mom was still actively performing, so she had to keep in shape, and he felt he had to keep up so he wouldn’t lose her again. And she still wore barely‑there outfits on stage — which is why she’s fifty and fitter than most twenty‑year‑olds. Including, unfortunately, her son.

Evie took one look at me by the pool and raised an eyebrow. “You’re really sore.”

“I’m fine,” I lied, resolving to work out more, looking at my dad being fitter than me at his age. Cringe.

“Is ‘fine’ even in the room with us? You’re not fine,” she said, already moving behind me. “Sit.”

“I don’t—”

“Nate. Sit.”

I sat.

She put her hands on my shoulders — professional, firm, confident — and I nearly levitated out of my skin. Not because it was anything inappropriate. It wasn’t. She was a trained massage therapist. She was doing her job. She was helping.

But it felt… good. Too good. Dangerously good.

I tried to say something — anything — but the words dissolved as she worked out the knots in my shoulders. My muscles melted. My brain shut off. I almost forgot how to breathe.

I looked up and saw Mom nudge Dad. Dad slid his sunglasses down his nose. Mom leaned in to whisper something. Both smiled.

I turned my head away and pretended I didn’t see any of it. Helicopter parenting was the worst.

Evie moved to my back. “You’re so tense,” she said. “Wound tight like a pretzel. Turn over on your stomach and lie flat. I’ll work on the stiffness, and afterward you’re going to be so relaxed and floppy you might not be able to walk straight.”

Mom snorted into her umbrella drink and nearly rolled off her chair laughing. Evie didn’t even pick up on it — probably assumed it was a reaction to something Dad said — but I knew better. I knew Mom was laughing in her that’s what I’ve been saying voice. I was more than happy to lay face‑down so I wouldn’t have to watch my mother living out every romcom moment she could think of through Evie and me.

I wanted to sink into the pool and never come back up.

But I didn’t stop Evie. I couldn’t. It felt too good. Too safe. Too right.

And somewhere between her hands on my shoulders and her working down my spine, I realized something:

I was fighting windmills.

And just like you can’t force love and attraction, you can’t stop it either. Whatever this was, it was happening, whether I liked it or not. I started forgetting all those many reasons I had not to let this evolve.

I didn’t know what to do with that. Not yet. But I knew I had to figure it out.

Because I was in trouble.

And I wasn’t sure I wanted to get out of it. But I was sure I didn’t want to rush into it heedlessly.

Just…

Where is the middle ground here? You can’t kinda‑sorta date. Either you do or you don’t.

But clinging to the illusion that we weren’t sliding into something more romantic than platonic seemed like a fool’s errand at this point — at least to me. Evie seemed blissfully unaware of the storm inside me.

Which gave me pause.

Clearly, she liked being around me. I was ready to go on record that she wasn’t a gold‑digger but genuinely liked me — liked my company, my jokes, my stupid stories. Me.

But did she like me as much as I liked her, in the way I was clearly heading?

Because if not — if I misread something — I could end up exactly where I didn’t want to go: ruining this friendship I’d grown to want and need in my life like air.

So… now what?

I could hardly ask her, “Soooo, where are we here? Love or friendship — your take?” and then just agree and go along with whatever.

That would be insane. And terrifying. And way too direct for whatever fragile balance we were currently pretending to maintain.

At twenty‑one I had some dating under my belt, but I wasn’t an expert. And honestly, none of it helped me now. In high school it was just the usual, nothing serious. You probably remember my prom drama. Then Elodie, who kissed me first, so that was easy enough. After her, I can’t even really count any of it — my head and heart weren’t in it, and I’m clear‑minded enough to know no hearts were broken in the process.

And of course my brain picked that moment to remember Jason.

A very different type than me. Tattooed to the eyeballs, piercings everywhere — the kind of guy who probably had to be careful around magnets. And that strange way of talking, half‑mumbled, half‑performed, like he was auditioning for a role only he understood. If I ever started sounding even remotely like that, Dad would probably sign me up for mandatory speech therapy.

She’d told me she mostly dated him because she was in some rebellious teen‑girl phase. Because he was interested in her. Because she’d been the good girl who wanted something that wasn’t boring. Because he seemed cool at the time.

She’d told me she didn’t realize until too late that this was his peak — that downhill was the only direction he was ever going to go. That someone told her he was getting into drugs, and she didn’t want to know whether that meant taking or selling. That nicer guys at school wouldn’t date her because of him. That she was glad she moved away. That her little apartment was a win. That decorating it with me was important to her and a highlight of her life so far.

She’d said she wasn’t into that type anymore.

But was she just being nice? Was she just telling me what she thought I wanted to hear?

Because if she still liked that kind of guy — the unpredictable, adrenaline‑junkie type — then I was in trouble in a whole different way. I wasn’t that. I wasn’t ever going to be that. I didn’t even want to be like that. And I wasn’t going to pretend to be.

If she liked me, I wanted her to like me for me. The way I was. Not the way I could be. And not again for what I could do for her, like the scars Elodie left with me. It didn’t even matter the circumstances — I get it, she had her back against the wall and all — but the result remains the same. I had my heart broken and my ego trampled into the ground.

And I wasn’t eager to repeat that experience.

“Nate?”

I heard my name — something in the cadence told me it wasn’t the first time.

I opened my eyes and saw Evie leaning over me, her shadow cutting across the bright shimmer of the pool.

“Sorry to wake you…”

“I wasn’t asleep,” I said quickly. Too quickly to be believable.

“It’s okay, it happens. Means the massage was relaxing. But you need to put suntan lotion on or you’ll burn. I can do it — just didn’t want you to jump in case it’s a bit cold. I’ll warm it up first.”

“What? Uh… yeah… sure, thanks.”

My eyes flicked over to Mom and Dad. Both were pretending to read, but Mom’s slow‑forming grin told me she was absolutely watching.

Evie squeezed lotion into her hands — the soft shhff of the bottle breaking through the quiet hum of cicadas and distant ocean breeze — and rubbed her palms together to warm it. The scent drifted up immediately: coconut, vanilla, something faintly floral. Summer in a bottle.

Her hands spreading the lotion were a different sensation. Warmer. Softer. More deliberate. Innocent as it was, it felt more intimate than the massage — because the massage I could excuse in my head as professional. This was a different ZIP code entirely. Just think about the last time you put lotion on someone’s back and the connection. See?

She was thorough, too. The lotion made a faint whispering sound as she worked it over my shoulders, down my arms, across my back. The scent mixed with the salt air and the faint chlorine from the pool. The sun warmed everything she didn’t touch.

Charlotte passed by and didn’t help.

“Aww, how sweet. Hey, Evie, don’t forget the legs — we don’t want Natey’s dude-legs to look like burnt fish sticks.”

She giggled her way into the kitchen, and I heard Mom and Dad chuckling low behind their sunglasses.

And Evie delivered. I can honestly say that never, ever, in my entire life had another person rub lotion — sunscreen or otherwise — on my calves since I started school. The cool lotion, the warm hands, the contrast of sun‑heated skin… it was a lot.

Once she was done enough, I shot up.

And Mom did me dirty.

“Nate, return the favor. You don’t want her to burn.”

Gulp.

“Yeah, sure, thanks Mom. Good thinking.” I will not tell you what I was thinking about my mother at that moment, but I’m sure she could read it in the glare I shot her while flipping the sunscreen bottle open as Evie positioned herself.

The way she giggled into Dad’s arm told me she did and didn’t care. Even Dad snorted. Well, as long as my parents were amused …

I squeezed lotion into my hand — too much, of course — and nearly missed my hand completely at the sight of her slightly golden skin catching the light. Soft. Warm. Sun‑kissed. I don’t even know how to describe it.

My hands were literally shaking as I worked it into her shoulders, her lifting her hair for me, then down her arms, across her back. The lotion made that same soft whispering sound as it spread, the scent rising again — coconut, vanilla, summer.

And then I looked at her legs.

Oh boy.

In order to do this, obviously she was lying on her stomach on the lounger, and legs are usually attached to the body via the butt. I probably do not have to tell you most guys’ feelings on those.

Oh, I was sweating bullets at this point.

The moment my hands hovered over her legs, my brain short‑circuited.

Not in a bad way. Not in a creepy way. Just in a very normal twenty‑one‑year‑old‑who-is-in-way-over-his-head way.

The sun was warm on my back, the pool water lapping quietly against the infinity edge, the faint smell of coconut sunscreen rising from my hands. Her skin looked sun‑kissed, smooth, warm from the lounger. The lotion made that soft whispering sound as I rubbed it in — the same sound her hands had made on my shoulders earlier — and that alone was enough to scramble every coherent thought I had left.

My heartbeat was ridiculous. Loud. Obvious. Like it was trying to announce itself to the entire Bay.

Don’t look weird. Don’t be weird. Don’t act weird. Just… be normal.

Except nothing about this felt normal.

My hands were shaking. Actually shaking. I tried to hide it by spreading the lotion slower, but that only made me hyper‑aware of every inch of skin I was touching. The scent of the sunscreen — coconut, vanilla, something faintly floral — kept drifting up, mixing with the salt air and the faint chlorine from the pool. It was too much. Too sensory. Too everything.

And of course Mom and Dad were right there. Pretending to read. Not actually reading. Absolutely watching. Their badly disguised grins and gleeful chuckles gave them away.
Yeah, I’m sure whatever they were reading was that hilarious.
Especially Dad’s medical journal.

I could practically feel Mom’s grin burning into the back of my skull.

Evie, meanwhile, was completely relaxed. Completely trusting. Completely unaware that I was having a full internal meltdown while trying to apply sunscreen like a normal human being.

Eventually it was over, and the rest of the day was just amazing. We chilled, we ate, we had fun. The kind of easy summer day that feels like it stretches forever — warm air, the sound of the pool filter humming, the smell of grilled vegetables and sunscreen mixing into something that felt like childhood and adulthood at the same time.

I wanted her to stay overnight, but she didn’t bring a change of clothes and had a shift at the spa the next day. I drove her home and felt like walking through molasses on the way back to the car. I wanted to stay at her place, but I knew myself too well to trust me. Had I stayed, I would’ve made a move — and I wasn’t sure that would’ve been the right time.

So we chugged on.

Summer unfolded in that slow, golden way where days blur but moments stay sharp.

We met often. We did a lot of things together.

There was a street fair — loud music, food trucks, Evie dragging me to try things I’d never eaten before, me pretending not to be terrified of whatever “fusion skewer” she handed me.

We went boating — Dad’s old speedboat, the one he insists is “perfectly fine,” even though it rattles like a shopping cart. Evie loved it. I pretended not to be worried about the engine noise.

We went to the country club dance — her in a simple dress that somehow made every other girl look overdressed, me trying not to step on her toes during the slow songs. She laughed every time I messed up, which somehow made it worse and better at the same time.

We met for ice cream — her always choosing something fruity combined with coconut, me always choosing one of the classics, both of us pretending we weren’t judging each other’s choices.

We spent tons of time at the pool — her swimming laps like she was born in the water, me trying to keep up since I actually did swim daily and failing spectacularly, because … well, you know why.

We swam in the ocean — her fearless, diving under waves, me trying not to swallow my bodyweight in saltwater.

We went to outdoor movie nights — blankets, popcorn, her leaning against me when it got chilly, me pretending I wasn’t hyper‑aware of every inch of contact.

We wandered bookstores — her picking out things she thought I’d like, me buying them all because she recommended them.

We drove out to little towns — antique shops, diners, places she remembered from childhood trips.

We did everything and nothing — and somehow it all felt like the best summer of my life.

Summer ending hit me in a way I didn’t expect.

Not dramatic. Not catastrophic. Just… quietly heavy.

Like the light changed. Like the air shifted. Like everything was still warm, but the warmth wasn’t endless anymore.

I kept catching myself watching her — not in a weird way, just in that way where you suddenly realize you’ve been memorizing someone without meaning to. The way she laughed at the street fair. The way she pushed her hair back when the wind caught it on the boat. The way she danced at the country club, not caring if she looked perfect. The way she always chose fruity ice cream and coconut. The way she swam like she belonged in the water.

All these tiny things that had become part of my summer without me noticing.

And now the days were getting shorter.

I could feel the countdown even when we didn’t talk about it. She’d be here. I’d be across the country. Different schedules. Different worlds. Different everything.

I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want to make it weird. I didn’t want to ruin the ease we had. I didn’t want to push something she wasn’t ready for. I didn’t want to make a move too soon or too late.

But every time I dropped her off, every time she waved from her apartment door, every time I drove home alone, it hit me a little harder.

Twenty-two Candles

I didn’t want summer to end. Not because of the weather. Not because of the break. But because I didn’t know what we were yet — and I didn’t know what we’d be once distance got involved.

I wasn’t ready to lose this. I wasn’t ready to risk it either. And I wasn’t sure which one scared me more.

And then, somewhere in all that quiet heaviness, another thought settled in — the kind that doesn’t announce itself, just arrives.

My birthday was coming.

Twenty‑two.

And twenty‑two meant the end of summer. And the end of summer meant the beginning of my final semester. And my final semester meant the end of school — for good.

Technically, I didn’t even need it. My credits were done. My degree was complete. I could graduate without stepping foot in another classroom. But I wasn’t ready to walk straight into the life waiting for me — the one Dad had been preparing me for since I was old enough to understand what “succession plan” meant. When my older brother died, his place in that plan didn’t disappear; it shifted. Graham had been the heir, the one meant to take the lead on the business side of the empire while Lauren — Dad’s first‑wife’s daughter — stepped into the medical wing. After his sudden death, all of that landed on me. I’m the only son left, so the administrative and strategic side he was supposed to inherit is mine now, whether I feel ready or not.

Dad owned medical centers across the world. And I was the business‑major son who would eventually run the administrative headquarters in San Myshuno with him. Not tomorrow. Not next year. But eventually. Still — the path was already laid out.

I’d shadowed him during breaks. Sat in on meetings. Watched him make decisions that affected thousands of employees. I knew what the job required: long hours, travel, responsibility, pressure. Real adulthood. For the first year or so I would do it with Dad always beside me, guiding me, showing me, teaching me.

And I wasn’t sure I was ready. But I knew I was heading there.

The strange comfort was that it meant staying close. Coming back home. To Brindleton Bay, to Rosebriar Haven. Close to Evie.

I wanted that more than I wanted to admit.

I’d miss Tate, my cousin and closest thing to a best friend I had, aside from … Evie. Wow, yeah, she was someone I would trust with my life.

Cunningham birthdays were always a huge event. But this year I’d told Mom I wanted family only, since later that year — during our usual Christmas bash with all the who‑is‑who of the Bay, showbiz VIPs, and Dad’s strategic business partners — we’d also be celebrating my graduation and my official intro into adulting at Dad’s side.

So Mom reluctantly agreed. Of course I wanted Evie there.

On another drive out to see her, when I was going to hand her the official invitation, I realized something that made my stomach drop.

I didn’t know her birthday.

I felt like a complete idiot. A terrible friend. A worse… whatever I was becoming to her.

How could I not know her birthday? We had literally known each other for almost a year. We’d met for the very first time at my twenty‑first birthday — I could never forget that. So, unless she was born on the same day as me or happened to have a birthday in the next week, I had missed it.

WOW.

I felt awful.

But when I finally worked up the nerve to mention it to Evie, she just laughed — that soft, warm laugh that made everything feel lighter. And then she told me the date, and it felt like someone whacked me in the head with a metal rod.

Would you believe the night at the beach club — the night I almost kissed her — was her birthday?

She had said nothing. To nobody. Not even a tiny hint.

I almost kissed her for the first time on the day she turned twenty.

Okay, Fate, we all get it. You’re the one pulling the strings. Now relax, please.

“Nate, you took me to Sulani,” she said. “I met Blaine Cameron and Briar Rose, who I’ve been obsessed with for years. I spent summer in literal paradise mode. What more would I ask for?”

She meant it. She really meant it.

Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wanted to do something for her. Something that wasn’t late or accidental or overshadowed by my own birthday.

Maybe I’d make my birthday a shared celebration — a belated one for her, a real one for me. Have her invite friends to Rosebriar so they could meet me and have fun.

She declined. Said her friends weren’t really friends anymore — she’d had to leave them behind with the old place when she moved away. Said they wouldn’t be able to handle me and would be worse than Elodie ever was. Said she was making new friends, but not close enough yet to risk exposing me and my family to them at our estate. No character guarantees.

I thought that was big of her to admit. I liked that. And honestly, I didn’t mind. Not to sound like an ass, but I didn’t want to share her with friends at the party.

Maybe I’d get her something small and meaningful — a necklace, maybe. Something she’d actually wear often and then think of me.

Wait. What did I just say?

Jeezes, me.

Or maybe… maybe I’d give her a trip.

She loved Sulani so much — maybe another one. Just us.

Just a week. One last adventure before I had to leave for campus again. Before everything changed.

I didn’t know where yet.

Tomarang was beautiful — warm, colorful, full of life. Sulani was familiar — safe, easy, ours.

But when I suggested those and asked her where she’d want to go, she didn’t hesitate.

“I know exactly where,” she said with that little grin.

And that’s how I learned she wanted to go camping, like she and her parents used to when she was growing up until her father died a few years back. And then her mom.

Camping. At Granite Falls.

A fish‑out‑of‑water experience for me, to put it mildly.

But for her?

I would do it.