Page 148 of Unmanageable

Cash grins, his eyes dancing. “Deal. But they’re definitely getting skates before they can walk. It’s in the O’Connell bylaws.”

“We’ll see about that, Finny. I’ll have my legal team look into the legality of toddler-enforced athletics.”

***

11:09 PM

Me: I used to think you were being dramatic.

Ivy: About what?

Me: About how good being loved feels.

42

Finny

12:26 PM

Callie: Please act like an adult for five minutes.

Me: define adult

Callie: Not you.

***

The weekend starts as a terrible idea, which is how all the best things in my life usually begin.

It’s supposed to be “low-key.” That was Scottie’s word. Low-key bonding. No pressure. No expectations. Just a cabin, a lake, questionable cell service, and enough alcohol to sedate a small village.

Dean called it a “liability nightmare” before we even cleared the Boston city limits. He spent the entire car ride calculating the distance to the nearest Level 1 trauma center, his brow furrowed as he tapped away at his phone. Meanwhile, Jenna sat in the passenger seat applying glitter sunscreen to her collarbones.

Like, actual glitter.

“For safety,” she claimed.

I think she meant morale. Or maybe she just wanted to be visible from space in case we actually did get lost in the woods.

By the time we arrive at the cabin in the mountains, the sun is already dipping low over the water, turning the lake into something unreal.

The first drinks happen too early. The second happen because Dean “doesn’t trust the vibes” of the local wildlife and feels we need a chemical barrier against the elements. By the third, we’re all unhinged.

“I’m telling you,” Brick says, leaning over the edge of the dock, squinting at the water. “The fish are judgmental here. I saw a bass. He looked at me like I owed him money. Like he knew I didn’t tip the valet at the rink last Tuesday.”

“Fish don’t have a concept of currency, Brick,” Ivy sighs, leaning into Callahan’s side.

“This one did,” Brick insists. “He had a very corporate glare. He looked like Scottie when she’s about to tell a GM their offer is ‘cute but insulting.’”

Noah is sitting in one of the chairs with a notebook balanced on his knee because, apparently, some people bring field journals to weekend drinking trips. He watches Brick with the fascinated concentration of a biologist observing a particularly loud species in the wild.

“For the record,” he says carefully, adjusting his glasses, “bass don’t actually possess the neurological structures necessary to experience moral judgment.”

Brick blinks at him.

“Buddy,” he says solemnly, “that fish absolutely judged me.”

Noah opens his mouth, clearly intending to explain why that is scientifically impossible, then looks around the fire pit.