Float

Original Edition: Chapter Twenty-Six

The Hastings arrived at the barbecue in three separate cars, each worth more than a year's tuition at a private liberal arts college, which was the first warning sign that things had taken a turn for the shitty.

Blake, upon hearing that his ex-girlfriend's parents were in the vicinity, promptly attempted to strangle himself with the ties on his novelty bikini-girl apron. At least, that's what it looked like he was doing, given how violently he was struggling to get the thing off.

"Calm down," I snapped as I tried to undo the knots with my fingernails. "Would you stop moving? You're going to choke yourself."

He let out a single panicked laugh.

"That's a great idea, actually. Quick. No one's looking."

I huffed and smacked him on the back of the head.

Ugh. His hair's softer than mine. How's that fair?

"Don't joke like that," I told him. "It's not funny. And what am I missing? What's so bad about Alissa's dad?"

"It's not her dad," Blake said, shaking his head. "It's her mom and dad together. They're—"

They're here. On the back porch. Right now.

I'd missed the first warning sign. The second was that Alissa's mother looked like an Instagram model. She was a walking embodiment of the sponsored post on your feed that you don't really want to see because it reminds you that your last vacation was spent on your couch and also you are, in the grand scheme of things, not very pretty. Her hair was dark and blown out in perfect curls, and her eyeliner was so sharp it could've slit a man's throat.

She didn't smile, and she'd brought her own bottle of rosé and didn't look like she was going to share it.

I hated her.

But I respected the aesthetic.

Then there was the last red flag of the day. Alissa's father, the founder and owner of Hasting's Yachts, had shown up to a casual family barbeque wearing white linen pants, a white button-down shirt, crocodile leather shoes and three different Rolex watches. He barely came up to my shoulder when we stood on level ground, but he had the ego and the bank account of LeBron James, so he carried himself like he was closer to seven feet tall than to four.

Standing between them on the back porch was Alissa, whose face was blank in a way that screamed I am dissociating.

Jesse and Lena's mother, Boss—who was both the host of the party and the boldest and bravest matriarch at the family barbecue—welcomed the Hastings without batting an eyelash.

"Penelope!" I heard her greet Alissa's mother, just loud enough for me to hear from across the year. "You look great. I haven't seen you around in months! What've you been up to?"

"I've been doing business abroad," Penelope replied shortly.

She had an Italian accent. Of course she had an Italian accent.

"Well, we're glad you could make it," Boss said, smile unwavering as she turned her attention to Alissa's father. "And you must be Santiago! It's wonderful to finally meet you. I feel like I know you already—your daughter's told me so much about you."

Santiago Hastings cocked one eyebrow.

"Has she?" he drawled.

Blake was still very tense beside me, despite the fact that he was no longer wearing an apron with cartoon boobs on it, and had resorted to giving his undivided attention to the grill.

"You're going to burn the burgers," I whispered.

He hummed noncommittally.

"Blake," I whispered again, and set my hand on his bicep.