Just An Anxious Millennial

The Alabama sun sits high and heavy over the river lot by the time you finish setting up the last folding table. Sweat beads at your temples, and you swipe at it with the back of your wrist, looking at the property with a bit of satisfaction. The old boathouse leans slightly to one side like it has for the past thirty years, the dock stretches out over water.

This place has been in your family longer than you've been alive. Every summer of your childhood happened here: scraped knees on the dock, the taste of river water, your mother's laughter carrying across the lawn. Now it's yours to maintain, yours to share, and on a Saturday in the thick of summer, that means opening it up to everyone you know and love.

Your phone buzzes. Lavon's texted that he's five minutes out. You're pulling sweet tea from the cooler when you hear tires on gravel.

The first vehicle that rolls up isn't Lavon's. It's a classic Chevelle-beat-up enough to be charming, polished enough to show he cares about it, and your stomach does something stupid and fluttery that you absolutely refuse to examine. Wade gets out from the driver's seat, all lazy confidence and sun-bronzed skin, wearing a faded t-shirt that's seen better days and a smile that hasn't.

"Well, hey there," he calls out, grabbing a case of beer from his Chevelle's trunk. "Figured I'd get here early, make myself useful for once."

"Wade Kinsella, useful?" You raise an eyebrow. "Should I be worried? Is this a sign of the apocalypse?"

"Darlin', I'm plenty useful." He sets the beer down near your cooler, and something about the way he says darlin' in such a casual way, like he's said it a thousand times, but it still makes your heart skip. "You just never ask for the right kind of help. You and Wade always seemed to have such a flirty friendship.

You're saved from having to figure out what Wade means by the arrival of Lavon's Lincoln followed immediately by George's vehicle. Within twenty minutes, the property transforms.

Annabeth arrives with homemade potato salad. Lemon steps carefully across the grass, in shoes entirely too nice for a river lot, with George trailing behind carrying enough supplies for a week-long camping trip.

"Lemon, you know we have plates here, right?" you ask, watching George unload what appears to be a complete dining set.

"I've seen your paper plates," Lemon says with a sniff. "They're flimsy. What if someone wants seconds of potato salad? The structural integrity would be completely compromised."

"God forbid," Wade mutters next to you, and you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing.

Brick and Tom show up next, both of them immediately gravitating toward the horseshoe pit.

Someone starts the grill, and soon the smell of charcoal and lighter fluid mingles with sunscreen and cut grass. Kids from down the river show up, like they always do when they see trucks at your lot, and within an hour there are bodies launching themselves off the dock, their shrieks of laughter bouncing across the water.

You're barefoot in the grass, having kicked off your sandals sometime around noon, and the grass is warm and slightly damp beneath your feet. An old country station plays from someone's truck radio.

"You want a drink?"

You turn to find Wade standing there, holding out a bottle of beer. You hadn't asked for one. Hadn't even thought about it yet.

"How'd you know I wanted one?" you ask, taking it from him.

Wade shrugs, that easy smile playing at his lips. "Just seemed like the right time." You twist off the cap and take a long drink, the cold cutting through the heat in your throat. Wade watches you for a moment, just a moment before Brick calls him over to help with the grill, and he ambles away.

You tell yourself the flutter in your chest is just the cold beer hitting your system.

The afternoon drifts. You find yourself at the picnic table where Annabeth and Wanda are setting out food, and you're reaching for a chip when you realize you're not grabbing from the communal bowl. You're stealing a handful from the plate Wade left sitting there, the one he'd piled high with his particular combination of chips, pickles, and what looks like half a burger.

"That's Wade's plate," Annabeth points out, amused.

You freeze with a chip halfway to your mouth. "He won't miss a few."

"Uh-huh." Annabeth's smile is knowing in a way that makes you want to throw a pickle at her. But you eat the chips anyway. And when Wade comes back and sees his half empty plate, he just laughs, low and warm and says, "Help yourself, sugar," before sliding the whole plate toward you.

Sugar.

You clear your throat. "I was just-"

"I know what you were doing." Wade's eyes crinkle at the corners. "You've been stealing food off my plate since we were in high school."

Have you? You try to remember, but the memories blur together bonfires and football games and late nights at the Rammer Jammer. Maybe you have, this is just what you do with Wade, this casual intimacy that you've never bothered to name.

"Horseshoes!" Brick calls out. "We need teams!"

Wade looks at you, "partners?" he asks.

"Only if you promise not to throw like you did last Fourth of July," you say. "I'm still traumatized."

"That was one bad throw, okay, I think I can handle it."

"It ended up in the river, Wade."

You're laughing as you follow him to the horseshoe pit, and somehow your shoulder bumps against his arm, and neither of you moves away. The game is less about horseshoes and more about the four of you talking trash and laughing so hard you can barely throw straight. Wade stands behind you at one point to 'show you the proper form,' his hand warm on your elbow, his voice low near your ear.

"You gotta follow through, darlin'. Like this."

He guides your arm through the motion, and you're aware of every point of contact: his chest near your back and his breath on your neck. You manage to throw the horseshoe, and it actually rings the stake.

"See?" Wade's voice is full of pride, like he's personally responsible for your win. "Natural."

You turn your head to respond and find his face closer than you expected. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes, close enough to count the freckles the sun's brought out across his nose.

"Lucky shot," you manage.

"Luck's got nothing to do with it." He steps back, grinning. "That's all skill, baby."

Baby. Oh, hell. You win the game barely and Wade celebrates by lifting you clean off your feet in a hug that lasts two seconds too long to be purely friendly. When he sets you down, his hands linger on your waist, and you're suddenly aware of how much you don't want him to let go.

"Boat ride!" Lavon announces. "Who's coming?"

A group forms quickly: Lavon, George, Annabeth, you, and Wade. The boat has been in your family almost as long as the lot itself, and it putters out onto the river. The sun is starting its descent, turning the sky shades of orange and pink. You end up sitting next to Wade on the back bench, thighs pressed together. The boat rocks gently, and every small movement pushes you closer to Wade's side.

His arm stretches out along the back of the bench. Not around you, exactly, but close enough that you can feel the warmth of it behind your shoulders.

"Pretty, isn't it?" Wade says quietly, and you realize he's not looking at the sunset. He's looking at you looking at the sunset.

"Yeah," you say, not turning your head. "Really pretty."

His fingers brush your shoulder. Once, twice. Like he's testing something, or maybe like he can't help himself, but you don't move away. The boat ride last about another twenty minutes before Lavon is heading back to the dock.

Back on shore, the sun is properly setting now, and someone's started the fire. The group gravitates toward it naturally, pulling chairs and blankets into a loose circle around the ring.

You can't take your eyes off him.

The firelight catches in his hair, on his face, making shadows dance across his features. Every time Wade glances up and catches your eye across the fire. Every time he smiles at something someone says, that easy, genuine smile that makes your chest ache.

You realize, suddenly and completely, that you don't want this day to end. More specifically, you don't want this... whatever this is with Wade to end. The thought should scare you. Instead, it settles into your chest like it's been waiting there all along.

"I should head out," Lavon says eventually, checking his phone. "Got an early meeting with the county commissioner tomorrow."

Lemon stands a few mintues after Lavon, brushing invisible dirt from her dress. "Finally. The mosquitoes here are absolutely vicious."

"You've been sitting by the fire for two hours, Lemon," George points out. "The smoke keeps them away."

Lemon makes some kind of irritated noise before George gets the message and starts gathering their things. George gives you an apologetic look as Lemon pulls him toward their car. "Great party. Really. We'll have to do it again soon."

Eventually everyone packs up their stuff in their vehicles and heads off the bumpy road that leads to the main one. Before you know it, it's just you and Wade and the dying fire. The silence should be awkward, but it's not.

Wade pokes at the embers with a stick. "Hell of a day."

"Yeah," you agree. "It was."

You should probably start cleaning up. Should gather the plates and cups, should make sure the grill is properly off, should do all the responsible host things you're supposed to do.

Instead, you stand up and walk toward the dock. The wood is warm under your feet, still holding the heat. You walk to the very end and sit down, letting your legs dangle over the edge. The sky is deep purple now, scattered with stars.

You're thinking about Wade. About his hands on your waist after the horseshoe game. About the way he said darlin' and sugar like the words were made for you. About how many times today you found yourself next to him without planning it, without trying.

The dock creaks softly, and you don't have to turn around to know it's him. Wade settles beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. He doesn't say anything at first, just sits there with his own feet dangling, looking out at the water.

"Pretty night," Wade says finally.

"Yeah."

"Pretty day, too."

Another silence. His shoulder presses more firmly against yours, and you realize he's shifted closer.

"Can I tell you something?" Wade's voice is quieter now, more serious than you're used to hearing it.

Your heart kicks up. "Okay."

"I didn't come early to be helpful." He's still looking at the water, not at you. "I came early because I wanted to see you. Before everyone else got here. Just... you."

Oh. Oh.

"Wade-"

"And all day," he continues, like now that he's started he can't stop, "all day I kept finding reasons to be near you. Kept looking for you in the crowd. Kept thinking about how your laugh sounds, and how you steal food off my plate, and how you fit perfectly under my arm during that hug, and..." He stops. Takes a breath. "And I think I've been doing this for a while. Longer than just today. I just didn't let myself see it."

You turn to look at him, and he finally turns to look at you.

"Darlin'," Wade says, and this time when he says it, you feel it everywhere—in your chest, in your stomach, in the tips of your fingers. "I really want to kiss you right now."

"Yeah," you breathe. "Yeah, okay."

He moves slowly, giving you time to change your mind, time to pull away, but you don't. His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone, and the touch is so gentle it makes your throat tight.

When his lips meet yours, it's soft. You make a small sound, and Wade takes it as permission to deepen the kiss. His other hand finds your waist, steadying you, pulling you closer, and you reach up to fist your hand in his shirt. The kiss breaks for just a moment, both of you breathing hard, and Wade rests his forehead against yours.

"Jesus," he mutters.

"Yeah."

"Can I-"

"Yes."

You don't even know what he's asking, but the answer is yes. Yes to all of it. This time when he kisses you, it's deeper and hungrier. His tongue traces your bottom lip and you open for him, tasting beer and smoke and something that's just Wade. Your hands move from his shirt to his hair, fingers threading through it, and he groans low in his throat.

The sound does something to you. Unravels something. You shift closer, practically climbing into his lap there on the dock, and Wade's hands tighten on your waist, holding you steady, holding you close.

"Sugar," he murmurs against your mouth, and the word sends heat spiraling through you.

You've never been kissed like this. Like he's been waiting for this and now that he has it, he never wants to stop. You don't want to stop either. Wade's mouth moves from your lips to your jaw, trailing kisses down to the sensitive spot below your ear, and you gasp, tilting your head to give him better access. His teeth graze your skin and you actually whimper.

"You like that, darlin'?" His voice is rough, wrecked, and you've never heard anything sexier in your life.

"Yes," you breathe. "God, yes."

He comes back to your mouth, and this kiss is slower but no less intense. Deep and thorough, like he's trying to learn every inch of you. Your hands roam over his shoulders, his chest, feeling the muscle beneath his shirt, and you think distantly that you should probably slow down, should probably think about what this means.

You're not sure how long you stay like that minutes or hours, time has lost all meaning, but eventually you have to break apart to breathe. You're both panting, foreheads pressed together, hands still clutching at each other like you're afraid to let go.

"Holy hell," Wade says.

You laugh, breathless and giddy. "Yeah."

"I don't..." He stops, swallows hard. "I don't want this to end."

"Me neither."

"So let's not let it." He pulls back to look at you properly, and his expression is so open, so honest, it makes your chest ache. "Stay. Stay here with me. We can sit on this dock all night if you want. I don't care. I just, I don't want you to go."

"I'm not going anywhere," you promise, and you mean it. You mean it more than you've meant anything in a long time.

Wade's smile is so bright you can't help but mirror it. He shifts so you're tucked against his side, his arm around your shoulders, your head resting on his chest. You can hear his heartbeat, still racing, matching your own.

"This is crazy," you say quietly. "We've known each other for years."

"I know."

"Why now? Why today?"

Wade is quiet for a moment, his hand tracing absent patterns on your arm. "Maybe it's always been now. Maybe we just finally stopped pretending it wasn't."

You think about that. About all the times over the years when you found yourself looking for Wade in a crowd. About how his laugh always made you smile. About the way you felt comfortable with him in a way you weren't with anyone else.

Maybe he's right. "I'm glad we stopped pretending," you say.

"Me too, darlin'. Me too."