Nobody knew whose idea the āEuropean Riviera aestheticā had been.
Probably Lukeās.
Heād shown up to the beach house with vintage sunglasses, linen shirts, a playlist full of French disco, and ā most alarmingly ā a bright red Speedo folded neatly on top of his suitcase like it deserved respect.
āMate,ā Connor had said, staring at it. āThat thing pays taxes in Italy.ā
Luke ignored him.
The next afternoon, while everyone else hid inside oversized board shorts and baseball caps, Luke emerged from the cabin looking like heād accidentally wandered out of a 1978 perfume advertisement.
The beach went strangely quiet.
An elderly woman lowered her paperback.
Two volleyball players missed the ball entirely.
Somewhere in the distance, a seagull screamed.
Connor threw an arm around him and sighed. āI canāt believe youāre making this work.ā
Luke took a sip from the little red cup heād been carrying around all day and stared heroically toward the horizon.
āItās not about confidence,ā he said.
āItās about commitment.ā
By sunset, three more guys in their group were online searching for red Speedos.
The revolution had begun.
