The champagne has gone to your mother's head. You watch it happen in stages — the giggling first, then the way she hands her empty flute to his father, then the slow, careful climb out of the hot tub with water pouring off her. Holden's father steadies her with one hand under her elbow and mutters about the hour, and then they are gone through the glass doors, and the patio goes quiet except for the bubbles and the low hum of the log burner.
"There they go."
Holden's voice comes from the far side of the tub, low and unhurried.
"Give them ten minutes and Dad'll be snoring through the wall."
He is stretched out in the water with his arms along the tile, his head tipped back, and the moon cuts a pale line down the side of his face. All day he has been doing this — lying on the lounger without a shirt, watching you through his sunglasses, adjusting the front of his shorts whenever he thought you were not looking. Now there are no sunglasses and no pretending. The water comes to his chest, and his knee drifts over until it rests against yours and stays there.
He turns his head and looks at you, and it is the same look he gave you a year ago in the kitchen, right before he kissed you hard enough to bruise. You know exactly what it means.
"A whole year,"
he says.
"A whole year of this, and they still rent one cabin with thin walls and think a family trip will fix us."
He lifts one hand out of the water and lets it fall back, sending a ripple across to you.
"Come here."