We got out of school the Friday before Labor Day, the kind of hot where the air felt like it was sticking to your shirt. Wyatt pulled up that Saturday around 8:30 in the station wagon, engine rattling like it always did when he hit the brakes too hard. I’d already packed my sleeping bag and the old Coleman cooler, the one with the dent from when Liam kicked it down the boat ramp last summer.
Blaire had missed school that Friday. She’d left early with her grandparents for Amelia Island, and the empty seat beside me in Algebra had felt heavier than it should have.
Wyatt already had Liam with him. The backseat was swallowed by tents, snacks, and another cooler wedged sideways. Liam was leaning on the roof like he owned the place, chewing on a Twizzler and pretending he wasn’t sweating through his shirt.
I hopped down the steps and tossed my duffel and sleeping bag into the back, the bag thumping against the cooler. I smacked Liam on the arm as he leaned over the roof.
“Move, man.”
“Damn, alright,” he laughed, rubbing his arm as I’d actually hurt him.
Wyatt leaned across the passenger seat and popped the lock with his elbow. “Let’s go, boys. Burning daylight.”
The wagon smelled of sunscreen, old vinyl, and whatever mystery snack Liam had spilled earlier. I slid in, slammed the door, and felt that familiar jolt, the start of a weekend of possibility.
The road hummed under the tires as we shot up Highway 98 toward Zephyrhills, the early morning sun turning everything gold. Wyatt cracked open a tin of Copenhagen at the light on 471, packing it with the heel of his hand before offering us each a pinch.
“Make sure you spit that in something,” he barked at Liam, dropping the tin into the little recessed tray on the door.
“Dang, alright,” Liam muttered, wiggling a half‑crushed McDonald’s cup like it was a sacred vessel.
“Boys, we got the weekend all to ourselves!” Wyatt hooted as he shoved a tape into the deck. The opening riff of Alice in Chains rattled the speakers, the bass buzzing through the cracked plastic of the dash.
The wagon picked up speed, windows down, warm air whipping through the cabin. Wyatt drummed the steering wheel. Liam tapped his cup against his knee. And I leaned back, letting the music and the heat settle into the kind of feeling that made the whole world feel wide open.
We made the state park right after the campsite office opened.
“One site, water. Please.” Wyatt asked as he dropped a crumpled twenty on the counter. The park ranger nodded and handed Wyatt a registration card.
“Plate number, and driver’s license. Eight dollars a night,” he grumped as he walked over to get the wrist bands for the group.
The ranger slid the wristbands across the counter, the kind of beige plastic that always felt a little too tight once the sweat got under it. Wyatt scribbled his plate number, then slapped the pen down and spun on his heel like he’d been doing this his whole life.
Outside, the morning was already thick. The wagon ticked as it cooled, the engine giving off that faint hot‑metal smell.
Wyatt tossed the registration card onto the dash. “Site 42,” he said, grinning like he’d won something.
Liam leaned forward between the seats. “That's the one by the river?”
“Close enough,” Wyatt said, throwing the wagon into gear. “We’ll hear the water if you shut up long enough.”
I cracked the window wider as we rolled deeper into the park, the road narrowing into a tunnel of palmettos and longleaf pines. The air changed cooler, carrying that damp, earthy smell that always hit right before the river came into view.
Liam stuck his wrist out the window, letting the band flap in the wind. “Sucks summers almost over.”
“It’s Florida,” I said. “It’s always summer.”
Wyatt laughed, drumming the wheel again, the tape still spinning. The guitars bled into the quiet of the woods, like the whole place was swallowing the sound.
When we pulled into the site, the clearing opened up in patches of dappled light. A picnic table, a fire ring, a sandy spot where tents had flattened the grass a hundred times before. It wasn’t much, but it felt like ours the second the wagon rolled to a stop.
Wyatt killed the engine. “Alright, gents,” he said, stretching his arms over the wheel. “Let’s make this our slice of heaven.”
We got everything settled and made the springs by 1 P.M. Parking in the back by the fence under the row of old pine trees. The air was sweet with Hawaiian Tropic and baby oil.
We spilled out, grabbing towels and kicking our flip flops off by the bridge, taking three leaps and a splash into the frigid cold water.
The shock hit like a punch to the ribs. A kind of cold that stole your breath.
Cold that turned three teenage idiots into something loud and alive.
Wyatt came up first, hair plastered to his forehead, gasping and laughing like he’d been baptized. “God damn, that’s cold!”
Liam surfaced next, flinging water at him. “You said it’d be refreshing!”
“I lied,” Wyatt sputtered, teeth chattering through his grin.
I kicked away from the dam bridge, lungs burning in that good way, the kind that made you feel every inch of your body waking up. The spring was glass‑clear under the surface, all pale sand and wavering green plants. The sunlight slices down in bright columns. The kind of water that made your soul feel clean.
Above us, the shore was already filling, girls in bright bikinis, guys with sunburned shoulders, coolers thumping against the ground. The smell of coconut oil drifted down every time someone walked past, mixing with the sharp scent of the spring.
Wyatt floated on his back, arms spread wide. His voice echoed off the limestone, “I wish Megan were here.”
Liam snorted. “You don’t take sand to the beach.”
“Whatever,” Wyatt said, kicking a lazy splash.
I let myself drift, the current tugging at my ankles, the sun warming my face. The laughter, the music from someone’s boombox on the bank, the shimmer of the water. It all folded into that rare feeling that life was simple and good and ours.
A group of girls walked onto the bridge above us, leaning over the rail. One of them pointed down, smiling. Liam immediately stood up in the water like he’d been summoned.
“Afternoon, ladies,” he called, slicking his hair back.
Wyatt groaned. “Here we go.”
Liam grinned, unbothered. “What? I’m being hospitable.”
The girl in the red bikini laughed, then nudged her friend. “Y’all from around here?”
Liam opened his mouth, ready to launch whatever charm he thought he had.
I swam over to Wyatt, following his eyes to the girls on the bridge. He shook his head.
“Let the little pimp do his thing,” Wyatt muttered, then shoved my shoulders and dunked me under.
“No, we’re from Lakeland!” Liam called back, gripping the side of the dam bridge and hauling himself up like he owned the place.
“I’m Melissa,” the girl in the red bikini said, pointing down the line. “Cathy, Rachel, Angela. We’re from Brooksville. Y’all want to play chicken?”
Liam’s grin stretched so wide I thought his chin might crack. “I don’t know about the other homos, but I’m game,” he bellowed, jerking his thumb at us. Wyatt groaned. I laughed.
“Come on, Chris. Help a brother?” Liam begged, eyes locked on me.
“Okay, okay.” I huffed, right as a girl in a black one‑piece splashed in beside me. My neck tightened. Blaire flickered across my mind, her laugh, her hand on my arm at the mall, before the blonde climbed onto my shoulders.
“I’m Angela. Dang, you’re tall,” she whispered, settling against the back of my head. Her giggle vibrated down into my collarbones.
“I’m Chris.” I waded into the chest‑deep water, waiting for Liam. Angela shrieked and grabbed my chin as she shifted her weight.
God.
Am I cheating? Are Blaire and I even…?
I blinked hard and wiped the water from my eyes.
“Hold tight, Angela! I don’t play fair,” I barked, grabbing Liam and shoving him backward. Angela and Melissa tangled, toppled, and hit the water as I yanked Liam under with me.
Melissa popped up beside Liam, water streaming off her hair, and before I could catch my breath, she leaned in and kissed Liam, quick, loud, like she’d been waiting for an audience. Liam froze for half a second, then threw his arms up like he’d won the Super Bowl.
Angela surfaced next to me. Her smirk was still there, but it shifted when she saw Melissa hanging off Liam and me looking anywhere but at her. Something in her eyes tightened, like she’d expected a different picture when she came up for air.
I wiped my face again, pretending the water was the reason I couldn’t look at anyone straight on. My chest felt tight. Blaire’s laugh from the mall flickered through my head, and the whole moment twisted sideways.
Wyatt whistled from the shallows, shaking his head like all of us were hopeless. Liam whooped again, splashing Melissa, and the girls on the bridge cheered like this was all part of the show.
I drifted back toward Wyatt, letting the noise cover the fact that I suddenly felt out of place in my own skin.
Liam spent the rest of the afternoon glued to Melissa, trailing her from the rope swing to the rocks like he’d been claimed. Every time I looked up, she was tugging his arm or splashing him, and he was eating it up.
Wyatt and I stayed in the water, drifting between the dam and the deeper pool. Angela kept her distance, but her eyes didn’t. Every time I surfaced, she was watching me. Her arms crossed, jaw tight, like I’d broken some rule I didn’t know I’d agreed to.
By late afternoon, Liam was already making plans.
“Y’all should come by our campsite tonight,” he said, loud enough for the whole spring to hear. “We got a fire pit and everything.”
Melissa lit up. Cathy and Rachel whispered to each other. Angela didn’t say a word. She looked at me instead, and something in her expression softened, like she wasn’t sure whether to be mad or disappointed.