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“Are we?” Mike grinned. “Do gays ever really grow up?”
I opened my mouth—then shut it.
Fair point.
“Fine,” I muttered, shifting slightly in my seat. “You go first.”
Mike hummed, tapping his fingers against the wheel. “All right . . . I spy with my little eye . . . something green.”
I blinked out the window. “The trees.”
Mike sighed. “God, you’re boring.”
“What else would it be? We’re literally in the middle of the woods.”
“Maybe I was thinking of something more specific,” Mike shot back.
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Was it that tree?” I pointed vaguely.
“No.”
“What about that tree?”
“Still no.”
“Hmm.” I tapped my chin. “That tree?”
Mike groaned. “Elliot—”
I grinned. “I hate this game.”
Mike let out a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Your turn.”
I glanced around, pretending to look for something. Then I smirked. “All right. I spy with my little eye . . . something furry.”
Mike barely spared me a glance before deadpanning, “Homer.”
I snapped my fingers. “Wow. You are good at this.”
Mike snorted. “This is the worst game we’ve ever played.”
I tilted my head. “Worse than ‘Guess What’s In My Pocket’?”
“That was a terrible game,” Mike shot back. “There was never anything in your pocket.”
“Yeah.” I grinned. “But you kept falling for it, pawing at it, grabbing something that was definitelynotin my pocket.”
Mike groaned, shaking his head, but his hand tightened around mine.
And for a while, we just drove.
The wind was warm, the sun was dipping lower, and now and then, Homer nudged my hand like he needed reassurance that this was real, that we were actually doing this.
The cabin was tucked deep into the woods, set against the edge of a sprawling, still lake that mirrored the sky like a perfect sheet of glass. It was the kind of place you’d see in a postcard—deep cedar walls, wide wraparound porch, wooden rocking chairs lined up like they were waiting for us.
Mike parked, then turned to me. “So?”
I took it all in—the stillness, the peace, the way the air smelled like pine and water and something new.