Page 23

LENA

I stare at my phone in dismay. The realtor has canceled the eighth—eighth!—apartment showing this week. "Unit was just rented. I'm so sorry. I will call with other options," reads the text. I slump back in my office chair, tossing my phone onto the desk with more force than necessary.

Finding a new place is proving to be impossible.

Everything in my price range is either forty minutes from work or has serious issues.

The one decent apartment I toured had a lease ready for me to sign until the landlord "remembered" their no-pet policy when I mentioned occasionally dog-sitting for friends.

I have no idea why I would mention Gordie to a potential landlord. He’s not even my dog. And Alder isn’t going to call me when he goes out of town and needs help with the smelly mutt.

The lunch hour is nearly over, and I've accomplished nothing except increased frustration.

I should be reviewing hockey teeth, not scrolling through rental listings I can't afford.

I force myself to open Tucker Stag's chart, focusing on his upcoming fitting, but my thoughts keep drifting back to his twin.

Things have been strained at the townhouse since the barbershop quartet incident four days ago.

We've been polite—excruciatingly so—as if we're careful houseguests instead of the friends we'd become. I find myself missing our easy banter and scheming. I still haven’t talked to him about our strategy for Gunnar’s wedding.

I should be there as a member of the Fury staff. However, I seriously doubt my ability to keep my hands off Alder when he’s in fancy clothes, especially if he smells like aftershave again.

My phone buzzes. My first instinct is to ignore it, assuming it's another cancellation. But when I glance down, I see Alder's name.

Weather's supposed to be perfect tomorrow. Let's get out of our heads for a day.

I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the screen. I should decline, maintain boundaries, and focus on apartment hunting.

But the thought of another day spent calling realtors and looking at dingy studios tightens my chest. Beneath my professional concerns lies a simpler truth I'm reluctant to admit: I miss him.

What did you have in mind?

I type before I can talk myself out of it.

Kayaking on the river. Pittsburgh rite of passage. No pressure.

My stomach immediately clenches. Kayaking? With my body? The image of trying to wedge myself into a tiny plastic boat while athletic people look on in judgment makes me want to curl into a ball.

Not sure if that's my thing.

I respond, which is the understatement of the year.

His reply comes quickly:

Have you ever tried it?

No, but...

I stop typing, recognizing the familiar pattern. How many experiences have I avoided because of fear? How many times have I let Brad's voice in my head—or my mother's—dictate what I should and shouldn't attempt with this body?

Before I can overthink it, I delete my hesitant message and type:

Never tried it, but I'm willing to give it a shot. What time?

9 am? I'll drive. Bring sunscreen.

I set my phone down, a mixture of excitement and anxiety swirling in my stomach. It's just kayaking, I tell myself. It's not a date. It's two friends spending time together. Yet, that feels like a big, fat lie.

Friday morning dawns clear and bright, just as Alder predicted. I emerge out of my room in swim shorts and a t-shirt, having agonized over my outfit choice for far too long. Alder is already in the kitchen, packing a small cooler.

"Morning," he says with cautious cheerfulness. I’m probably imagining him staring at my legs. But then, maybe he’s blinded by the miles of white skin that haven’t seen the sun yet this summer. He clears his throat. "Coffee?"

"Please." I accept the mug he offers, noticing he's wearing swim trunks and a faded college t-shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders. "Where are we going exactly?"

"Aspinwall. There's a kayak rental place up there that's a bit off the beaten path." He closes the cooler. "Less crowded than the downtown spots. Figured you'd prefer that."

The thoughtfulness of this choice catches me off guard. "Yeah, that's... thanks. That's perfect."

He shrugs, but I can see he's pleased by my reaction. "Ready whenever you are."

The drive to Aspinwall is quiet but not uncomfortable. Alder lets me control the music, and I settle on a playlist of indie folk that seems to fit the morning. As we leave the city behind, the knot of tension in my chest begins to loosen.

When we arrive at the kayak rental place—little more than a shed near a boat launch—there are only a few cars in the small gravel lot. The Allegheny River stretches before us, glinting in the morning sun.

"It's beautiful here," I say, surprised by how peaceful it feels despite being so close to the city.

"One of Pittsburgh's best-kept secrets," Alder agrees. "My brothers and I used to come up here in high school when we weren’t on the ice. You know, our mom is an Olympic rower.”

My eyes widen. “I didn’t know that, but I guess I’m not surprised. Is rowing the same as kayaking?”

Alder laughs, a warm, low sound that sends sparks dancing in my belly. “Not the same thing at all, Lena. But we’re going to have fun, I promise.”

As we approach the rental shed, my anxiety returns full force. The attendant, a college-aged white guy with a deep tan, greets us with practiced enthusiasm.

"Morning, folks! Looking to get out on the water today?"

"Two singles, please," Alder says, handing over his credit card before I can reach for my wallet. "For a few hours."

"You got it. Need any instruction, or have you done this before? "

"I've been out a few times," Alder says. "My friend's a first-timer."

The attendant nods. "No problem. I'll give you both a quick rundown. What size life jackets do you need?"

My cheeks burn at the question. I open my mouth, unsure how to answer without drawing attention to my size, but before I can speak, Alder says casually, "We'll both need XLs."

The attendant doesn't bat an eye. He just reaches behind him and pulls two orange life jackets from hooks. Like it’s nothing. Like size makes no difference, and the only concern is safety. "These should work. Try 'em on to be sure."

I take the offered jacket with trembling fingers, surprised when it unfolds to a size that looks like it might actually fit. I slip it on over my t-shirt and find that, while snug, it closes without issue.

"All good?" Alder asks, already buckled into his vest.

"Yeah," I say, a little stunned. "It fits."

He raises an eyebrow. "What, did you think they wouldn't have our size? I'm big too, Lena."

His matter-of-fact tone makes me laugh despite myself. "I guess I didn't think about it that way."

"That's what I'm here for. To provide perspective." He grins, the first genuine smile I've seen from him in days, and something warm unfurls in my chest.

The attendant shows us the basics—how to hold the paddle, how to get in and out of the kayak, and simple steering techniques—before helping us launch. I wobble precariously as I settle into the plastic seat, certain I'm about to capsize before even leaving the dock.

"You've got it," Alder encourages from his own kayak. "Just breathe and find your center. The boat wants to stay upright, I promise."

Somehow, I manage to push off from the metal dock without tipping over. The kayak feels surprisingly stable once I'm actually moving, and after a few tentative strokes with the paddle, I start to get the hang of it.

"This isn't so bad," I call to Alder, who's paddling alongside me with practiced ease.

"Told you!" He grins again. "Let's head upriver a bit. There's a nice stretch with less boat traffic."

We paddle in companionable silence for a while, finding a rhythm that carries us smoothly through the water.

This physical activity clears my mind in a way that nothing has in weeks.

I'm not thinking about fraternization policies, student loans, or apartment hunting—just the next stroke of the paddle, the sun warming my shoulders, and the quiet splash of water.

And, while Alder is a professional athlete, he’s not zooming ahead or making this into a workout by any means. We’re just cruising, and it’s really, really nice.

"So," Alder says after we've been on the water for maybe twenty minutes, "I've been meaning to ask. Did Brad ever respond to his musical serenade?"

I can't help but laugh. "Not directly. However, one of the dental assistants at the facility has a daughter in his department. Apparently, he tried to finish the lecture as if nothing happened, but then dismissed the class early. He canceled his office hours for the rest of the week."

"Mission accomplished, then." He looks pleased with himself.

"I suppose so." I navigate around a partially submerged log. "I'm sorry I overreacted that day. It was just... the timing couldn't have been worse with the management meeting."

"No, you were right to be upset." Alder's voice is more serious now. "I should have talked to you first. I just thought..." He trails off, focusing on his paddling.

"Thought what?"

He shrugs. "That you were avoiding me because you were disappointed. Maybe if I showed some initiative with the revenge plan, things would return to how they were."

His honesty catches me off guard. "I wasn't disappointed in you, Alder. I was trying to protect my job." I pause, considering how much to reveal. "And maybe protect myself a little too."

"From me?" He sounds genuinely confused.

"From this whole situation." I gesture vaguely between us, nearly losing my balance in the process. "It's complicated, and I'm not good at complicated."

"Seems like we're both pretty bad at it," he admits with a small smile. "Maybe we should stick to simple today."

"Simple sounds perfect."