"Yeah."
"This is—" I have to clear my throat. "Beautiful and so perfect. She's going to love it."
"I’m glad."
"I'm serious. This is art."
He shrugs, but his cheeks have gone a little pink.
I wrap the buckle back up, as gentle as a baby bird, and tuck it into my tote. Then I gaze up at him.
"I'm coming back tonight."
"To the forge?"
"To your cabin."
His eyes go dark, but he doesn’t respond right away.
"After the pool thing, and dinner with the girls. Late, probably. That alright?" I ask.
He pulls me to him. “Fuck yes, it’s alright.”
“Just checking. I didn’t want to assume, but?—”
He doesn’t let me finish before he grabs my face and plants a long, deep kiss on my mouth. "I'll be there," he says, leaving me dazed.
Somehow I make it back to my cabin, though I have no idea how.
"SWEET LORD IN HEAVEN!"
Laurel is crying.
She's lying on a poolside lounger in a black one-piece and a straw hat the size of a satellite dish, and she has the buckle cradled in both hands.
And she’s bawling like a kid just given a new puppy.
"Lark.Look at it."
"I'm looking, babe," I say, with my arm wrapped around her shoulders, giving her a squeeze.
"Thehorse. Look at hermane?—"
"I know."
"And my initials, oh my god, my pretty initials.”
Lyla hands her a fresh margarita and Laurel takes it, still staring at the buckle as if it's the Shroud of Turin.
"Happy birthday, love," Lyla says, and I kiss Laurel’s cheek, which smells of sunscreen and chlorine.
"I can't believe you both did this." She sniffles. "I can't believehedid this?"
"He's talented," I offer.
"He'smagical,” she replies.
"Mmhm."