Time to unpack

You haven't been to Uncle Dan's lake house in a few years, but it's the perfect place to have a leisurely start-of-summer unwinding.

The house isn't right on the lake, but it's a few minutes' walk away, and shady with lots of trees and other nature shit, and a big deck. But honestly, this place could be a one-room shack and you'd still be happy, because your two favorite people are here, and your parents are not, and you have booze and you're pretty sure Scott brought weed, and there can't be a better recipe for a good time than all that. You push the car door open and hop out excitedly, bouncing on your toes in front of Dex as he climbs out too and stretches his long legs. "Thanks for letting me sit in front even though I'm short," you tell him.

He shrugs. "You gave me plenty of room. And trust me, nobody wants you getting carsick and puking like that one time. My dad's car stank like sour patch kids for a month."

"Well. Still. I appreciate your noble sacrifice. My barf might not have such a pleasant bouquet this time."

He laughs a little. "Here, you can help me carry this stuff inside." Dex hands you a shopping tote containing a bunch of your provisions, then picks up another himself and lifts his chin in the direction of the door.

The inside of the cabin is even better than you remember, because there's an extremely well-stocked liquor cabinet and enough multiples of bottles that you can definitely get away with drinking some of his uncle's actual hard stuff.

"Jackpot," Scott says, when he comes in with both your duffel bags and sees the cabinet. "I see we're well set to party our asses off again."

You shudder. "Don't say that. This is going to be absolutely fucking nothing like Lizzie's sister's thing," you tell him, since that was the last time anybody could argue you partied your ass off.

"Anything not ending in multiple arrests easily crests that threshold," Dex remarks dryly, and you cringe inwardly for even mentioning that stupid party.

Scott glances between you two. "You're not wrong, my friend," he agrees instead of trading any further thinly veiled hostilities with Dex, to your vast relief. "We're aiming for a more favorable outcome," he says, grinning, before going back out to the car for the rest of the stuff.

You go into the small kitchen, where Dex is taking food out of the cooler you packed together that morning and putting it in the small fridge. "It's not a mini-fridge, but it's still such a little baby," you squeal when you see it, and he smiles a little at your enthusiasm. "It's not all grown up yet!" you say, handing him a bottle of catsup.

"Don't put that in the fridge," Scott objects, coming into the room. "It's not even opened yet. It'll be all cold."

Dex ignores him and puts the catsup in the fridge door. "That's kind of the point. She likes cold catsup," he says.

"Seriously?" Scott asks, coming over and peering into the fridge, draping his arm lazily over your shoulder. "How did I not know that about you, Bridge? That's super weird, by the way."

"No it's not," you say, making a face. "Do you... not keep it in the fridge? How are you like... not poisoned by mold?"

"I just use the stuff in the little mini plastic tubs," he says. "It's fine when I only open up as much as I can eat at once. I just get a few extra at Culver's every time."

"You sound psychotic," Dex tells him, taking the mustard from you and putting it next to the catsup. "You sound like Ed Kemper."

"Whatever. I like what I like." Scott gives you a friendly clap on the shoulder, then shrugs and picks up his duffel, taking it into one of the bedrooms.

"I guarantee you he has no idea who Ed Kemper is," Dex remarks under his breath.

"Well, maybe it's weird that we do," you point out, feeling obliged to defend your absent third party against the second Scott's-so-dumb joke Dex has made in as many hours.

His eyes flick up to yours, and then he resumes putting away the groceries. "Fair enough," he says easily.

"What's really going on with you, Teddy?" you whisper, intentionally using your childhood nickname for him, and he looks back up at you again. "You're being so pissy. Are you ever going to tell me?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing. I'm just being a dick. Sorry. I slept shitty last night. I'll stop acting like such a bitch."

You don't believe him, but you've had a dozen variations on this conversation the last few months and all the others went basically like this too. You hold his gaze and try to think of something to say, but nothing comes to you, so you hand him a box of saltines from the bag instead, and he puts it in the cupboard.

"What about you, are you... eating enough lately, Birdie?" he asks, apropos of absolutely nothing other than you're both standing in a kitchen, and you look at him in confusion. You get the feeling that's not the question he's actually trying to ask.

"Huh? I guess, yeah. Why?"

He shrugs. "Dunno. Just seems like you've lost weight or something. Not sure. Probably imagining it, never mind."

You look down at yourself, frowning in confusion. "I think I look okay."

"Right, yeah. Of course you do," he replies. "I just meant, you just haven't seemed quite like your old self."

"Yeah, maybe me being grounded the last five months by people who think being in a room with a closed door is a sacrosanct privilege reserved for only good boys and girls could have had something to do with that," you say, trying not to sound too testy about it.

"Yeah, of course, sorry," he says, immediately dropping it.

"It's okay," you tell him, relenting. "Sorry too. I shouldn't be pissy just because you had the sense to bail on that stupid party and I didn't. But I really want us all to have a good time," you appeal to him. "Can you please try to be nice?"

"This is me trying," Dex mutters, and you look helplessly at him, trying to suppress a sigh.

Scott comes back from the other room before you can say anything else. "Whatcha whispering about?" he inquires pleasantly.

"Only your small dick energy," Dex says immediately, with a big, fake, shit-eating grin.

Both of them ignore your scowl at that.

Scott laughs cheerfully. "If it's small, it's at least enthusiastically wielded," he tells Dex, who rolls his eyes, and not in a good-natured way.

Why are you being so shitty? you mouth at him, then practically grind your teeth when he pretends to be very interested in the label on the hot dog bun bag instead of looking at you.

"Want a drink, Bridge?" Scott asks from behind you, perusing the liquor cabinet. "It's five o'clock somewhere, or whatever they say."