Disloyalty

- 2 -

The bonfire is already burning when we get there, flames snapping against the dark like they're trying to compete with the music. Someone's brought a speaker, someone else has brought too much alcohol, and the beach smells like salt and smoke.

Andrew walks beside me, close enough that our arms brush every few steps. I pretend not to notice. I always pretend.

"Race you to the water," someone yells, already halfway there.

People scatter—laughing, shouting, shoes abandoned in the sand. I stay where I am, toes digging into the cool grit, watching the firelight flicker over Andrew's face. He looks relaxed tonight. Lighter. Like whatever's been weighing on him all summer has loosened its grip, just for now.

We sit with the group, close enough that our knees touch. Someone's telling a story about getting caught shoplifting, and everyone's laughing too hard. I laugh too, even though my chest feels tight in that way it sometimes does—like something's coming and I don't know what.

Then someone says it.

It's careless. Tossed out like a joke. Something about my family. About where I come from. About how it must've been easy for me to grow up "used to nothing."

The words land wrong. Sharp. Public.

I feel my face heat before I can stop it. I open my mouth, already bracing myself to laugh it off, to make it smaller than it feels—

"Hey," Andrew says.

Not loud. Not angry. Just solid.

Everyone looks at him.

"That's not funny," he continues. His voice is calm, but there's something underneath it. Steel. "Don't talk about her like that."

There's an awkward beat. Someone mutters, "Relax, man, it was a joke."

Andrew doesn't smile. "Yeah. I know. Don't do it again."

The moment passes. Someone changes the subject. The fire pops. Music swells back up.

But I can't stop staring at him.

Later—much later, when the night has thinned out and people are drunk and careless and laughing at Andrew for being "boring" because he still hasn't had a drink—I'll realize something.

He never lets anyone joke about me.

But he lets them joke about him.

Someone presses a beer into Andrew's hand. "Come on," they say. "Live a little."

Andrew glances at me before he answers. Not obviously. Just enough that I catch it.

"I'm good," he says, and sets it down in the sand untouched.

The music gets louder. The sky darker. People drift closer to the water, couples pairing off like it's inevitable.

Andrew and I wander away without saying it out loud. Past the bonfire, past the noise, until the only sounds left are the waves and the distant echo of laughter.

We lie down in the sand, shoulders almost touching, staring up at a sky so full of stars it feels unreal. Like someone spilled something and forgot to clean it up.

"I think I'm going to leave," Andrew says suddenly.

I turn my head toward him. "Like... tonight?"

He exhales a laugh. "No. Not tonight."

"Oh."

The word feels heavier than it should.

"I mean," he adds quickly, "not forever. Just—away."

"Where?" I ask.

He shrugs, eyes still on the sky. "Doesn't matter."

It matters to me. I don't say that.

We're quiet for a moment. The waves rush in and out, steady and patient. Andrew's hand is close to mine. Close enough that if I moved even a little, our fingers would touch.

Andrew's hand finds mine before I realise it's happening. He laces our fingers together like it's natural. Like it's always been this way.

He holds my hands between his, warm and steady. His eyes don't flick away. He looks serious in a way that makes my chest ache.

For a second, I think he's going to kiss me. He leans in, slow, careful, like he's giving me time to pull away. I don't. I can feel his breath now, warm against my cheek, the space between us so small it feels charged.

My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it.

Then he stops.

His hand gently lifts up to my face and softly brushes past my cheek, I sharply inhale trying to make it seem like im not having an internal breakdown.

"leaf" he says.

"what?" I say confused, if this is his idea of dirty talk or pick up line it's definitely interesting.

He pulls out some dead leaf from the side of my head and throws it away and all we can do is smile.

He stands up and offers me a hand like nothing happened, well nothing did but still I like to believe there was a connection.

Later that night, long after the bonfire has burned low and the beach has emptied, I'm walking back toward the car when I hear raised voices.

I stop.

Andrew's a little way off, phone pressed to his ear, pacing the sand. His shoulders are tight. His voice isn't loud, but it's sharp in the quiet.

"No, you don't get to decide that," he says. "You can't just—"

He turns away, back to me, and I know I shouldn't listen. I know I should walk away.

I don't.

"I said I'd handle it," he continues. "I'm not doing this again. I won't—"

There's a pause. His head drops slightly.

"...you promised," he says, and something in his voice fractures.

I step back before he can see me. My heart is racing, not with excitement this time, but with a dull, creeping dread.

When Andrew comes back a few minutes later, his face is composed. Calm. Controlled.

He smiles at me like nothing's wrong.

I smile back.

Neither of us says a word.

And somewhere between the stars and the sand and the promise he made with my hands in his, something begins to crack—quietly, invisibly—just waiting for the moment it finally breaks.