The sun is well past set by the time my dad finally ends the call. I'm lying on the living room couch, fanned out with my phone pressed to my ear so Roz can't hear the things my mom says about her. Today's sermonizing wasn't quite as bad—less of "Marcella, it's very irresponsible to date your boss" and more of "Well, it was very nice of Roz to get you on TV, honey."

When I told them that it wasn't Roz, it was my publisher, I was met with an air of 'same difference.'

I respond to a congratulatory text from Professor Kestler, thank Daniel and Alison and even Kirby for their similar messages, and push down the guilt rumbling in my stomach as I ignore another text from Cassidy: Who's my favorite little TV star? Great job on the interview! When you're back from the cabin, let's schedule a time to call and go over your book two options, okay?

I can respond to that back in Manhattan. No use in worrying about it now.

I make my way out to the back deck, lit by those mosquito-repellent tiki torches that I was never sure really worked, where Roz is stretched out in a chair. She's exchanged her white long-sleeve and jeans for cotton sleep shorts (stolen, from my place) (she can literally afford her own) and her oversized Columbia crewneck. She's got a book in her hand, a beat-up second-hand copy of Elantris by Brandon Sanderson. She's definitely devoured quite a bit in the past hour or so.

"How's your book?" I ask, shifting my hair out of my face and sitting down on the chair next to her. "Thinly-veiled communist propaganda?"

"Just as I'd hoped," she muses, then dog-ears her page, setting the book down next to her. The torchlight gives her face a soft, blurred sort of glow, and it gives her eyes a challenging glint. "How are your parents?"

I shift in my chair, trying to get comfortable. "Um, fine, they were fine. They say thanks for getting me on TV, by the way."

Roz groans. "Mannn. That's crazy."

"Yeah." My skin crawls—it always does when it feels like I'm throwing my parents under the bus, but Roz isn't wrong. They're not "crazy," though. They're just my parents. "They're also asking me when I'm going to come to Sioux City to sign books." Or Sioux Falls, or Omaha, or Des Moines. They'll take anything.

"Do you think you'll visit before your book tour?"

The words 'book' and 'tour' together make me somewhat lightheaded. I try to play it off, to shrug slightly and squint, like it doesn't bother me. "Maybe? We'll see. I don't know when I'd even have the time, so...."

"If you want the time off, Marcie," Roz says, reaching over and grabbing my hand, "just take it. My schedule is pretty same-y now that the movie's filming location is coming here. Just think: we'll get to leave the apartment."

"Oh, I don't know, Roz.... Who else would sit around and force you to drink water instead of coffee?"

She smirks. "Maybe that's why I want you gone. So I can stain my teeth and strain my heart."

I laugh, but it sounds hollow. Caffeine isn't the only craving of Roz's I worry about, especially when it comes to the All Hail Mary set.

Still, I feel like an asshole to reject her answer like that. I'll have to go see my parents eventually. Hell, I want to. I've gone a while without seriously talking to them—outside of the odd text about a neighbor who died; someone's nephew has cancer; or, a quick text letting them know that I'm using their health insurance for a check-up, we haven't spoken much. I miss the days of being our active three-person group chat. I miss being able to send my dad slightly inappropriate animal videos, and I miss getting to watch crappy carbon-copy HGTV shows with my mom.

But the idea of going back feels nicer when I'm going back for a book tour, as a cool, successful young-ish adult who's accomplished everything they set out to do before twenty-six.

"I'll think about it," I promise, but I'm pretty sure I'll be waiting until the book tour. It'll be easier, I tell myself, to spend a week or so there after your release.

Yeah. That sounds about right.

After a few seconds of silence, wherein I stare at the tiki flames and try not to think of Daniel's Survivor commentary, I move to stand. "I'll be right back. I'm gonna go grab my book."

Roz's hand doesn't leave mine though, and she tugs me back down onto the seat, sitting up. I follow her lead, albeit quizzically.

"Wait, wait, what if we made s'mores instead?" Her lips are curved slightly upwards, and, in the torchlight, her eyes have a mischievous glint to them.

"S'more what? I haven't had anything yet, so how can I have some more of nothing?"

She sighs, her head flopping back dramatically. "You're killing me, Smallz."

"Thank you, thank you. Anyways, did we even bring stuff to make s'mores?"

"Excuse you. What kind of Midwesterner do you think I am?"

I bite my lip, trying not to smile. "A better one than I am, hopefully?"

She leans over, crossing the space between our chairs to press a firm kiss against my cheek. "You're darn tootin', I am."

I laugh despite myself, moving to stand once more. "Okay, okay. I'll go grab the—"

"Wait." She's pursing her lips, looking up at me with those big, dark eyes. "What if, before we start that fire and make s'mores...."

I wait, eyeing her suspiciously in the orange tiki light.

"Well ... have you ever been skinny dipping?"

"You're so down bad, oh my god."

She harrumphs, shaking her head slowly. "You're one to talk."

I pull away and cross my arms. "And what do you mean by that?" (I know precisely what she means by that.) (Bring back shame, guys. Bring back shame.)

"Don't play stupid," Roz says, staring up at me. She stretches languidly in her chair, reaching her hands above her head, causing her crewneck to rise up and reveal her toned, freckle-spattered stomach. She doesn't break our eye contact once—she knows exactly what she's doing to me.

"I've never been skinny dipping," I tell her slowly, reaching out and placing my index finger on the tip of her nose. "But, I'm not inclined to start."

She pouts, wiggling her nose until my finger slips off. "Why not?"

I rub the back of my neck. "Have you never seen that episode of River Monsters with those, like, urethral swimmy-uppy parasite fish?"

"We're ... in freshwater, as far as I'm aware. Quite a ways away from the equator, and any brain-eating amoebas that might reside there."

"I'm not scared of brain-eating amoebas," I insist. "I'm scared of my life becoming something that a barely employed actor has to reenact for Jeremy Wade and the devoted viewers of the Animal Channel."

"Marcie—"

"I know, I sound totally crazy, but also, I'm pretty sure those urethra fish—many an evil fish, at the very least—committed their dastardly crimes in freshwater, soooo...." Like, a swimsuit, I could do. But naked? I don't know.

Roz sits up. "We don't have to skinny dip, lovely. I just thought it might be interesting."

I bite my lip, glancing past the railing of the deck, to where the peaceful surface of Keuka Lake glimmers slightly beneath the moonlight. Our private dock sticks out as a darkened sore thumb, its dingy wood a dark grey in the night. There are a couple bonfires on the other side of the lake, but they're so far that I can't even spot any people there. A mile or so out, I spot a pontoon, but it's headed away from our direction.

I look back to Roz, who's sitting up, just watching me. "You're sure it's safe?"

Her expression goes from playful to something softer. "Honey, I wouldn't want you to do something unsafe. We don't have to do this if you don't want to."

I look back at the lake once more, then back to her. "Can I ... think about it?" I want to, but there are two voices inside my head—one that says we could get in trouble, and one that says it'll be cold as balls.

Roz smiles. "Of course."

I smile back and ignore the voice in my head that says Ottilie Le Blanc would go skinny dipping. Willow Leave would go skinny dipping. Cool, confident women would go skinny dipping.

I do not fuck heavy with this voice.

"Why don't you grab your book," Roz suggests, leaning back, "and we can sit out here and read together?"

I smile despite myself. "And the s'mores?"

"I'm wayyy too lazy for s'mores tonight. What do you think?"

"I am also way too lazy." I head toward the sliding door, stopping next to her to press a firm kiss against her forehead. "I love you," I tell her, and I mean it.

"I love you too," she says, already picking up her book and thumbing through to find her dog-eared page.

I slide the deck door shut behind me and manage to walk a few feet before coming to a stop. I don't know why, but I take a few seconds to force myself to breathe slower, and to clench and unclench my fists. There's this weird sense of anxiety thrumming through my chest. I swear I can feel my heart skipping beats.

Should I have said yes to skinny dipping? It's definitely not my vibe. I didn't expect it to be Roz's, either. I've been trying to fight down my people-pleasing instincts—the ones that tell me to do whatever it takes to keep Roz happy and satisfied—but it's been hard to tell when I'm making a normal relationship concession, or if I'm doing something I don't want to do.

Don't get me wrong, Roz has this little sixth-sense when it comes to how I'm feeling about something. She's never pushed me to do anything I don't want to do; we haven't gone to any clubs on nights I feel like staying in, or drank on nights where I have something important to do. But if she ever pushed an issue just a smidge more, I worry I'd do whatever she wanted, and convince myself I was happy about it.

I think she knows that, too. Not that I'm going to bring it up.

I walk through the kitchen and down the hall to the bedroom, nearly slipping on the hardwood before it turns to a large, pinkish Moroccan rug. The bedroom is simplistic—very lakeside vibes, with blue and green decor and a crisp, white duvet—and as I reach for my book in my bag, I find myself pausing a second time.

Would Ottilie really have gone skinny dipping?

Which, ugh. I'm being stupid. If Roz wanted to be with Ottilie, she'd just ... be with Ottilie. I mean, they just wrapped up filming All Hail Mary in Atlanta and are switching to their New York locations, meaning Roz and I will start going to set more frequently. The one time we joined Catalina and Mauro in Georgia, Ottilie was on Roz like white on rice the whole time. Constantly coming up to her and batting her eyes and asking Roz if she thinks she's being accurate to the character, which of course she is, because she's Ottilie Le Blanc, and Oscars were invented to be given to her. Also, there was a lot of weird arm-grabbing, uncomfortable glances, and light, rich laughter.

I grab one of the books I brought along for the trip—Late to the Party by Kelly Quindlen, because I need a brain break from adult literary fiction or I'm going to scream—and force myself to take another deep, steadying breath.

Roz loves me.

Roz wouldn't be with me if she didn't love me.

I'm enough for her. Even if I don't skinny dip.

It's not like I cornered her into being my girlfriend or anything, after all. Slept with her and cajoled her into it. Yeah. No.

Jesus Christ. I'm an adult woman. My girlfriend loves me. I need to get over myself.

When I get back out onto the deck, Roz is once again consumed in her Sanderson—although she does spare me a quick glance and sly smile, right as I sit down in the seat beside her. She turns to face me, holding Elantris up in front of her face as she curls up in some sort of semi-fetal position, and I mimic her, shimmying onto my side and cracking open my paperback copy of Late to the Party, one I had to special order from the indie bookseller down the block from the Deja Brew.

I take one last deep, calming breath. New book smell is suddenly all-encompassing. I'll never know how to describe it—is it like the scent of a late-April drizzle to come, fresh and earthy and promising? Or maybe something way less fucking pretentious? I don't really care to describe it. I just stroke the edges of the pages with my index finger as I begin reading, feeling the freshly varnished paper beneath my fingers.

Soon, I'll be holding my book. And it'll smell like this.

With my advance of $500,000 (I know, holy shit)—defined by Publishers Marketplace as a "major" bookdeal, thank you very fucking much—being split into three payments, after taxes and the fifteen-percent I owe Cassidy as my agent, I took home just over ninety-thousand. Dollars. Ninety-thousand dollars. Me.

The first things I did? Set aside enough for two year's worth of rent above the Brew and double my food budget for the while, then put most of the rest of it into savings. Because, that's right, I'm a bitch with a savings account now.

Then the next thing I did? Bought a few pairs of fancy silk pajamas, and a new IKEA cube shelf for my room. And an armful of books to go along with it—all the authors I've been wanting to read but haven't had time to, from newer authors like Xiran Jay Zhao and R.F. Kuang to older classics I've been wanting to get around to, like Austen and Wilde.

No words will ever express how much I fucking adore Cassidy Thorpe. She—fresh off of her meager maternity leave—got me the kind of contract you dream about. Really, I owe her thanks for giving me the ability to afford this book I now hold.

I'm seven chapters in when I notice Roz and I have started echoing each other's yawns. I'm not sure what time it is, but the waning moon is high in the sky, and all but one of the bonfires across the lake have been put out.

"Psst," I hiss, peeking over the top of the book, "on a scale of one to ten, how tired are you?"

Roz peeks over the top of Elantris, her forehead lined as she yawns in response. "That answer your question?"

I yawn back. "A yawn isn't a number, but, yes. Yes it does."

She sighs, reaching to dog-ear her page once again. (I could never.) "Okay, darling. Let's get to bed."

"Y'know, I really wish you had a Transatlantic accent. That would make most of what you say, like, ninety-percent better."

"Well, you can wish in one hand and shi—"

"Even that would sound at least ninety-percent better with a Transatlantic accent." I slide my bookstore receipt between the pages to mark my spot and sit up. "I'd even go so far as to wager a solid ninety-two percent."

"You think you're so funny."

"Hmmm. That one would only be about eighty-percent, actually."

She groans as she sits up. Her dark hair slides to cover her face, until she half-hazardly tucks the thick, unruly strands behind her ears. She's so tired, she's just sitting there with her eyes closed.

"Let's just go to bed," she says, standing slowly, book still in hand, eyes still half-closed.

I follow suit, walking around our chairs to follow her inside. "They're getting less satisfying as they go on, not gonna lie."

"I'm ruining your hopes and dreams," Roz muses, pretending to slide the screen door shut in front of me. I laugh and catch it, and she glances back behind her, eyes squinted nearly shut through her tiredness as she smiles.

"I'd be okay with that if you threw in another 'darling,'" I insist, stepping through the threshold and sliding the door shut behind me. "Really, I mean it."

She shakes her head slowly. "You're so silly."

I wait.

She relents.

"Darling."

"I'm so silly for you," I tell her, lightly tapping her shoulder with my book. "Now, let's go to bed, before I pass the fuck out in the hallway."

She turns, waiting with those squinty, sleepy eyes. "What? No 'bless you's for Giacomo?"

I relent. And smile, shaking my head.

"Darling."