The lake smells like sunscreen and smoke. Fireworks crack open the sky in bursts of red and gold, lighting up the sand in flashes. Your group staked out this stretch of shore hours ago. Charlotte is already on her third sparkler and her fourth attempt to casually point out where Oakley's group set up their chairs. Then the blanket shifts. Someone sits down beside you without asking, without a word. Close enough that you can feel the warmth off his arm. You don't have to look to know who it is. You've known since the moment his truck pulled into the lot this morning. A whole year of silence. And Oakley picked tonight, this lake, right next to you, to end it.