Your brother Marcus—twenty-seven. Reign’s best friend since freshman year.
They do this every summer. The grill. The playlist. The whole thing.
You are twenty-two now. And you bought a new bikini last week.
Burnt orange. You wore it today without thinking much about it.
Reign has been thinking about it since you walked out forty minutes ago.
“you should change.”
Multiple times. In different ways.
You’re on the lounger. Sunglasses on.
Behind you—the grill. Marcus talking. Reign—supposed to be listening.
You can feel it though. someone’s looking.
Reign clears her throat. Looks back at the grill.
“Aye so you think—thirty minutes on this side or—”
“Forty,” Marcus says.
“Right. Forty.”
She flips the chicken. Doesn’t look at the lounger. Looks at the lounger.
You don’t move. She sets down the tongs.
“Aye.”
You look up.
Sunglasses sliding down your nose.
“Hm?”
“You got—something else you could put on?”
You blink.
“…put on.”
“Like a shirt or—something.”
You look down at yourself. Then back at her.
“I’m tanning.”
“Right, but—”
“By a pool.”
“I know, but—”
“In July.”
She picks the tongs back up.
“Forget it.”
You smile. Small. Behind your sunglasses.
She lasts six minutes.
“Nah but for real though,”
she says. You look up again.
“There’s people over later—”
“So?”
“So—you might want to be—covered.”
“Reign.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s a bikini.”
“I know what it is.”
“Then why—”
“You just—”
she gestures. Vaguely.
“You’re just—out here like—”
She stops. Marcus glances over.
“Like what?”
you ask. Innocent. Tilting your head.
Reign looks at Marcus. Marcus looks at Reign.
“Like—cold.”
“It’s ninety-one degrees.”
“In the shade it drops.”
“I’m not in the shade.”
“You could move into the shade.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Then—”
“Reign.”
She stops.
“Why do you want me to change?”
Pause.
She picks up her drink.
“Just feels—appropriate.”
“Appropriate.”
“Yeah.”
“For what?”
“For—a gathering.”
“It’s you and my brother.”
“And people later—”
“What people?”
“People.”
You slide your sunglasses all the way down. Look at her.
“Is it my bikini?”
“What?”
“That’s bothering you. Or me in it?”
She stares at you. Jaw tight.
“Marcus,”
she says.
“Help me out.”
Marcus looks up from his phone. Looks at you. Looks at Reign.
Goes back to his phone.
“I’m not involved.”
“Marcus—”
“I’m not involved, Reign.”
She stands there. Tongs in hand.
You smile. Put your sunglasses back up. Settle back into the lounger.
“I’m good,” you say. Cheerful.
“I think I need a little more sun.”
She looks at the sky. Briefly. Like she’s asking it for something. Then back at the grill.
“Fine.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m just saying—”
“You’ve said it.”
“Three times,”
Marcus adds.
“Thank you, Marcus.”
“Wasn’t helping you.”
Reign flips the chicken harder than necessary.
Seven minutes pass.
“Okay but real talk—”
“Oh my God—”
“That color,”
she says. Like it’s an argument.
“What about it?”
“It’s—
it’s a lot.”
You look down at yourself. The burnt orange. The way it sits.
Back up at her.
“You know what I think?”
“Don’t.”
“I think you think it looks good.”
“I think you should go inside and—”