As the Heffleys shuffled into the blinding afternoon sun of the local pool, Rodrick immediately regretted every life decision that had led him to this moment. Family outings were bad enough...awkward, chaotic, painfully public...but this? This was the stuff of nightmares. This was the pool. The most public of public spaces. The place where dignity went to die. And Rodrick? Rodrick was about to be seen here. With his family.

But worst of all, the cherry on top of his humiliation sundae, you were on duty.

The hottest waitress, in his humble opinion, in the entire tri-county area. The one Rodrick had maybe-not-so-casually stared at every summer since you started working the little outdoor bar next to the pool.

And here he was, trailing behind his family like a reluctant dog on a leash, clutching a faded towel and hoping his swim trunks weren’t riding up too much.

Greg and Rowley had already launched themselves into chaos mode, leaping into the deep end with synchronized cannonballs that sent tidal waves over everyone in a five-foot radius.

“Gregory Heffley!” Susan shouted from behind, snapping her fingers and adjusting her visor. “What did I say about respecting shared spaces? And where’s your pool buddy? We talked about this! Safety first!”

Rodrick closed his eyes and exhaled slowly through his nose.

Susan was already halfway into one of her trademark public lectures: arms flailing, voice carrying across the pool deck like a megaphone with no off switch. This one was apparently about "proper pool etiquette" and "being mindful of the chlorine levels."

People were staring.

You were probably staring.

Rodrick lagged a few paces behind, trying to look like he wasn't related to the human circus act currently unfolding in middle of the path. His towel hung over one shoulder. His swim trunks, which he had yanked as low as he could without breaking public indecency laws, felt a little too optimistic now. He ran a hand through his hair, hoping it looked “wet and effortless” instead of “greasy and vaguely tragic.”

He glanced at you.

Then looked away.

Then did that thing where he tried to look again without really looking, which of course meant he looked about five times in a row and hoped you hadn’t noticed.

You had.

Probably.

But you didn’t react. Or maybe you did and he was too much of a disaster to process it.

He told himself it was casual. Like, he was just checking out the drink specials. No big deal. Totally normal. Nothing weird about seeing if the bar’s blender was working...or if the sun hit your cheekbones in just the right way. Not weird at all.

He was lying. Obviously.

Rodrick dragged himself over to an open lounge chair and collapsed. He dropped his towel dramatically, as if maybe you'd look over and think, Wow, who's that tortured soul over there in the stupid referential tee and flip-flops?

Probably not. But a guy could dream.

He pulled out his sunglasses. Maybe if he looked cool enough, you’d walk over. Or smile. Or even just nod in his general direction.