Blackwater Grove

Atlas Whitcombe was kissing a girl in the kitchen and looking straight at me while he did it.

That should have been enough warning.

I stood by the bookshelf with a plastic cup of champagne in my hand, pretending I had not noticed. Around me, Yale students laughed too loudly, leaned too close, and discussed summer plans like poverty was a rumor they had heard once and decided not to believe. Nantucket. Aspen. The Vineyard. A house in Maine. A villa someone's stepfather "barely used" in Italy.

I smiled when I was supposed to. I laughed half a second after everyone else. I knew the rules well enough by now.

Never look impressed.

Never ask what something costs.

Never let them see you calculating whether the wine in your cup was worth more than your groceries.

I almost fit in, which was worse than not fitting in at all. Not fitting in could be blamed on them. Almost fitting in meant I had tried.

Atlas pulled away from the girl slowly. She had red lipstick and diamonds in her ears, because apparently even student parties had tiers. Her fingers stayed hooked in his shirt as if she had earned the right.

He smiled at her.

His eyes stayed on me.

I took a sip of champagne just to have something to do with my mouth.

Bad idea. The champagne was dry and expensive and made me feel like I was drinking someone's inheritance.

A guy in a linen shirt bumped my shoulder and spilled half his drink on my sleeve.

"Shit, sorry," he said, then glanced where I was looking. "Oh. Whitcombe."

As if that explained the weather, the economy, and my poor taste in men.

"It's fine," I said.

He grinned. "You're Jude, right? Atlas's..."

He stopped.

I raised my eyebrows.

"Friend," he finished.

"Very brave answer."

He laughed, uncomfortable, and vanished into the crowd.

Atlas's friend. Atlas's what? Atlas's temporary entertainment? Atlas's scholarship-boy curiosity? I should have hated the thought. I did hate it. I also stayed exactly where I was, watching him cross the room toward me.

Atlas moved like the party had been built around his body. Tall, dark-haired, golden-skinned, white shirt open at the throat, silver ring on his thumb. He looked relaxed in a way that only people who have never feared consequences can manage.

He stopped too close.

"You're wet," he said.

I looked at my sleeve. "Astute."

"Champagne?"

"No, Atlas. I've been weeping over your moral decline."

His mouth curved. "That would take commitment."

"You seem worth the grief."

He laughed then, soft and low, and I hated the little kick it gave my pulse.

"Come outside," he said.

"No."

"Why?"

"Because every time you say something like that, someone loses self-respect."

His eyes flicked over my face. "Is yours in danger?"

"Constantly. But I'm managing it."

He leaned closer, close enough that I caught the scent of him: clean soap, wine, smoke from someone else's cigarette. "Come outside, Jude."

The worst part was my name. He said it like he had already taken it somewhere private.

I should have refused again.

Instead, I followed him.

The balcony was narrow and cold, crowded with people smoking and pretending not to shiver. New Haven glittered below us, damp streets shining under the lights. A boy with curls and a bored mouth immediately leaned into Atlas's side.

"Whitcombe," he murmured.

"Felix," Atlas said.

Felix smiled at me like he had already decided I was temporary. He let his shoulder press against Atlas's arm. Atlas allowed it, because Atlas allowed most things until he decided not to.

I looked over the railing.

Fine.

Absolutely fine.

I was not jealous of a man named Felix. I had standards, even if they were currently under review.

Atlas glanced at me. "You're making that face."

"What face?"

"The one where you pretend you're above everyone."

"I am above several people."

Felix laughed. "I like him."

"Everyone does eventually," Atlas said.

I looked at him. "That sounds like a threat."

"It usually is."

Felix got bored when nobody competed for him and drifted back inside. The balcony door shut behind him, dulling the music into a pulse.

Atlas took out a cigarette case and offered me one.

"I don't smoke."

"I know."

"Then why offer?"

"Some people enjoy refusing."

I stared at him. "Do you practice being unbearable, or is this natural talent?"

"With you, I'm holding back."

"Terrifying."

He lit his cigarette, shielding the flame from the wind. For a second the fire made his face look sharper, older. Less like a beautiful boy at a party and more like someone who knew exactly where every exit was.

"So," he said, "what are you doing this summer?"

"Working."

"Where?"

"Rare books library, if they approve my hours. Maybe the museum on weekends."

"That sounds miserable."

"It sounds like rent."

His eyes stayed on me. "Come with me instead."

I laughed because I thought he was joking.

He wasn't.

My smile faded. "Where?"

"Blackwater."

The word felt strange in the air between us.

"Is that a place or a cult?" I asked.

"Both, depending on the aunt."

"Comforting."

"It's in the Hudson Valley. My family goes every summer." He leaned back against the railing. "Four houses, one lake, too many relatives, and enough bad decisions to keep us from getting bored."

"Sounds charming."

"It's family hell with better wine."

"That should be on the invitation."

"It probably was before my grandmother fired someone."

I folded my arms. "You're inviting me to spend the summer with your family?"

"Part of it."

"Why?"

"Because you'd like it."

"You don't know that."

"I know you."

"No, you know what I let you see in seminars and at parties."

"That's still more than most people let me see."

Annoying. Worse, effective.

Atlas pulled out his phone and opened his photos. He did not hand it to me. He held it between us so I had to lean closer.

The first picture was a lake at dusk, black water edged with gold. Trees crowded the banks, thick and dark, and a stone dock reached into the surface like a pale finger.

"Blackwater Lake," he said.

"Subtle."

"My ancestors were many things. Poets weren't one of them."

He swiped.

A house appeared. No, not a house. Calling it that felt legally wrong. It rose above the lake in dark stone, with towers, tall windows, and a severe kind of beauty. It looked like money had put on a funeral coat.

"Harrowmere Hall," he said. "Home base."

"You live there?"

"In summer."

"Of course you do."

He smiled. "What does that mean?"

"It means I've been misusing the word house my entire life."

The next photos came one after another. A terrace with white umbrellas. A library with ladders on rails. A long dining room that looked designed for people who apologized through lawyers. Then the lake again, closer now, with a boathouse tucked beneath trees at the water's edge.

I leaned in before I could stop myself.

The boathouse had dark wood doors and a steep roof, half-hidden in shadow. Something about it held my attention. Maybe the angle. Maybe the way the trees bent toward it. Maybe because it looked less like a building and more like a secret someone had forgotten to bury.

Atlas noticed.

"You like that one."

"It's a boathouse."

"People can like boathouses."

"Do you often impress guests with storage?"

"Only special guests."

I looked up at him. "Is that what I am?"

His gaze dropped to my mouth for a second. "I'm deciding."

My pulse made a fool of itself.

"No," I said, because pride had finally woken up and joined the conversation.

Atlas lifted one brow.

"I have work," I said. "Actual work. For actual money. I'm not one of your summer accessories."

His expression changed, just slightly.

"I wasn't asking you to be."

"Then what are you asking?"

He put the cigarette out in a planter and slipped his phone into his pocket. "Come for a week. If you hate it, leave."

"I can't just leave a job."

"You can do anything once."

"That is the most rich-person sentence I've ever heard."

He smiled, but softer now. "Probably."

Inside, someone screamed with laughter. A glass broke. Nobody sounded worried. Of course they didn't. People in rooms like this trusted that someone else would always clean up before they cut themselves.

I looked through the balcony door at the party, then back at Atlas.

He was watching me too closely.

"What would I do there?" I asked.

"Swim. Drink. Read old books in rooms my family pretends aren't haunted."

"Are they?"

"The rooms or my family?"

"Both."

"Yes."

I hated that I wanted to smile.

He stepped closer. The railing pressed cold against my back. He wasn't touching me, but the space between us felt deliberate, arranged.

"Come to Blackwater this summer," he said.

It should have sounded casual.

It didn't.

I looked at him, at the lipstick still faint on his throat, at the silver ring on his thumb, at the face of a boy who had probably never begged for anything because the world handed him things before he could ask.

"Why me?" I asked.

For once, he did not answer right away.

Then he said, "Because you ask better questions than everyone else."

I scoffed. "That is a terrible answer."

"It worked a little."

"Barely."

"Barely is enough."

The balcony door opened before I could respond. The red-lipstick girl leaned out, smiling like she had caught us doing something more interesting than talking.

"There you are," she said. "We're opening Miles's stolen bottle."

"Stolen from where?" I asked.

"His father."

"Tragic victim."

Atlas laughed under his breath.

She touched his arm. "Are you coming?"

He looked at me.

It was a performance. Of course it was. Atlas made people wait to see who he would choose, then acted innocent when someone got hurt.

"Go," I said.

His eyes narrowed faintly. "You sure?"

"No, I'll collapse without supervision."

The girl laughed.

Atlas passed me on his way inside. His fingers brushed my wrist, light enough that I could have pretended it was an accident if I wanted to insult us both.

"Check your phone," he said.

Then he went in with her.

I stayed outside until the cold bit through my shirt.

My phone buzzed.

I ignored it.

It buzzed again.

I lasted fifteen seconds, which was humiliating but honest.

The message was from Atlas.

A digital invitation opened when I tapped it, black background, silver lettering, the Whitcombe name stamped at the top like a warning pretending to be elegant.

BLACKWATER GROVE SUMMER HOUSE PARTY

June 21–July 5

Private transport from Poughkeepsie Station arranged upon confirmation.

Below it was a map of a private road twisting through dense green toward a dark lake. Four houses sat around it like pieces on a board.

Harrowmere Hall. Solstice House. Briarcliff Villa. Foxglove Keep.

At the bottom was a photograph.

Blackwater Lake at dusk.

The stone dock.

The trees.

The boathouse.

I stood on that cold balcony with champagne drying on my sleeve and the party laughing behind me, and I stared at the boathouse until my screen went black.

Then I tapped it awake again.