“Are you still seeing that guy,” Sloane asks from her bed while rubbing sunscreen into the dip beneath her collarbone, “Mall Mike?” Zoe laughs with her mouth full, with orange dust clinging to her lips as the Doritos bag sighs open again. “He’s not a mall,” she states, holding up a chip, a perfect triangle, comparing it first to the triangular white bikini top, then to Sloane herself. “This would fit.” She motions and stares. “That’s so weird,” Sloane utters, but Zoe steps closer, close enough that they stop breathing. She lifts the top and slides the chip under the edge of the fabric until it grazes Sloane’s nipple. She lets out a small, unplanned moan. Zoe stills, watching her, then adjusts the strap with two fingers like she’s correcting something delicate. The chip slips free and falls into her lap, settling against the white triangle bottom below, one shape resting on another. “Zoe,” Sloane cries, “you’ll stain it.” Zoe pulls the chip away and eats it, crunching loud. “Everything stains,” Zoe replies, wiping her fingers on the towel while grinning. “So,” she adds, “you want his number?”
