Sometime while we were at the water, Sue and Charlie had come out onto the deck with coffees. I waved at them from the water while Sam got the boat ready. And then, giving each other a thumbs-up, we set off.
It wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t as hard as last summer, either. I didn’t need to switch strokes or slow down—I kept a steady, rhythmic pace. My legs were tired but didn’t feel as though they were going to drag me to the bottom of the lake with their weight, and my shoulders ached but the pain didn’t consume me. When I reached the shore, I sat in the shallow water catching my breath while Sam pulled the boat up on the beach.
“Seven minutes faster than last year!” he announced, hopping out of the boat, dropping a cooler bag on the sand, and sitting in the water beside me, his skin slick with sweat. “I think your mom’s right; you should join the swim team. You didn’t even stop to catch your breath!”
“Says the guy who practically runs a marathon every morning,” I panted.
“Exactly.” Sam grinned. “I should know.” He passed me a cold bottle of water, and I chugged half, handing the rest to him to finish off. The wind was starting to pick up and the air smelled thick.
“Looks like it could finally rain,” I said, watching the breeze dance through the leaves of a poplar.
“That’s the rumor. Mom says a big storm is supposed to hit,” Sam said, wrapping his arms around his knees. “Too bad she needs me to work an extra shift, otherwise we could do a scary movie night.”
“Blair Witch!” I suggested.
“Totally. How have we not done that one yet?”
“Well, I have, many times,” I said.
“Obviously.”
“But never with you,” I added.
“A huge oversight,” Sam replied.
“The hugest.” We grinned.
I was almost catatonic by the time I got back to the cottage, my belly bloated from one of Sue’s epic breakfasts and my body completely drained. I passed out on the couch and didn’t wake up until well after five, which meant Sam would already be at the Tavern, whereas I had the night off. My parents left me home alone all the time in the city, but they were always around when we were at the lake. I had fallen asleep so quickly the night before that it had barely registered that they were gone. Now I wasn’t quite sure what to do with myself.
Groggy, I shuffled into the bathroom and splashed water on my face, then slurped the cold liquid from my hands. I headed down to the lake with a notebook and sat on one of the Muskoka chairs at the foot of the dock. The wind had picked up since morning and was throwing whitecaps over the gray water. I jotted down a few ideas for my next story, but soon raindrops began to fall on the pages, and I was chased inside.
I boiled a hot dog for dinner and ate it with some of the rice and bean salad Mom had left. Bored, I riffled through our DVD collection until I found The Blair Witch Project.
It was a terrible choice. It scared me every single time I’d seen it, and I had never watched it alone. In a cabin. In the woods. On a dark and stormy night. Halfway through, I paused the movie, locked the doors, and did a sweep of the cottage, checking the closets, beneath the beds, and behind the shower curtain. Just as I pressed play again, a loud crack of thunder shook the cottage, and lightning quickly followed. With every flash, I expected to see a gruesome face pressed up against the back door window. By the time the movie ended, the storm had passed, but it was dark and rainy, and I was totally freaking out.
I made myself popcorn and put on Uncle Buck, hoping for a comedic distraction, but not even John Candy and Macaulay Culkin could calm me down. The wind wasn’t helping things, sending bits of bark and small branches flying onto the roof in a symphony of scratches and thunks. And, wow, I had never noticed how much the cottage creaked. It was just after eleven when I broke down and called the Floreks’ number.
The phone had barely rung when Sam picked up.
“Hey, sorry to call so late, but I’m kind of losing it here—the wind is making weird noises, and I just watched Blair Witch, which I guess was pretty stupid. There’s like no way I can sleep here by myself tonight. Can I stay over there?”
“You can stay over me. You can stay under me,” the voice on the other end drawled. “Any way you want, Pers.”
“Charlie?” I asked.
“The one and only,” he replied. “Disappointed?”
“Not at all. I’ve never been more turned on,” I deadpanned.
“You’re a cruel woman, Percy Fraser. Let me hang up on the other line, and I’ll get Sam for you.”
Sam was at the door in less than five minutes, standing under an umbrella. I thanked him for walking over and apologized for being so childish.
“I don’t mind, Percy,” he said, then took the tote I’d thrown my toothbrush and pj’s into.
He rolled his eyes when I asked if he’d brought a flashlight, because when had he ever needed a flashlight, and as we set out, I linked my arm through his, staying as close to him as possible. I almost screamed when I heard rustling in the bush and then the snap of a twig, and I wrapped my free arm around Sam’s waist, gluing myself to his side.
“It’s probably a raccoon or a porcupine,” he said, laughing, but I kept a tight grip on him until we stepped onto the porch.
“We’ll have to be quiet,” he whispered as we crept inside. “Mom’s already asleep. Busy night.”
“You’re not going to lock that?” I pointed to the door behind us as Sam moved toward the kitchen.
“We never lock it. Not even when we go out,” he said, then seeing the sheer terror in my eyes, walked back over and turned the dead bolt.
The main floor was in darkness, and the faint sound of Charlie watching TV in the basement drifted up the stairs. Sam poured two glasses of water, and I studied the shadows that filled the hollows beneath his cheekbones. I couldn’t remember when they had gotten so prominent.
“I’ll take the couch down here, and you can sleep in my bed,” he said, handing me a glass.
“I really don’t want to sleep alone,” I whispered. “Can’t we both just sleep in your room?”
Sam ran his hand through his hair, thinking. “Yeah. We have an air mattress somewhere in the basement. Takes a while to inflate, but I’ll go get it.” It was late, and I didn’t want to put Sam out more than I already had, but when I suggested we share his bed, he sputtered.
“I swear I don’t kick in my sleep,” I promised. His jaw twitched and he ruffled his hair again.
“Yeah, okay,” he said uneasily. “But I need to shower. I smell like onions and deep fryer grease.”
* * *
I BRUSHED MY teeth in the main floor bathroom and changed into the cotton shorts and tank top I usually slept in, arranged my hair in a thick braid, and then waited for Sam in his bedroom, which was neat and orderly even though he hadn’t planned on having a guest over. The photo of us sat on his desk, and Operation stood upright on the top of his bookshelf next to a photo of him with his dad. I had knelt down to get a better look at his set of Tolkiens when he came in, softly closing the door.
“I’ve never read these,” I said without looking up. He crouched down beside me and took out The Hobbit. His hair was damp and neatly combed off his face. He smelled soapy.
“I’m pretty sure you’d hate it, but you’re welcome to borrow it.” He handed me the book. “There’s a lot of singing.”
“Huh . . . I’ll give it a try, thanks.” We stood at the same time, and Sam loomed over me. When I looked up at him, he was turning a very pink shade of pink.
“That’s the shirt you wear to bed?” he asked. I looked down, confused. “It’s a little low from up here,” he croaked. The tank top was white with thin straps and, come to think of it, was kind of on the revealing side. A prickly heat climbed up my chest and neck.
“You could solve that problem by not looking down it,” I muttered, though a part of me—a big, hungry part—was thrilled. He ran his hand through his hair, messing it up.
“Yeah, sorry. They were just . . . there.”
I eyed his cozy pants and T-shirt. It seemed like a lot of clothes for such a warm night. “Is that what you usually wear to bed?”