The weather changed the third week of August. A thick cover of dark clouds settled over the province, their overstuffed bellies drenching everything from Algonquin Park to Ottawa. Cottagers packed up early and left for the city. A light mist moved in over the lake, making everything look black and white. Even the green hills on the far shore looked gray, as though they had been shrouded in gauze. Dad wasn’t much of an outdoorsman and was happy to have us all inside, keeping the fire fed to ward off the damp. Mom and I snuggled up on the couch. I worked on my story while she made her way through a half-dozen books she was considering adding to her gender-relations course syllabus. Sam sat at the table working on a one-thousand-piece puzzle of fishing lures with Dad, who talked animatedly to him about Hippocrates and ancient Greek medicine. I tuned it out, but Sam was captivated. Just like working at the restaurant gave me a taste of freedom in the form of a paycheck, I got the sense that talking with my dad gave Sam a window into a larger world of possibilities. I think I gave him that, too, in a way. He loved it when I talked about the city and the different places I’d visited—the museums, the huge movie theaters and concert halls.
After six straight days of heavy rain, I woke up to the sun beaming in through the triangles of glass in my bedroom, the reflection off the lake dappling the walls and ceiling. Sam took me on a hike through the bush, following a streambed that had been dry all season but was now bubbling over the rocks and branches in its way. The weather had turned cool after the rain, and I wore blue jeans and my old U of T sweatshirt; Sam had thrown on a plaid flannel button-up, rolling the sleeves past his forearms. It was damp underfoot and mushrooms had sprouted up all over the forest floor, some with jolly yellow-and-white domed caps and others with flat pancake tops.
“Here we are,” Sam announced after we’d walked through dense bush for about fifteen minutes. I peered around his shoulder and saw that the gentle slope we’d been climbing had flattened, making a small pool of water. A fallen tree, covered in emerald moss and pale lichen, lay across its middle.
“I like to come here in the spring when the snow has just melted,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe how loudly the water in this stream rushes.” He climbed onto the tree and scooted down, patting the spot beside him. I shimmied over till we were both sitting with our legs dangling above the pond.
“It’s beautiful,” I said. “I’m kind of waiting for a gnome or fairy to appear from over there.” I pointed to a thick, rotting tree stump with brown mushrooms growing at its base. Sam chuckled.
“I can’t believe we’re going back to the city next weekend,” I murmured. “I don’t want to leave.”
“I don’t want you to, either.” We listened to the gurgle of the stream, swatting away mosquitoes, until Sam spoke again.
“I’ve been thinking,” he began, his voice quiet and shaky but his eyes direct.
I knew what was coming. Maybe I’d been waiting for it. I tilted my head down so my dark hair fell around my face, and studied our feet.
“About us. I’ve been thinking about us,” he said, then nudged my foot with his. I peered over at him—the humidity had made his hair curl at the ends—and smiled weakly.
“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about kissing you that night in my room.” He gave me a shy grin, and I looked toward the ground again.
“You think it was a mistake, don’t you?”
“No! That’s not it at all,” he said quickly and put his hand over mine, lacing our fingers together. “It was incredible. I know it sounds corny, but it was the best night of my life. I think about it all the time.”
“Me too,” I whispered, looking at our reflections in the pool below.
“You and me are special,” he started. “There’s no one else I’d rather spend time with than you. There’s no one else I’d rather talk to than you. And there’s no one else I’d rather kiss than you.” He paused, and my stomach swooped. “But you’re more important to me than kissing. And I’m worried that if we rush that side of things we’ll fuck up everything else.”
“So what are you saying?” I asked, looking at him. “You just want to be friends?”
He took a deep breath.
“I don’t think I’m saying this right.” He sounded frustrated with himself. “What I mean is that you’re not just any friend to me . . . you’re my best friend. But we go for months without seeing each other, and we’re really young, and I’ve never had a girlfriend before. I don’t know how to do relationships, and I don’t want to screw it up with you. I want to be everything, Percy. When we’re ready.”
I fought the stinging in my eyes. I was ready. I wanted everything now. At sixteen, Sam was it for me. I knew it then, and I think I knew it that night three years ago when Sam and I sat on my bedroom floor eating Oreos and he asked me to make him a bracelet. I moved my eyes to his wrist.
He pulled my hair back from the side of my face, and I squeezed my eyes shut. “Can you look at me, please?”
I shook my head.
“Percy,” he pleaded while I wiped a tear with my sleeve. “I don’t want to put pressure on you and me that we can’t handle. We’ve both got big plans—eleventh and twelfth grade will decide what schools we can get into and whether I can get a scholarship.” I knew how important grades were to Sam, how expensive his schooling would be, and how he was counting on an academic prize to help with tuition.
“So we just go back to being friends like nothing happened, and then what? We find other boyfriends and girlfriends?” I glanced at him. I could see the agony and worry on his face, but I was angry and embarrassed, even though, somewhere deep, I knew what he was saying made sense. I didn’t want to screw things up, either. I just figured we could handle it. Sam was the most mature boy I knew. He was perfect.
“I’m not looking for another girlfriend,” he said, which made me feel a teeny-tiny bit better. “But I realize I’d be a huge jerk if I told you I don’t think we should be together right now and then asked you not to see anyone.”
“You’re a huge jerk either way,” I said. I meant it as a joke, but it tasted like burned coffee on my tongue.
“Do you really mean that?”
I shook my head, attempting a smile. “I think you’re pretty great,” I said, my voice breaking. Sam’s arm encircled my shoulders, and he squeezed tight. He smelled like fabric softener and damp soil and rain.
“Swear on it?” he said, his words muffled by hair. I felt for his bracelet blindly and tugged.
“I think you’re pretty great, too,” he whispered. “You have no idea how much.”
11
Now
Sam and I are lying on the raft, eyes shut to the sun. I’m drifting in a haze—of his hands on my hips and his fingers on my calf and You’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known—when a shout comes from the shore.
“This is a sight for sore eyes.” I sit up, shielding my face. Charlie is standing on the hill. I can see his dimples from the water, and I can’t help but grin back. I wave. “You kids hungry?” he calls down. “I was thinking of turning on the barbecue.” I look at Sam, who’s now sitting up beside me.
“I don’t need to stay,” I offer. Sam scans my face briefly.
“Don’t be weird,” he says. “Food sounds great,” he yells back to Charlie. “We’ll be up in a sec.”
Charlie is on the front deck lighting the barbecue when we join him. I’m wearing a towel wrapped around my shoulders and Sam is rubbing his hair dry. I sneak a peek at the muscles that run up the side of his torso before Charlie turns to face us. When he does, his eyes light up like fireflies. His hair is cropped so close to his head it’s only a little longer than a buzz cut. His square jaw looks like it’s made from steel. It’s in direct contrast to the sweetness of his dimples and his pretty plush lips. He’s barefoot and wearing a pair of olive-colored shorts and a white linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up and the top three buttons undone. He’s not as tall as Sam, and he’s built like a firefighter, not a banker. He’s still movie-star good-looking.
Those Summer Boys did an exceptional job of growing up. Delilah Mason’s squeal rings in my ears, and her absence gnaws at my gut.
Charlie glances at Sam before embracing me tightly, apparently not worried about my wet bathing suit. “Persephone Fraser,” he says when he pulls away, shaking his head. “It’s about fucking time.”