“Ha.” I cupped my hand around my forehead, blocking out the glare. “I went through a bit of a . . .” I faltered. I hadn’t talked about what happened when I was in high school with anyone other than Jamie in years, not even Whitney.
When I’d read Mom’s diary, I’d called her the worst names imaginable. I threw the book across the room at her. I lashed out in the most irresponsible ways for months until I finally ended up in the hospital. An image of Mom sitting beside my cot, her face red from crying, sprang into my mind. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing it away. Things were much better now.
“You all right?” Will asked.
“Yeah. Just lost my train of thought.”
“You were saying you went through something.”
“I went through a bit of a rebellious phase when I was younger, and none of that stayed secret. There’s no privacy up there. I know living at a resort seems like it would be amazing, and sometimes it was. But you try being flagged down to unclog a toilet or give directions to the tennis courts every time you step outside your front door. There are guests everywhere.”
I was on a roll now, my hands conducting my list of grievances. “When you’re the owner’s daughter, you’re also staff, whether you like it or not. I’ve worked there every summer since I was fourteen, plus shifts during the school year. I was cooking dinner for myself by age ten because my mom was hardly ever home. I mean, I guess technically the resort is home, but she worked so much, she was never at the house.”
I heard the tone of my voice and grabbed the hem of Will’s sweater. “I’m sorry. I’m being a whiny teenager right now. I thought I was over my angsty stage.”
“Angst away,” Will said. “I think that’s the most you’ve spoken all day.” He spun so he was facing me and started walking backward, opening his arms. “Paint me a picture of tortured teenage Fern.”
I shoved his shoulder. “It wasn’t all bad. The lake is stunning. If you’re outdoorsy, there’s tons of stuff to do—canoes, kayaks, hiking trails. The lodge was built more than a hundred years ago, so the whole place feels like it’s from another era, which is pretty cool.”
“I’d love to see it,” Will said. “I’ve never been anywhere like that. I’ve gone to friends’ cottages, but when my family traveled, it was usually outside of Ontario.”
I made a face. I used to find it annoying when Mom complained that people didn’t appreciate our own province. But then I moved to Toronto and met so many people like Will, who had the opportunity to travel but went farther afield without exploring home.
The alley had opened to a small parking lot in full sun. Heat wafted off the pavement. Will dropped his backpack on the ground and shrugged off his cardigan.
“I didn’t really get the whole outdoors thing until I moved out West. The level of natural beauty in British Columbia is so absurd,” he said, folding his sweater and putting it into his backpack. I wiped sweat from the back of my neck, unable to look away. “The first time I took my bike to Stanley Park, I rode around the seawall literally laughing out loud. I couldn’t get over all the different shades of green. I’m still not used to it.”
I murmured something to show I was paying attention, but the thing I was paying attention to was Will’s body. He had been completely covered, and now there was skin. Skin that stretched over lean muscle and ran under the sleeve of his T-shirt. There were moles and veins and elbows and creases.
Will closed his backpack and slung it over one shoulder. It caught on the hem of his shirt, flashing a small triangle of flesh at his hip.
The joint had been a bad idea. I should have known that. Pot made me feel like liquefied candle wax, hot and runny. My fingers had already started tingling.
Before Jamie, I’d had sex two times with two different guys. Neither experience had been good. I told Jamie I wanted to take things slow, so we waited until our second summer together, and then spent May to August with our hands all over each other, sneaking quickies between shifts—fooling around in his bunk, darting behind trees, racing up to my bedroom. More than once, we hung a back in five minutes sign on the outfitting hut door. Sex with Jamie was fun and silly, and after we figured each other out, it felt so much better than I thought possible.
Leaving for university in September after four months of nonstop screwing was like being denied fresh water after living beside an Alpine spring. Phone sex was his suggestion. The first time, I lay on my bed, staring at the crack in my apartment ceiling, trying not to laugh. Not surprisingly, Jamie took to dirty talk with gusto. I kept apologizing and he kept telling me to relax. Eventually I did, but not enough to come. “I’ve got an idea,” Jamie said once he’d finished.
Even though joints were as common as cigarettes on any given night out in Toronto, I’d been wary. I was a new Fern—one who made smart choices. But Jamie assured me a little weed wouldn’t cause me to lose control and hooked me up with a buddy who dealt downtown. The next time we tried, I got high first. Pot made it so I could say words like lick and wet and mean them, but it also turned my insides to warm honey. Phone sex became our thing.
Will ran his hand through his hair, and I followed the movement as if it were happening in slow motion. There was a smudge of paint on the inside of his right arm, and beside that a line of black ink. Desire hit me in a rush. Jamie made me feel good, but I’d never felt such a singular bolt of want.
Will gave me a funny look. “What’s up?”
I swallowed. My tongue had turned velvet. “There’s a smudge of paint on your arm.”
He twisted his elbow, revealing more of the tattoo. “So there is. It must have come off my coveralls.” The tingle was spreading, transforming into a low pulse. Will glanced at me, catching my stare.
“Is that a tree?” I asked, pointing to his tattoo. (It was obviously a tree.)
“Yeah.” He hiked up his sleeve. A spindly evergreen grew from elbow to armpit on the underside of his arm. “I got it a couple years ago. I guess it’s kind of a cliché.”
“How so?”
Will gave me a lazy smile. Will, I realized, was high. “Well, I went to Emily Carr.”
“I’ve heard.”
“Emily Carr is an arts school,” he said. “And she was also one of this country’s most important painters, may she rest.”
I laughed. “Tell me more, Dalí.”
“The lone tree was a common motif in Carr’s work, so it’s almost like getting a tattoo of the school logo. But there’s something so majestic about firs. It’s what I love most about Vancouver—how nature and the city collide.”
I leaned in to get a closer look. Most of the tattoos I’d seen were the kind picked out of a binder, but Will’s was unique. It was obviously a custom piece—the shading was so delicate.
“Well, it’s a very nice cliché,” I said, peering up at Will to find him peering down at me. We stared at each other for what was probably a second, but it felt like minutes, until a siren’s wail startled us.
“I guess that means you prefer my illustrations to my murals,” Will said, tugging his sleeve down.
“You drew that?” I dug a bottle of water from my tote bag, draining half, then offered the rest to Will. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes to the sun, his throat moving as he swallowed. A drop of water ran from the corner of his mouth. I was stalking its path down his chin like a leopard when I felt my phone vibrate.
I frowned at the screen. Jamie didn’t call unless we’d planned to “talk” ahead of time.
“Sorry, I’m going to take this,” I told Will, moving a few steps away.
“Hey,” I said to Jamie. “Is everything okay?”
A chuckle filled the other end of the line.