The two of them have been inseparable since we were fifteen. Cam had been a twerp in elementary school, but the summer between ninth and tenth grades was kind to him, and it was impossible not to notice Whitney noticing him when school started up in the fall. Cam had his yearslong crush right where he wanted, and I remember how he asked her to the winter formal as if it was a dare, his chin lifted in challenge. Whitney couldn’t resist a dare.
Now he’s a counselor at our old high school, and he’s such a steady, kindhearted person that I bet he’s great at his job. I know Whitney’s good at hers. She’s the most passionate dental hygienist anywhere, without question.
“I didn’t agree to anything, and I may have done a quick search years ago. But that’s it.”
I made the mistake of googling Will yesterday, but I haven’t seen him in the flesh since Sunday cocktails with the Roses. That was three days ago, and I’ve been dodging him ever since. I’m a little surprised he hasn’t just packed his things and left.
I’ve spent most of my time with Jamie, getting up to speed. I even made it into the dining room. I could feel eyes on me as soon as I entered, and I wanted to vaporize, but I did it. It’s become apparent how much Jamie has protected me from while I’ve made my way through the murky haze of grief.
Now when I’m awake in the middle of the night, I tiptoe to my bedroom window and look at the soft glow coming from Cabin 20. I’m not the only insomniac around here. I stare at that square of light through the trees and wonder if I could survive even an hour working alongside Will. Because the more I learn about the resort, the more I can’t deny we need his help.
Whitney passes the baby to Cam, who immediately starts shifting his weight from side to side, making funny faces as he sways. Ever since Owen started laughing, his parents have become obsessed with getting giggles from him. He’s a gorgeous baby, with Cam’s dark brown skin and Whitney’s wide eyes.
Whitney roots around her purse and pulls out her phone, tapping the screen.
“This him?” She holds it up to my face. It’s a headshot of Will—his hair is smoothed back and he’s wearing a jacket and tie. I’ve studied every pixel of the image already. The thick lashes, the black-brown eyes, the bow of his top lip, the strong line of his jaw, and the long one of his nose. He is ridiculously attractive.
“I’ll take it from the way your pupils swelled that it is,” Whitney says.
She points the photo at Cam, who gives it a quick glance and then does a double take, pressing his glasses almost right to the screen.
“Shit,” he says. “Nice work, Baby.”
“Cam, for the love of god, do not call me that,” I say. “And what do you mean, nice work?”
“You hooked up with him, right?”
“No,” Whitney and I reply in stereo.
Cam frowns. “Wait, you’re not sleeping with him? Why do we care about this guy again?”
“Because he made Baby fall in love with him, and then he left her brokenhearted. Keep up, Camden.”
“Oh, this is the guy you dumped Jamie for?” Cam asks.
“I didn’t dump Jamie,” I snap. I hate that these two think the breakup was my doing. The four of us hung out during the summer when Jamie and I dated, but Cam and Jamie kept in touch. They’re close friends now.
“Technically,” he says. “But you forced his hand.”
I glower at Cam as Whitney begins reading from the website.
“?‘William Baxter is a partner at Baxter-Lee.’ Blah, blah, boring, boring. ‘He specializes in strategic branding and marketing and was named one of 2019’s “Most Exciting New Visionaries” by Canadian Business. William holds a Bachelor of Fine Arts from Emily Carr University and an MBA from the Rotman School of Management.’?”
Whitney’s eyes pop as she scrolls. This is what I was afraid of.
“I think Will might be some kind of socialite,” she says. “There are photos of him at parties and on red carpets.”
She returns to the screen with the same determined look she had when we used to play Mystery Guest.
“Give me that,” I say, grabbing the phone. I intend to turn it off and pass it to Cam for safekeeping, but my eyes get stuck on the photo that fills the screen. I’ve seen this one, too. It’s of Will, dressed in a tux, his arm wrapped around a woman who’s wearing an emerald green gown. She’s horribly pretty. She has hair as dark as his, but hers falls in soft, hot-tool-aided waves past her shoulders. He broods at the camera; she beams at it with white-white, straight-straight teeth and the kind of plush pink lips the word pillowy was invented to describe.
“She’s in a lot of them,” Whitney says. “Jessica Rashad. One of the captions said she’s an art collector and philanthropist. Doesn’t that just mean she’s rich?” Her eyes go even bigger, brightening like fog lights. “Let’s look her up!”
“Nope. You are officially cut off,” I say, trying to act like it doesn’t bother me that Will’s ex is as hot as a Jonas Brothers wife. “It’s time for you two to hand me that baby and get out of here.”
I give the phone to Cam to be safe and extract Owen from his arms. My friends look at each other, faces screwed up with concern.
“Seriously, we’ll be fine.” I tap Owen on the nose and he gives me a gummy grin. I raise my eyebrows at Whitney, a silent I told you so. “And don’t rush back. Have a cocktail. Order dessert,” I say, though I give them an hour before they return.
They apply a smattering of kisses to Owen’s head and then, finally, say goodbye. I watch them leave from the porch, holding up the baby’s chubby arm, waving as they go.
It takes all of fifteen minutes before Owen starts to scream.
* * *
—
I have done everything. I changed Owen’s dirty diaper. Tried giving him a bottle. Bounced him on my knee. I made funny faces. I sang an electric rendition of “There’s a Hole in My Bucket.” But the kid won’t stop wailing. I’m worried he’s going to make himself sick. And I’m no longer wearing pants, having spilled milk all over both Owen and me.
“Owen, honey. Please, please, please stop crying,” I beg as I walk him around the living room on the verge of sobbing myself.
I’m not usually a crier, but after Mom died, it was like someone installed a leaky faucet behind my eyelids.
Something fundamental shifted between us when I told Mom I didn’t want to go into the family business. I felt guilty, but I also felt free. Mom couldn’t understand why I’d want to live paycheck to paycheck in Toronto when I could come home and earn a real salary. We had our weekly call every Sunday, but we often spent it arguing. By the time I became a manager at Filtr six years ago, I thought she’d resigned herself to my living in the city. We’d stopped fighting. She visited to take me to lunch and was impressed by how busy our flagship location was.
When Philippe and I started dating, I could tell she was suspicious. “He seems very pleased with himself,” she’d said. It was an apt description, but I figured he had a lot to be pleased about: a successful business, visible abdominal muscles, a fantastic condo in a converted church. She told me to be careful.
It was a Sunday when I found him with the hat designer. He and I had spent the afternoon in the office, reviewing renovation plans for our third location, and while I often stayed at his place, he said he needed Sunday evenings to himself for “restorative care.” That worked for me. I had my own routine. First groceries, then my call with Mom. I had just stepped onto the streetcar when I realized I’d forgotten my phone. To say I was surprised to find Philippe folding someone over my desk is an understatement. I was still in shock when Mom called, and I spilled the whole story—the most I’d ever divulged to her about my love life.
She showed up at my apartment the next day with a small suitcase I didn’t know she owned and a loaf of Peter’s sourdough. She stayed three nights, the longest time we’d spent together in years outside of Christmas. She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t press me on whether I had an inkling he’d been cheating. I suspected she was working up to telling me to come home, to come work at Brookbanks. But she didn’t do that, either. We watched a lot of Netflix and ate a lot of bread. When she hugged me goodbye, I didn’t want her to go. And when I told her I was going to miss her, I felt something shift again, an easing of tension. We were closer in that moment than we had been in the one before it.