He nodded. “Wait by the door. I’ll get our stuff.”
Will disappeared into the crowd. I edged over to the wall, pressing my forehead against the sticky surface. I stayed there, with my eyes closed, taking deep breaths, until someone touched my shoulder.
“Here,” Will said. “Drink this. Then we’ll get out of here.”
I opened my eyes to find him holding a glass of water. He leaned over me, blocking out the room. I took a few long sips and handed the glass back to Will, and he finished the rest.
“Come on,” he said, tucking my arm in his and helping me down the stairs.
We pushed out onto the front patio and then stopped. It was pouring. Water spouted from the corners of the bar awning and pooled in gutters. Light reflected off the wet sidewalks, the air heavy and metallic. The street was almost empty, except for a few people huddled under a streetcar stop. It wasn’t just rain. It was a torrential summer downpour. I stepped right into it.
I heard Will call my name, but I ignored him because I was already feeling better, the droplets cool against my skin. I raised my arms, closed my eyes, and lifted my chin to the storm. A minute later, a car raced through a puddle, drenching my shins, and I leapt back, shrieking.
Will stood beside me, water running down his face.
“All right,” I said, tugging on his arm. “Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?”
And even though he already knew the answer, I told him anyway. “Back to my place.”
July 5, 1990
Peter’s been such a crab lately. I thought a double date for the Canada Day fireworks would cheer him up. He’s always been nice to Liz. I thought everything would be fine and he’d change his mind about Eric if he spent more time with him. We sat on the hill in front of the lodge to wait for the sky to get dark. Liz and I were talking about our trip, and out of nowhere, Peter started grilling Eric. He wanted to know about his plans for the future and his entire dating history. I had to yell at him to cut it out.
When I went to the kitchen the next morning to tell Peter to back off, he was already in a bad mood. He called me superficial for liking Eric. He’s never spoken to me like that before, like he couldn’t stand me. I told him to take it back, but he turned up his music and ignored me. “I don’t even hate The Cure that much,” I yelled at him. He just glared at me and turned the volume up again. That was two days ago, and we still aren’t speaking.
15
Now
I don’t know why I bothered with pajamas. Or lying down, for that matter. I’m not going to sleep. Will left hours ago, but I’m still keyed up, my right foot tapping against the left like I’ve downed six shots of espresso. The moon must be bright—it’s well past two, but I can see the lacy web of branches outside my window.
What I said to Will tonight was awful. I wanted to inflict pain. I could feel it in my teeth, the urge to bite down, to leave a mark. I didn’t think I could explode like that anymore. My rage was like a tangible thing, something I could ball up and throw at him. It took me right back to being seventeen and screaming at my mother.
I haven’t finished reading the diary entries that set me off, not that my mom was to blame. I couldn’t handle the truth, even if I’d known it all along.
But I don’t want to be angry. I don’t want to lash out the way I did tonight. I’m ashamed of how I spoke to Will. He just started to open up to me, and I used it against him.
I shove off the sheets and walk to the window, although I don’t need to check. Will’s light is always on.
I don’t give myself time to change my mind. I charge from my room, down the stairs, and out of the house, my skin pebbling as I run along the short path in my bare feet and up the steps of Cabin 20.
I’m smacking my palm on the screen door before I can question the logic of running here with my fuzzy bed hair and the oversized T-shirt I wear to sleep in. It says pot head above an image of a coffeepot, and when I first saw it on the rack, I hated it, but then I decided I couldn’t live without it.
Will appears in his underwear, pulling on a shirt. I catch a glimpse of skin and swirls of black, but it’s hard to make out much of anything with the light shining behind him.
“Fern, what’s going on?” He walks across the porch in three strides, but I don’t give him a chance to open it before I start speaking.
“I was an asshole earlier,” I tell him through the screen. “I’m so grateful that you’re here, helping with the resort. I should have told you that before. And I think it’s amazing that you have a job you like and a family who you love and that you know how to cook. You make a truly excellent hamburger, Will, and I want that salad dressing recipe.” I let out a breath to put a stop to my rambling. “I didn’t mean what I said about giving up your dream. I’m so sorry.”
His face is in shadow so I can’t see his expression. “All right,” he says, his voice low. “Is that why you came here?”
“Yes? No.” Will opens the screen door for me to come in, but I can’t make my feet move. “I came here to apologize but also because I wanted to tell you that you were right. I know what I want.”
Will pulls me through the doorway and onto the porch. He puts his hands on my shoulders and leans down. Without thinking about what a terrible idea it is, I kiss him.
It’s clumsy and quick, less a kiss and more of a leap toward his lips, my mouth landing somewhere near the corner of his. I pull away almost as soon as I make contact because Will does not kiss me back. His arms do not encircle my waist.
Shit. I hadn’t meant to do that. I meant to tell him I think I want to stay at the resort. Now he’s blinking at me, eyes wide. Turns out insulting someone’s life choices and then attacking them with your mouth in the middle of the night is not an effective wooing strategy.
“I’m sorry,” I sputter. “I should go.”
I spin around, but Will catches my arm.
“Tell me what you want, Fern,” he says behind me.
I shake my head, and he turns me to face him.
“Why not?”
“Because you already know,” I say, barely audible. He knew it then, and he knows it now. He doesn’t need me to say it out loud.
“I want to be sure.” His voice is a low rumble. “What do you want, Fern?”
I take a breath and then whisper, “You.”
The word has barely left my mouth when everything happens at once. His arms band around me, pulling me up and off the ground. My legs wrap his waist, my arms his neck. Our mouths come together so fast that our teeth collide, and I start to laugh, but it’s extinguished by the urgent press of our lips.
Will walks us into the cabin, his mouth on mine, citrusy and warm, shutting the door behind. I don’t have time to register anything except the dim glow of the living room lamp, because in an instant Will has me pinned against the door. I take his face between my hands, pressing my lips to his scar before I find his mouth again. He rocks against me and I rock back, my thighs tight around him, moving my hips as much as I can, but it’s not enough. An unfamiliar growl vibrates in my throat.
“I’ve thought about you for so long,” Will says as he kisses down my neck, and I pull at his shirt, trying to get it off from under my legs. It takes me a second to realize he’s whispering into my skin, telling the space below my ear how much he wants this, telling the underside of my jaw how beautiful I am.
Delirious and frenzied, I reach my hand between us, but he wraps his fingers around my wrist, bringing it above my head. He does the same with the other, so both my arms are held high.
“Don’t move them,” he says, looking me in the eyes. “Okay?”
I nod, but he doesn’t move. “Yes,” I tell him.
He unwraps my legs from his waist and sets me down so that I’m leaning against the door while he runs his hands up and down the sides of my hips.
“I’ve got a very long list of things I want to do to you, to do with you,” he says, his voice rough.