I blinked at him. In so many ways, I did. I loved watching a storm move across the lake. I loved hanging out in the pastry kitchen with Peter, and playing cribbage with the Roses, and taking a kayak out on a still day. “Maybe.”
I stared down at my hands. Things had been better with Mom since I moved in here before the start of my second year of university. I never appreciated her Type-A-ness, but the day she and Peter helped me unpack, she attacked scrubbing and organizing the apartment as if it were a military operation. In one afternoon, the burnt cheese was scoured from the stove; the bathroom tile grout was revealed as white, not gray; and each of my pots, pans, and utensils had been washed and assigned a home. I was grateful and tired when we were done, but instead of them going back to their hotel room, Mom suggested the three of us celebrate. We sat outside at a little restaurant on the end of my street and ordered pizza and red wine and reminisced about the summer. It felt like we were a normal family having a night out, and I guess we were. When Mom dropped me off at my dorm the year prior, I couldn’t shove her out the door fast enough. But I clung to her as we hugged goodbye that night, wishing she could stay a little while longer.
“If I didn’t go home . . .” I shook my head. “It’s not an option.”
“And what about Jamie? You haven’t told him?”
“No. I can’t see that going over well. I think Peter is the only person I could talk to.” I thought about the playlist he’d made me. “He probably already suspects anyway. He knows me better than anyone.”
“You love him?”
I glanced at Will, surprised.
“Peter? Yeah. He’s the closest thing I have to a dad.”
“I meant Jamie.”
I didn’t intend to leave a gaping pause, but he’d caught me off guard. “Of course. I wouldn’t be with him if I didn’t.”
He nodded.
“Are you in love with Fred?”
“No,” he said without hesitation. After a second he added, “I thought I might have been. But I’ve realized I’m not.”
I wanted to know how he figured that out and when, and why they were still together if that was the case. But asking those questions seemed dangerous. Instead, we both went quiet, and I watched the candlelight flicker against Will’s cheeks, getting lost in its hollows.
The rain fell harder, hitting the window sideways. Eventually, Will’s hand stilled.
“I’m worried you’re going to hate it,” he said.
“Honestly, me too.”
He shifted to the edge of the bed. I scooted beside him. I left a few inches of space between us, but I could feel the heat of his body, smell the rain in his hair and the paint on his clothes.
I leaned over the page, and there I was, captured in fine strokes of graphite, in shadow and light. The illustration was careful and detailed, the focus clearly on me, the bed and room blurring out around me. My chin rested on my knees, arms wrapped around my shins, feet bare. There was a slight upward slant to my lips, my eyes widened in a kind of secretive delight.
“You have this look when you’re excited about something—I was trying to get that.” He ducked his head so he could read the expression on my face. “Your nose was hard, too.”
“My nose?” I brushed my fingers over it.
“How did I do? Do you hate it?”
I shook my head. “No. It’s . . .” I wanted to explain how it felt as if no one had really seen me before that moment, but all I came up with was, “It’s me.”
August 3, 1990
My period is late. My period is never late. I was supposed to get it six days ago.
But I can’t be pregnant. I’ve been careful. I’m on the pill.
I have a plan. Managing the resort by twenty-three. Married by twenty-six. Two children before I’m thirty.
I’m not supposed to have kids for at least another five years!
Europe. Work. Marriage. Babies. That’s the order things are supposed to go in.
I’m not pregnant. I’m not. I can’t be.
Except my boobs hurt. A lot.
17
Now
I dive off the end of the family dock, slicing through the water until I’m forced to surface. I put on my suit as soon as I got back from Will’s cabin and took the kayak out. But it didn’t help me take the edge off having spent the night with him, the prospect of spending another night together.
Long before I was born, my grandparents and mom would come here to spend time by the water. The shoreline is private, tucked into a small bay—you can’t see the cabins or the resort’s beach. There are two metal chairs, their red paint peeling, and a short, equally worn dock. A gnarled cedar grows out over the water; the base of its trunk lies parallel to the surface. Whitney and I used to strut down it like it was a catwalk. When we were eleven, she talked me into dressing up in Mom’s formalwear and taking a stereo with us to get the full effect, but she fell in the lake wearing a silk tea dress. Mom had us collecting errant tennis balls around the courts for the rest of the summer.
I preferred swimming at the family dock, away from everyone, but Whitney liked the beach for scouting Mystery Guest targets when we were younger and cute boys later on. This was Mom’s favorite spot, where she came to enjoy her coffee and a sliver of solitude.
My brain is like an overstimulated magpie, struggling to decide which shiny object to land on.
The resort.
Will.
The resort.
The thing Will does with his thumb.
I’m not much of a swimmer. I love being in the water, though I’m mostly a lounge-on-a-pool-noodle kind of fish. But today I paddle back and forth until my mind shuts up.
Wrapping myself in a towel when my lungs and arms give up on me, I sit in the same chair I always have, the one on the left. I watch the waves from a boat’s wake crash against the rocks and scrub at the shore, and for a second, it’s like Mom is right there beside me, holding a steaming mug.
This was our place—the only one that ever really felt like hers and mine alone. We’d come in the mornings, and Mom would leave her BlackBerry at the house. In the middle of summer, she wouldn’t have time to linger, and as soon as she finished, she’d be up and out of her seat. But in the fall, we’d bring streusel-topped muffins Peter had baked and stay here until I needed to get ready for school. In spring, we’d trudge through the melting snow and huddle under blankets.
I love it here, she would sigh. Aren’t we lucky?
I can hear her voice so clearly.
I wish so hard I could hear it again. The diaries are the closest thing I have. It’s been more difficult reading the final one this time. I didn’t think that was possible. Mom was young when she became pregnant. I’ve always known that—but reading her journal as an adult is so different because now she sounds young.
A monarch butterfly flitters by, then lands on the purple petal of a wild iris growing at the water’s edge. Even when I was in the throes of my teenage rebellion, Mom would make me come here with her. I’d sit with my arms crossed over my chest, not speaking, until she was done with her coffee, and then I’d slump back up the trail to the house.
I can’t remember the last time we sat here. I don’t think we got to the lake together once in the past twelve months. The more responsibility I took on at Filtr, the harder it was to find time to come home, though I stayed for a full week the Thanksgiving after Philippe and I broke up. On my last morning, I told Mom about my decision to swear off men. I said I’d be happier on my own, like she was.
She leaned over to take my hand, fixing me with her gray eyes. I know you’re not ready right now, honey, but I think one day you’ll find your heart’s too big for just you. I nodded, though I didn’t believe her. It was chilly outside, the sky bright blue, the leaves red and gold. Mom tipped her chin to the sun, sitting there with her eyes closed, a smile across her mouth, until I told her the time—she needed to get over to the lodge. She shook her head. Let’s stay a little longer, pea.
I stare at the empty chair beside me, and I know. My heart’s too big to let go.