The silence lengthens. The sun has dipped low enough that the bright gold has mellowed, casting a dusky rose glow over the water, and Nate’s face is half-shadowed. He stops trailing his hand in the water, and his eyes, which are usually full of easy humor, darken with a more serious intent as he studies my face.
He slowly lifts one hand and reaches toward me. For a second, I forget how to breathe, wondering if he’s going to break our agreement. Instead, his fingertips barely graze my cheek before they move up, gently extracting a tiny, dark piece of debris from my wet hair.
He holds up the minuscule piece of brownish-green weed between his thumb and forefinger. “Seaweed.” His voice is almost a whisper.
“Lakeweed,” I correct, just as softly.
The gesture is practical and intimate all at once, and the air tightens around us again.
And then—
“Nikki! Need your help with something!” It’s my dad, standing on the dock and waving an overly enthusiastic arm.
The tension breaks like a snapped rubber band.
Nate and I smile at each other, both a little embarrassed.
“Come on,” he says. “I’ll tow you in.”
IFINDDAD INthe garage, surrounded by what could only be called a heap of junk.
“Do you want this bike?”
I glance to where he’s pointing, to a child-size bike with training wheels and sparkly streamers hanging from the handlebars. “Um, no? You could ask Linney if she wants it for Anna Carol though.”
Dad nods. Then turns back to the pile of nails and screws he’s sorting on the workbench.
“What’re you doing out here?” I ask, wading past a disassembled baby crib with chipping paint. Beside it is splintery rocking chair I remember from my grandmother’s house.
“Just trying to get everything sorted before the big day.”
It’s classic Dad. When Mom would throw her annual Christmas party, Dad would volunteer to “straighten up the mudroom” or “sweep the garage”—spaces that party guests would never see.But Mom never gave him a hard time for it. She was happy to rule her domain inside the house and let Dad contribute in his own way.
Still, that doesn’t meanIcan’t give him a little grief.
“Right, because I think Cooper and Cara plan to have the ceremony right here, behind the lawn mower.”
Dad barely cracks a smile, just keeps separating the rusty screws from the clean ones. “It needs to be done at some point.”
“Okay, Dad.” Maybe this is his version of Swedish Death Cleaning—that thing where people are encouraged to clean out their homes instead of leaving it for the next generation to have to deal with after they pass.
A thought crosses my mind as I remember that awkward conversation we stumbled upon at the parade, between my dad and Mrs. Musgrove.
“Dad, are you and Mom thinking of selling the house?”
He busies himself with riffling through another box. “I know you love this place, kiddo. But y’all are all grown up, and it’s a lot of work to keep it up.”
Which is not a no.
“Well, I guess I should tell you that I didn’t re-sign my lease in LA, so if you sell this place, I might be crashing in your condo, or whatever, for the near future.” I can hear the bitterness creeping into my voice.
“You didn’t re-sign?” Dad asks, his brows knitting.
I force myself to smile and give a little shrug, trying to downplay my current lack of housing. I don’t want to worry him. “Just wanted to try something new. Get more space. I’ve been looking up listings online, and I think I’ve found a good one.” A total lie. I haven’t even cracked open my laptop since I got home.
“You sure you’re alright? Do you need money?”
“Dad, I’m fine,” I insist. “Just wish I got the memo on all the life-altering changes being hurled at me this summer.”
