Chapter One
“Hey, knock it off!” I shout into the megaphone, my voice crackling through the static.
The kids in the lake don’t even flinch. They’re too busy dunking each other’s heads underwater, shrieking with laughter as waves crash around them. It’s obvious they’re just messing around, but this kind of play can turn dangerous in an instant. Too many swimmers underestimate the Great Lakes.
I blow hard into the red whistle hanging around my neck. The shrill noise cuts through the muggy air, sharp enough to make a dozen heads swivel toward me. I give the kids a stern glare before raising the megaphone to my mouth.
“Last warning,” I caution.
They just giggle and go back to splashing each other.
I sigh, scrubbing a hand over my sweat-damp face. Some days, this job feels less like lifeguarding and more like babysitting. Sure, I’m certified in CPR and first aid, but most days that just surmounts to sticking a Band-Aid on a scraped knee or checking for bee stings. Not that I’m wishing for anyone to drown—but God, it gets boring.
It’s an unusually hot day for mid-May, and the residents of Claremont Shores are taking advantage of it. As I stand in the lifeguard tower, my eyes scan over the bodies basking below. I can already spot several reddening sunburns in the crowd.
A flock of seagulls gather on the shore, snacking on littered potato chips and sandwich crusts. The birds screech loudly over the sounds of gleeful children and lapping water. Colorful picnicblankets and towels decorate the flat canvas of soft sand. Sailboats and yachts drift across the horizon into the vastness of Lake Michigan.
I rest my elbows on the lifeguard tower’s railing, the sunbaked wood hot against my skin. My gaze drifts to a pack of teenagers swimming in the distance. One boy disappears beneath the lake’s surface before resurfacing in a burst of water, shaking his dark hair like a wet dog. The girl beside him shields her face, her laughter echoing across the beach.
The sight makes my throat sting. A few years ago, I was just like them—a student at Claremont Shores High with lake water in his veins and more energy than he knew what to do with. I was the captain of the swim team, convinced my talent was my one-way ticket out of my hometown. Back then, I was full of starry-eyed ambition that has long since been beaten out of me.
I used to scoff at the idea of “peaking in high school,” like it was a cautionary tale for kids who didn’t try hard enough. I never thought it could apply to me. Yet here I am, sitting in this tower like a washed-up cliché. A twenty-one-year-old college dropout turned small-town lifeguard.
My stomach knots. This wasn’t the life I pictured when I was breaking records in the pool, but it’s the one I’ve got.
The rest of my shift drags as I watch the sun crawl across the horizon. On busy summer weekends, the beach always has a lifeguard on duty until sunset. Tonight, that’s me.
No matter how many times I see it, the view never loses its magic. Pink cotton candy clouds fill the sky as the sun sinks into the lake. As the air cools, I tug on my red zip-up hoodie and cross my arms.
Down on the sand, couples curl into each other, bathed in golden light. A pang of jealousy twists in my stomach—not for anyone in particular, but just for the ease of it. The warmth and simple comfort of having someone to lean on.
When the sun finally disappears, the crowd begins drifting toward the parking lot, carrying sandy towels and folding chairs. I gather my belongings and climb down the lifeguard tower, my feet sinking into the cold sand.
I walk to my truck and unlock it. It’s a rusted ’90s red pickup I inherited from my late great-uncle when I was seventeen. Even now, years later, the cloth interior still carries faint traces of his aftershave and cologne. I slide behind the wheel and turn the key. The engine coughs before sputtering to life.
The drive downtown is quiet, the street lamps casting an amber glow over the sidewalks. Brick buildings line the main road, restaurants and tourist shops, most of which are closing up for the night. I park in front of the only bar in town, the Old Harbor Tavern.
Inside, the air hangs heavy with cigarette smoke, baked into the carpet that’s probably been here since the ’80s. I settle onto a barstool with cracked, peeling leather. Neon signs flicker overhead, casting streaks of red and blue across the dusty sports memorabilia crowding the walls.
“Hey, Mason!” shouts the bartender, Luke, as he slaps the bartop. We were buddies in high school, though I wouldn’t go as far as calling usfriends. Like most folks around here, he comes from a conservative farming family—his parents own one of the local cherry orchards. “Any drownings today?”
“Only seven,” I joke.
“Nice. Good job, dude,” Luke replies, fist-bumping me.
He pours my usual from the tap and slides the pint down the bar. I take a long sip, the cold beer easing the rasp in my throat after a day spent shouting at roughhousing kids.
“Thanks. Busy day here? The beach was packed.”
“Nonstop,” Luke groans, leaning against the counter. “My feet are killing me.”
I nod and take another swig of my IPA—a local brew with a sharp bite of citrus.
My attention drifts to the boxy television bolted above the bar, playing a hockey game between two West Coast teams I couldn’t care less about. The sound’s off, but captions scroll across the bottom as the announcers dissect the play. I half-watch, mostly zoning out, until the camera pans to a player with shoulder-length blond hair.
He’s hot. Big blue eyes, pink lips, sharp cheekbones. When he grins and pumps his fist after scoring a goal, my grip tightens around the sweating beer glass.
Goddamn. I’m practically drooling over some random hockey player. I really need to get laid.
