“I made a promise,” he murmurs. “And I never go back on a promise.”
He takes a bite of his s’more, and once again, it’s not a neat endeavor. We both laugh a little at this, but the earlier sense of levity has dissipated. There’s something else here now.
When he finishes, he says, “Shelby said you’re thinking of putting the house up for sale. That still the plan?”
“Maybe.” I sigh as I rotate my stick over the fire. I’ve been asking myself this same question since the first day we arrived. More and more as the days go on. And nights.
“I just don’t see how holding on to it could work long term. Especially for my kids. Their whole lives are on the other side of the country. Isla still hasn’t forgiven me for canceling our trip to Cabo.”
With displeasure, I note how hollow and privileged the words sound. But it’s not what it sounds like. It’s the fear of uprooting my kids more than I need to. And maybe, fear of my kids resenting me for it.
Still, I can’t deny how happy I feel here. How comfortable. I’ve lived in LA for well over two decades, but it’s never felt like home. I love the energy of the city, and its incredible food, and being surrounded by the relics of Hollywood history. But it’s a hard city to love, and it does little to let you in. Not in the way this place does.
I stare out into the distance, studying the blurred reflection of moonlight as it ripples over the lake.
“This summer is… an exception,” I hedge. “I just needed to get away from real life for a minute.” My chest feels heavy as my to-do lists and regular-world problems stampede back into my nervous system. “But you can’t escape real life forever.”
“Mmm.”
He doesn’t elaborate past that monosyllabic grunt. But I assume it means that while he’s not going to argue, he doesn’t necessarily agree it’s so black-and-white.
Or maybe that’s just the other voice in my head. The one I’ve been ignoring.
“If I could outrun it, I would,” I go on. “But considering the man sleeping on my sofa, it doesn’t seem like a possibility.”
Jesse follows my gaze to the shadowy outline of the house. His shoulders visibly tense and then he swivels back around, redirecting his attention to the gentle ripple of the lake.
I tip my chin upward to study the stars sprinkled across the indigo sky. I’d forgotten how many you can see here, how perfect the broad skies of the Poconos are for stargazing.
“Do you ever feel like our fates are predetermined?” I ask. “Like, no matter how badly we want something, our destiny is already written in the stars?”
Jesse is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks again, his words are soft.
“I’ve always believed in some sort of higher power. But I also think we have agency in our own lives. If the universe does have a plan for us, it’s only a rough draft. We have the power to rewrite those stars. Build the life we want to live.”
I bring down my chin to stare at him, wide-eyed.
“Shit, that’s deep. You should write fortune cookies.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Jesse smiles shyly as he tears his gaze from mine again. I notice the tips of his ears have gone pink. It’s wildly endearing.
“I’ve been spending too much time with my brother,” he says gruffly. “He’s on a perpetual mission to be his therapist’s favorite.”
He clears his throat and tries again. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re a great mom. You don’t have to decide about the house right now. And you can always come back here, whenever you need a safe place to land.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. I do feel safe here, and now I understand why I’ve felt so comfortable with Jesse since the moment we arrived. He’s a link to those perfect summers I spent here. Someone I knew and trusted when I was just a tween with a sunburnand breasts that weren’t sprouting nearly as quickly as I would have liked.
“What about your parents?” I say, shifting the conversation to a lighter topic. “Do they still live nearby?”
Jesse’s eyes drop to the fire. “No.”
I stare at him for a long beat, thinking he’s going to say more. But he doesn’t. He’s staring morosely at the flames, watching them pop and flicker.Shit. I’ve clearly miscalculated the safety of this topic, and now I wish I hadn’t brought it up.
Then Jesse looks up at me, fire dancing across his eyes, flames against a dark lake.
“My father died of a pulmonary embolism when I was in grad school,” he explains. “My mother was set to retire at the end of the school year, and they were going to go on a two-week cruise to celebrate. But after he died, she was practically comatose. Walking around, going through the motions, but nothing inside.”
