We never did make a movie together, though. She’s tried to get me to sign on to a few projects that she produced, but the timing has never been right. Making this movie would be the first time we’ve worked together since we were kids. I need to make this happen. For the sake of our younger selves.
After hanging up with Pooja, I take a quick shower and change into pajamas. Sliding between the bedsheets, I glance around the room. Shelby did an amazing job updating the space while preserving its charm. A vintage chandelier has been mounted above the bed, and she replaced the linens with neutral but airy bedding. And although she’s sanded and repainted each piece with eggshell-hued paint, she’s left all the original furniture in place.
Rolling onto my side, I stare at the framed photo on the bedside. It’s of me and my grandmother sitting on the lake dock one summer when I was in elementary school. The setting sun is a cotton-candy swirl of blues, casting our figures into dim silhouettes. Vaguely, I can make out the shape of our neighbors’ houses through the surrounding trees. I can’t quite tell which one is Jesse’s childhood home. What a strange idea to live a life parallel to someone else’s. To spend years existing alongside someone who is a relative stranger until one day they are anything but.
My gaze drops to the vintage brass drawer pull on the night table. Even though this room belongs to me now, this table is still my grandmother’s and opening it feels like an intrusion. But ultimately, curiosity gets the best of me.
I’m immediately hit with the scent of mothballs. The contents of the drawer are largely predictable: tissues, a bottle of Advil, a satin eye mask, a dusty remote control to a TV that’s long been replaced. I spot the program to my brother’s bar mitzvah and an oldTV Guidethat I’m betting contains a highlighted rectangle indicatingLittle LLC’s 5PMtime slot. Warmth spreads through me as I imagine this, and I’m just about to close the drawer when my gaze snags on a cream envelope at the back of it. My name is scrawled on the top in loopy cursive. Based on its location, it must have slipped to the back when Shelby painted it.
Reaching inside, I pull out the envelope and lay it on top of the comforter. Unlike the other items in the drawer, there’s very little duston top, and I wonder if it’s a relatively new addition. I stare at it for a moment, studying my grandmother’s handwriting. Even though it’s addressed to me, taking it out of her drawer and opening it feels like a violation of her privacy. But curiosity gets the best of me again, and I slip a finger through the seal and pull out the flowery notecard inside.
My dear Marissa,
If you’re reading this, I am gone, and the lake house is yours now. You might be wondering why I chose you, but I suspect deep down, you already know. I treasured our summers together and I want this place to always be a safe haven, a place to go whenever you need an escape. The world has always been your oyster, and I know your talent will take you anywhere you want to go. Just know that here, you will always be home.
Love always,
Grandma
I read the note again and again, until my eyes blur with tears and I can no longer make out the letters. My grandma was right; my summers here were more than just a little slice of heaven. They were always the perfect escape. Even now, it feels like she’s watching over me. My own personal guardian angel. And she was right: This house was a refuge for me this summer, at a time when I needed it most. The past few months have healed parts of me I didn’t even know were broken.
I wish she were here so I could tell her about Jesse. I wonder, if she remembered the little boy from across the lake, what she wouldhave made of us finding our way back to each other. It occurs to me that maybe she already knows. That maybe this lake house was a gift to me in more ways than one.
My grandmother wanted the lake house to serve as a place of healing, so I could recharge before stepping into my own power. And just like that, I know what to do.
33JESSE
The heat of the mid-August sun is oppressive, its rays setting off a glare as they reflect off my back windshield. I flip up the tailgate, sealing it shut. Today was our final day on the site, and with all renovations complete, the last of the supplies have been packed up. I’m proud of the work my team and I have accomplished this summer. Marissa’s house looks great, and I know she’s happy with the results. But the satisfaction I normally feel after finishing a job, especially one where the client is so satisfied with our work, is notably absent. I would have happily sacrificed the next six months of jobs if it meant I could have spent them here with her. She’s only here for another week before she heads back to LA, and I can already feel the loss deep in my core.
We haven’t talked about what comes next. Maybe that’s what hurts the most: the misguided hope of it all. The thought that somehow, however unlikely, this could all still work out, even though she’s never told me that’s what she wants.
I get into the front seat of the truck and sit there for a moment, steadying myself before I drive. Marissa isn’t home; she took the kids down to the beach for the afternoon. I promised to meet her after I finished packing up the rest of the tools and stopped home for a quick shower. I need to talk to her this afternoon, figure outexactly what’s going on between us so I can put myself out of my own fucking misery.
Resolved, I throw the gearshift into reverse. But before I can back out, a slick black BMW pulls into the driveway, blocking me in.What kind of an asshole…
Instinctively, I already know exactly which type of an asshole. It’s a different model than the car he rented last time but it still reeks of entitlement and misplaced bravado.
The car door opens, and Rocky’s greasy head emerges. With a groan, I throw open my door and step out into the driveway. Rocky saunters toward me. He’s wearing his usual all-black outfit and looks completely out of place for a visit to the Appalachian Mountains. I wonder if it’s by design. If he’s determined to send a message that he’s not like the rest of us rural trash. That he is, after all, A Celebrity.
“You need to move your car.” I don’t bother with pleasantries.
Rocky lowers his douchebag shades, his gaze roving over me in a way that makes my skin crawl. Then one corner of his mouth rises in amusement.
“Carpenter! You’re still here.”
Yes, I’m still here. Unlike him, I’d never leave Marissa unless she told me to. A slow heat courses through my veins as the implication of his words unfurls. Is he suggesting that he didn’t expect her to keepmearound? That it’s so unfathomable that she would have fallen for someone like me? My hands instinctively clench into fists, and I take a deep breath. I cannot punch this man. The last thing I need right now is to spend the night in jail.
“Just finished today. Now, if you don’t mind.” I gesture to his car.
He gives me a thumbs-up. A fucking thumbs-up.
“Can’t wait to see the finished product. Marissa said you did great work on our house.”
“Marissa’s house,” I correct him. This presumptuous dick. Still, unease swims through me as I consider the underlying subtext.Whyis she even talking to him about the house?And why does he think it’s his?
Rocky’s eyes light up and I realize I’ve walked right into it, given him the exact reaction he wanted.
“Sorry,” he says, though it’s clear he’s anything but. His lips curl into a serpentine smile. “Old habits die hard. Sometimes I forget Rissa and I aren’t together anymore. Just feels so natural, you know?”
