“It’s hard to put into words,” I admit, glancing at the ground. After a pause, I add, “You might be getting new neighbors soon. Amelia and I are going to sell the house.”
“I understand.” She tuts, resting her hand on my arm. “Well, I’d love to talk more, even cook you a proper meal if you’re up for it. What are you two doing tonight?”
“Amelia’s a teacher now. Fitting, right?” I laugh lightly, leaning against the doorframe. “She’ll be at Back to School Night until late.”
“Even more reason to have you over! Rory’s home. It’d be lovely to see you two catch up,” Mara gushes. “No pressure, of course. Why don’t you think about it. And if you’re interested, come by around six thirty.”
Rory’s home.
My stomach dips at the thought. But my desire for company tonight supersedes that of avoiding an awkward catch-up with my old fling and his parents. Ihavebeen curious to know what Rory’s been up to since high school, and who was watching me from their window yesterday.
“I’ll be there.”
8
IMOGEN
The stately green cottage at the bottom of Mom’s driveway is charmingly kissed by vines and old paint, comfortable with its original style, not in need of modern adaptations. I take it in, remembering the last time I walked its cobblestone steps. It must have been some eleven years ago, likely with Amelia by my side for game night with our friend group, often hosted by Rory. Cards Against Humanity, or poker with gummy bears instead of chips.
Now, years older, alone, and wearing high-waisted cigarette pants and a baby cardigan instead of my teenage uniform of denim short-shorts and Uggs, I clutch a bottle of wine in clammy hands, belly full of nerves. I push ahead and knock on the double wooden doors before I can reconsider, realizing this to be a terrible mistake. Returning to Blair, I hadn’t intended to fall back into my past. I wanted to box it up—literally and figuratively—and carry on with my life in the city.
What am I doing here?
The butterflies making a home in my stomach nearly escape out of my skin when the doors open—revealing a tall, handsome man who resembles the person I saw in their window yesterday… life-sized. Strands of chocolate hair fall gently onto his forehead. He wears a dark knit pullover and classic black twill pants.
“Rory?” I ask, uncertainty threading my voice. The teenager I remember had long, sun-kissed hair often pulled in a bun and a wardrobe consisting primarily of juvenile skatewear. The man before me is older, confident, even suave. His jawline is sharper, his posture surer, and there’s an ease about him I don’t recognize. But the more I stare at his face, the more I know it’shim.
Heat creeps up my neck, and I have a ridiculous urge to shed the cardigan, to look sharper, chicer—like someone who grew up. Maybe to prove I’ve transformed, too. To show I’m no longer the inexperienced girl who let him dare me into skinny-dipping under a July moon, our laughter echoing across the water as he held my towel hostage on the dock.
“Well, if it isn’t Imogen Bly,” he says, his voice low and amused. He holds out his arm and nods, ushering me inside. As I cross the threshold, he pulls me into a tight, confident hug, our bodies uniting perfectly. His hand lingers a second too long at the sliver of exposed skin between my cardigan and pants.
“You look…” I stare at him, lingering on my next word. “Different. Good different.”
His coy smile deepens, emerald eyes grazing my body as he closes the door. I’m hit with the tantalizing scent of garlic and tomato sauce wafting out of the kitchen. But I’m suddenly too nervous to feel hunger from it.
“Growing up looks good on you, too,” he says as we cross the foyer.
I stutter a laugh. “Um, I brought wine. It’s a lot nicer than the stuff we used to drink out on the boat,” I add, referencing nights of stealing cheap wine our parents wouldn’t miss, sipping it between dock dives. I can almost feel the summer gnats buzzing overhead. I hand him the bottle, a natural red from his family’s store.
“We’ll enjoy it all the same.” He grins. “We have an open bottle on the bar if you want some?”
“I’d love that,” I say, trying to sound composed.
He cocks his head, signaling me to follow him across the open room.
Gladly.
Overhead lights gleam off the slate floors as we enter the bar area—
an old, glossy walnut nook, perched by a window overlooking the lake. The setting sun streams through the lake-facing windows catching dust motes midair. The bar smells faintly of cedar. An open bottle of red sits atop it—beneath a shelf of more wine and a modest liquor collection. Rory removes the cork with a hollow pop and pours, crimson liquid swirling into two stemmed glasses.
“So where have you been all these years?” he asks, handing me a glass.
Rory leads me to a sleek leather couch in the living room. We sit close enough for our knees to graze, while a lively fire flickers in the river rock hearth across from us. Beside it is the window I saw Rory standing in yesterday, framing Mom’s dock perfectly. I don’t mention it.
“You know… here and there. Mostly Seattle,” I say, taking a hefty sip, meaninghereandthereliterally, as I’ve never lived anywhere else. “Don’t tell me you’ve stayed here all these years.”
Luckily, he laughs.
