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STEPHANIE J SCOTT
1
Jillian
Everything was going to be fine.
Totally fine.
Once I arrived at the rental cottage, I’d call the others and make sure everything was good. One last minute cancellation wouldn’t kill our girls’ weekend.
Traffic slowed as the two-lane road clogged with summer vacationers. My phone buzzed at the same time my car’s dash blinked with an incoming message. I clicked accept.
“Jillian,” the flat car AI reading my text announced. “I am super sorry something came up and I can’t make it this weekend. I super owe you so much. So super sorry smiley face emoji.”
I took a measured breath. The robotic voice sapped out the urgency in the text, but the excessive “supers” told me everything I needed. That would be Hudson, canceling.
Two cancelations out of the five us. Really? One freaking weekend was all I’d asked for. Okay, one long weekend. In picturesque Charlevoix, a Northern Michigan vacation town. I’d handled all of the arrangements. Was it too much to ask for a little follow through here?
A honk came from behind. I ignored my frustration and drove ahead. A mysterious thunking sound I’d heard earlier from the innards of my car decided to show up again. Beautiful. I turned up my stereo.
The traitorous car AI informed me I’d be turning in five hundred feet. For being so predictive, maybe she should have warned me my friends would bail.
Chill out. Keep it positive.
Just because Hudson and Haley had canceled, I could count on the other two. Honestly, out of our group of college friends, Hudson and Haley were the most unreliable. Haley tried at least, but Hudson? She existed in her own fantasy world. Her job title was an influencer, though an influencer of what, I couldn’t figure out. None of us had gone to college merely to influence. Then again, Hudson never had the academic drive like the rest of us. Like me, who’d spent my years since undergrad torturing myself with a PhD program. I had a shiny new degree and I was ready to celebrate. I needed this chance to unwind. Nearly all of my twenties I’d spent in labs and with my graduate cohorts, only to discover after graduation they all had their own friends and lives.
Including my now ex-boyfriend Stuart, a.k.a. Stu, a.k.a. STEM Stu, who apparently decided to graduate from our relationship.
(Stuart was best friends with another guy named Stuart—what were the odds?—so there was STEM Stu and Sports Stu. I used to jokingly ask what happened Beef Stu, but neither Stu ever laughed. Should have seen that red flag for what it was.)
This was supposed to be a weekend with the women I trusted most. The friendships that meant so much to us at University of Michigan.
And you know, to party! With wine and movies and evenings on the lake. That’s what people my age did when they weren’t working on a dissertation, right?
I sat straighter. I could still save this. Marcy and Noah—they were responsible. Reliable. I could count on them.
My mood brightened as I turned onto the familiar sleepy side street bordering Lake Charlevoix. I slowed to let a group of kids on bikes tear past, their own little summer girl gang. That’s what I needed to reclaim this weekend. A support network. A fierce group of friends who would tackle the next decade of our lives together. Evenings on the pontoon boat drinking wine and reminiscing. I needed this.
I pulled up to the address and parked at the end of the gravel drive, leaving space for more cars when the others arrived. The house looked great, even better than I remembered from being here so many years ago as a kid and later a teenager. Figured my mom wouldn’t have steered me wrong on the rental, even though I told her I didn’t care to hear updates about the family who owned the place—a family I’d grown up knowing.
The nice sized bungalow would have been fine for five of us, and a nice fit for three.
The instructions on the rental said the key would be stashed in a coded box left of the front door. I punched in the code and the little door clicked with a unlock sound. Empty inside. Shoot.
I scanned for a cracked window or weakened point of entry. Across the street, a woman pulled weeds from a wild garden on her front walk. Hopefully, she wouldn’t think I was trying to break in.
Except I was trying to break in.
Backing down the steps to survey the side of the house, suddenly the front door opened. A guy in nothing but a towel appeared, holding open the screen door.
“Oh! Um… hello.” A towel as clothes, sure. No big deal.
The guy, possibly younger than me with tanned olive-toned skin and dark hair, had patches of matching chest hair beneath a glistening gold chain. “Aye,” he said in an accent sounding more like the Jersey shore than an inlet lake in Michigan. I must have been staring at the towel because he looked down at his body. “Oh, I’m not naked under here. See?” He whipped the towel off revealing swim trunks.
I laughed nervously. “Right, sure. So, um—”
“You Kenny’s girl? Wasn’t expecting any ladies this weekend, but you could stay.” He winked.
