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“Hey, Mom,” I answer.Crap. I haven’t returned her last few calls.
“Hi, sweetie. How are you?”
“Good, in the middle of cleaning,” I say, passing the rag over my kitchen counter.
“You sure? You sound a little off,” she says.
A beat passes before I deny it. “Yeah, yeah. Char’s been out of town, so I haven’t gotten out much.”
I’m so relieved I never told her about Lorenzo, or I know she’d ask. It doesn’t hurt the way it did before when I think of him, but I don’t know that I want to talk about it, either.
“Where’d she go?” I explain the project Char was hired for at the new hotel being built in Willowbrook, a town about an hour north from Azalea Pines.
“Willowbrook is beautiful! They have so many wonderful lakes. Why don’t you pay her a visit?”
“That’s not a bad idea, Mom,” I say thoughtfully. Char has texted me photos of the hotel she’s at, and she mentioned a lake nearby.
“Yeah! Go have fun, be young,” she says. “Your father and I went on a lot of lake dates in Willowbrook. One time…”
I get lost in my mother’s stories as I continue wiping down the kitchen. Once we hang up, I call Char.
“Hey, toots,” she says.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m waiting on my marg at the poolside bar,” she says. “This project has been amazing but exhausting. I’m ready to relax.”
“Oh, nevermind, then,” I say dejectedly.
“Nevermind, what?”
“My mom said the lakes are pretty awesome and suggested I come visit you. But I don’t—”
“Are you kidding? Get your ass up here! Oh my god, I’m so excited! We went to the lake last weekend. It was gorgeous, there’s—”
“Okay, okay! Let me finish cleaning and pack my bags. What should I bring?”
“Fuck cleaning. We need to soak up as much fun as we can!”
I laugh and store my cleaning supplies as we discuss what I should bring. It’s already ten in the morning and I reallydowant to soak up the fun.
I need a change of pace. I thought cleaning would cleanse my mind, but maybe it needs a deep rinse in a body of water. This is the perfect way to solidify letting go.
Life goes on regardless of my broken heart.
“I didn’t know if you’d be up for it, or I would have invited you myself,” Char says. We’re on our way to the lake near the hotel she’s working and staying at. I met her at the pool, where I awkwardly ran into Gustav. He’s managing the construction of the hotel while Char works on the interior design. We ran to her room to put my overnight bag down and change into my bathing suit, then hit the road.
“I’ve been doing okay. I feel good about my decision, at the very least,” I say. I’m still sleeping like shit, when all the thoughts I successfully keep at bay come out in these strange, frightening nightmares.
“As you should,” Char says firmly. “How are the driving lessons?”
“Great! I can’t believe how much progress I’ve made. It’s like I was never even afraid,” I say. I deliberately ignore the wish that it could have been Lorenzo who kept teaching me.
“I’m so fucking proud of you,” Char says. The tires crunch over the pebbles of the makeshift parking lot, signaling our arrival. The afternoon sun glitters over the calm waters as tree branches sway gently in the breeze. Surprisingly, there aren’t many people here.
Char answers my unspoken question, throwing the car into park and opening her door. “There was a festival in town today.” We grab our bags and walk past a couple snoozing on a blanket, settling between their spot and a family about a hundred yards further.
We unpack our towels and lay them down while Char tells me about the design work she’s done. As I lather sunscreen onto my exposed skin, I stare at my bikini in appreciation. I bought it a while ago and totally forgot until it caught my eye as I was searching for my usual black one. But that bathing suit is tainted with memories from St. Patrick’s Day—memories I want to pretend don’t exist.
