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The defining moment came when everyone was saying their goodbyes. I’d watched Oliver—stoic to the max—tearing up as he gave Lucas a back-pounding hug. I’d barely held back my own tears.
Now, in that old, raw place inside me is a fresh wound ready for healing. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive Lucas entirely for abandoning us, but the acid burn of anger is gone. It took him a long time to come back, to make things right. But he’s doing it.
“Care for a swim?”
I look up from the laptop balanced on my knees to find Lucas standing where the path meets the rocky beach, a challenging glint in his eyes. For a moment, I imagine our bodies in the water, skin sliding on skin—a distorted memory from that last summer, when his nearness had felt like a continuous, electric current of want. Before he’d unceremoniously untethered my heart and set it adrift for Jeremy to claim.
I clear my throat. “No, thanks. I’m in spreadsheet hell right now.”
He takes a step toward me, into sunlight that teases the gold tones in his hair. “You know you’re allowed to take breaks, right?”
“We’re at the end of our first week,” I say tensely, “and there’s still a ton to get done.”
He smiles, unruffled. “Bullshit. You said you have a dozen interviews set up for next week, right? The hiring process is being set up online. Billy and his team are starting Monday. All the rotted furniture is gone. By the end of next week, the roof leak on the Lodge will be fixed and the plumbing upgrades will start. We’re in a good spot.”
“Yes, but?—”
“Peapod. Put the laptop down or I’ll unplug our shiny new Wi-Fi router. It’s a beautiful day.”
It is beautiful, sunlight shimmering and slicing across the mostly still water, the air dry and warm. To the north of the lake, there’s a single canoe, two figures within holding fishing lines. Locals, no doubt, since lake access is minimal. It’s truly unspoiled nature. Wild and pristine. Quiet, too, since there are no workers at the property today.
I close my laptop reluctantly. “I’m still not going for a swim. I don’t have a bathing suit and that water is freezing.”
“Suit yourself.”
Lucas is in a good mood today. The kind of mood that was impossible to resist when I was young. Even now, its playfulness teases at my edges, fraying my determination and drive.
I’ve busted my ass all week weeding through online applications for various camp positions and scheduling both virtual and in-person interviews. My initial worry that there wouldn’t be substantial interest quickly turned to awe—hundreds of people, both local and as far as California and Ohio, want to work summers at Wild Lake. With ages ranging from eighteen to their late fifties, they poured out their hearts in the comments portion of the application.
Given the experience of some of the applicants—including a few original Wild Lake staff who I automatically moved to the top of the pile—it’s hard not to feel like an imposter every time I sign an email as Wild Lake Camp Director. But I’m getting used to it. Used to the feel of the camp again. Different but the same, as my body has grown along with my mind and heart.
The nostalgia remains a potent force, but there’s a newness to it now, a patina of fresh memories on the cusp of creation. Some, too, have already been created.
Like one yesterday: Lucas running out of the Lodge hollering at the top of his lungs, swiping at his head like it was on fire, screeching about bats.
A smile tugs my lips as I remember his utterly juvenile terror, then my expression freezes as he pulls off his shirt and heads for the water. The shoes are next, then his belt clasp. I look away before he can tug off his shorts, but the sight of his naked, muscular back stays, a double exposure every time I blink.
“Last chance,” he taunts with a grin.
I look down only long enough to confirm he’s wearing boxers—black cotton—then wave him into the water. “Have fun.”
“Party pooper.”
He wades out, making pitiful sounds as the water rises to his knees, then thighs. A few seconds later, there’s a distinctly masculine yelp of affront.
“Told you!” I call.
He squints at me in annoyance. “It’s definitely colder now than it was twenty years ago.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Oh, yeah. That must be it.”
He flashes a quick smile, then turns and dives, disappearing into the dark water. My lungs tingle as I wait for him to surface. I remind myself he’s always been at home in the water and can hold his breath for close to two minutes. Or he used to be able to. I still wilt with relief when his head pops up, looking small, already halfway to the buoy.
He begins swimming, a clean, hypnotic breaststroke. Past the buoy, around, and back toward shore. I’m compelled to watch, barely blinking, and not because I’m wowed by his form. I’m captured by the same instinct I have when I don’t see Damien for hours, or when I don’t hear from my mom and dad. I watch because I need to know he’s safe. That he won’t disappear beneath the water between one blink and the next, never to be seen again.
PTSD is a bitch who has only mellowed slightly with age. She’s saucy at the moment, rejuvenated by Memorial Day and everything it represents.
I breathe another sigh of relief as Lucas reaches the shallows and stands, shifting a bit as he finds his place on slick rocks. His back is to me, his hands on his hips as he looks out over the lake. Relaxed and contained, a master of his domain.
