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He grins and picks up one of the eight-by-eight painted and glazed tiles. There are roughly twenty in the box. Without speaking, we begin to remove the tiles, lining them up side by side on the cement. Every tile is different, the artists’ techniques ranging from blobs of colorful paint to intricate geometric designs to animals of varying realism. Each is signed and dated by the creator in the bottom right corner.
Lucas chuckles as he holds up a tile. “You hated mine.”
I grab the tile out of his hand, my fingers sweeping fine dust from its surface. Lucas isn’t an artist; he never has been. But I’d demanded he make a tile with me.
My thumb traces the three interlocking circles. A simple, two-toned design. Green background, applied unevenly, with the terracotta showing through in areas. Black circles drawn with the help of an empty can and pencil before the lines were inexpertly overlaid with black paint. His name is barely legible in the bottom corner beside the year.
When I’d seen his finished product, I’d been merciless. I think I called him a colorblind kindergartener. He’d just laughed and told me he hadn’t wanted to do it in the first place. He really hadn’t, but he’d done it anyway, turning down a boys’ canoeing trip.
Jeremy, on the other hand, had never blindly acquiesced to my constant demands. The day the tiles were made, he’d chosen to go canoeing. But Lucas was always there. Always with me.
I blink dry eyes and glance up. “Why did you always do whatever I wanted?”
His eyes darken, deepen with memory or emotion. For a second, I feel like the world is about to rip in two. Then he shifts, relaxing, and gives me an easy smile.
“It was easier than the alternative. Temper tantrums for days.”
I duck my head so he can’t see my lack of smile. My aching uncertainty and fear. My thumb falls again to the circles. Three. Bound forever.
Tiles shift as Lucas resumes his task, removing and lining them up beside us until the box is empty, the tiles forming a square with one missing piece. He holds his hand out and I give him his tile, which he places in the open corner. It isn’t until I scoot closer, wondering why he didn’t give me mine, that I see it. Right beside his.
Nearly two decades later, I notice what I didn’t then—he’d copied my color scheme. Mine is varying shades of green, with a bit of orange and blue, a depiction of leaves falling. The minimal background space was done in textured waves of black.
The past folds around me: Lucas standing beside me at one of the worktables, chatting and laughing with other kids while I concentrated. His voice a consistent playlist in the background of my life.
“Are you crying? Shit.” Lucas leans forward, his hand cupping my shoulder. “Peapod! I’m sorry. I thought this would be a happy memory. I’ll put them away.”
I swipe a tear from my face, sniffing back the rest, and grab his hand as he’s reaching for the tiles. He stills at my touch, and I snatch my hand back.
“No, it’s a happy memory. Really. It’s fine. Thanks for showing me these.”
His worried eyes meet mine. “What’s wrong, then?”
I shrug and choke out a laugh. “Just feelings. They happen.” Wanting the forced intimacy to end, I lie, saying what I know will reset our boundaries. “I’m PMS’ing.”
Expecting Lucas to react like his teenaged self had, with utter horror and immediate evacuation of the area, I’m wholly unprepared for his actual response. He leaps to his feet and grabs my arm, hauling me up with little effort.
“Come on, I have snacks in the trailer. You need chocolate.”
Blindsided, I don’t even react when his hand seizes mine, our fingers interlacing, or when he tugs me across the camp to the rectangular work trailer sitting past the Lodge. He finally lets me go as he enters first to open the blinds and crack a window. There’s a folding table covered with papers, a single chair, and a tired-looking sleeping bag in the corner that I recognize as the same one he used when he was young.
The rest of the space holds camping equipment, all decades old and obviously pilfered from his mom’s garage. A single butane stove. Gallons of water. A cooler. Lantern. Tent still in its bag. Mixed in are grocery bags full of chips, pretzels, ramen, and candy.
“This is sad,” I remark, craving a return to normalcy. My palm still burns where his was pressed against it. “I can’t believe you were sleeping up here.”
He laughs. “I lasted one night.”
“Why the hell didn’t you set up in one of the cabins? They probably have more insulation than this place.”
He shudders comically. “Spiders.”
I snort and walk to the back window, pulling up the blinds as he rummages through grocery bags for chocolate. I don’t stop him—chocolate actually sounds heavenly at the moment.
My gaze roams the forest behind the Lodge. I can just see the glitter of the lake through the trees and the hint of a manmade structure in the distance.
“What’s that building out there?”
Lucas appears beside me, leaning down to squint out the window. His breath warms my neck, raising goose bumps. Then he straightens and hands me a chocolate bar that just so happens to be my favorite. I unwrap the end and take a bite.
