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I sidle up next to Donovan and hold the frame out for him to see. “Check it out.”
Honestly, I didn’t think there was any photographic evidence of the summer the three of us spent together—this was a time before Instagram and selfies, after all.
But there we are. The three of us. Teenagers. We’re at the marina’s pool. I’m in a bathing suit with a plaid shirt thrown over top. Jason sits beside me, arm looped over my shoulders, posing for the camera in that obnoxious way boys do—he’s either throwing up the peace sign or a gang sign, it’s hard to tell. Donovan, dressed in black, black hair, black nails, black glare, looks moodily at the camera as though he’s prepared for it to take his soul.
More than anything, I’m struck by how young we look. We thought we knew everything then. But we were children. Innocent in our own way. Young, dumb, and in love with ourselves in that self-absorbed way all young adults get to be.
“Holy shit,” Donovan says, “We look like puppies.”
“Where’d you get this?” I ask.
Jason shrugs. “I’ve had it. I just thought it was time to put a nice frame on it.”
I hear twin feet patter across the boat. “Whatcha looking at?” Otto asks, hanging behind me. The two boys seemed to have smelled something more interesting going on this side of the boat. They’re both in their swim shorts, and I can see the crescent of Otto’s scar that goes down his side. It’s healing well, but to my boy’s credit, he’s never been ashamed of it—instead, he seems to have no problem showing it off. His badge of courage.
I shift to the side to make room and hold out the picture frame. “It’s me, Jason, and Donovan…a very long time ago.”
“Whoa, cool,” Otto says, holding the picture so he can get a better look.
“That’s Dr. Donovan?” Diego asks, and his mouth drops open dramatically.
“It was…a phase.” Donovan slips his hand to the back of his neck self-consciously.
Otto examines the picture. “Mum, can I get a lip ring?”
Simultaneously, Donovan and I answer, “No.”
“This is very special, Jason,” I tell him, and I prop the photo up on the center console so the teenage versions of ourselves are staring down at the adult versions of ourselves. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, well,” Jason says, wide smile threatening to crack across his mouth, “muskrats for life.”
I link my fingers with Donovan’s and echo, “Muskrats for life.”
We have dinner together—our family and Maria’s. We make hand-rolled pizza and burn it on the grill attached to the back of the boat. Personally, I’m a fan of the crispy bottom and the places where the cheese melts and hardens around the crust. Donovan tosses up a salad as well, and for dessert, the boys put marshmallows on sticks and make s’mores over the open flame.
Otto and Diego have pulled out their sleeping bags across the deck of Maria’s boat, and it’s not even 10:00 p.m. before Otto is drifting off, curled up in his sleeping bag. The salt air really takes it out of you. I slip my fingers through his hair and says, “Hey, buddy, I think it’s time to head to bed.”
He pulls the covers up over his chin. “I want to sleep out here,” he complains.
Maria glances over at me and smiles. “It’s fine. They can come inside if they get cold.”
Out here, on the water, the stars are brighter than ever. Tiny pinpricks scattered across the sky. I don’t know what kind of a life I expected for Otto, but for a while there, I wasn’t sure he would see much of anything beyond the four walls of his hospital room. My heart feels so impossibly big knowing that he gets to experience this—rocked to sleep by the sway of the boat, under the stars beside his best friend.
“Thank you,” I whisper to Maria, and she shrugs as if to say no problem.
We clean up our places and say good night. I kiss the top of Otto’s head, and he’s so tuckered out, he barely is able to murmur a “love you.”
It’s a bit of a balancing act to go between the two boats—Jason goes first, lifting his leg over one railing and then climbing over the other. He extends his hand toward me and helps me over, and then does the same to Donovan until we’re all back aboard Dock Buoy.
Downstairs, there are dishes in the sink, the radio still going. Jason goes to the sink and rolls up his sleeves. “I’ll wash, you dry?” he asks me.
“Done.”
Donovan fiddles with the music until he finds a station he likes—a nice, groovy ambiance. I can’t help but smile as I stack plates in the drying rack.
“What’s that smile?” Jason asks.
“Just…memories. I was just thinking about that summer. When we were kids. The first time I had dinner with your family, and you and I came downstairs and cleaned up.”
