Every Summer After(16)
“Umm . . .” I squint out at the water. It’s been more than a decade, but has that much really happened?
“I still live in Toronto,” I start, taking a bite of ice cream to delay. “Mom and Dad are well—they’re traveling around Europe. And I’m a journalist, an editor, actually—I work at Shelter, the design magazine.”
“A journalist, huh?” he says with a smile. “That’s great, Percy. I’m happy for you. I’m glad you’re writing.”
I don’t correct him. My work involves little writing, mostly headlines and the odd article. Being an editor is all about telling other people what to write.
“And what about you?” I ask, returning my focus to the water in front of us—the sight of Sam sitting beside me is too jarring. I’d looked him up on social media years earlier, his profile picture was a shot of the lake, but never took the step of adding him as a friend.
“One, I’m a doctor now.”
“Wow. That’s . . . that’s incredible, Sam,” I say. “Not that I’m surprised.”
“Predictable, right? And, two, I specialized in cardiology. Another shocker.” He’s not bragging at all. If anything, he sounds a bit embarrassed.
“Exactly where you wanted to be.”
I’m happy for him—it’s what he was always working toward. But somehow it also hurts that his life continued without me as planned. I made my way through my first year of university in a fog, struggling through my creative writing classes, not able to focus on much of anything, let alone character development. Eventually a professor suggested I give journalism a shot. The rules of reporting and story structure made sense to me, gave me an outlet that didn’t feel so personal, so connected to Sam. I abandoned my dream of being an author, but I eventually set new goals. There’s speculation that when it’s time for a new editor in chief at Shelter, I’ll be at the top of the list. I created a different path for myself, one that I love, but it stings that Sam managed to follow his original one.
“And three,” he says, “I’m living here. In Barry’s Bay.” I jerk my head back, and he laughs softly. Sam was as determined to leave Barry’s Bay as he was to become a doctor. I assumed after he left for school he’d never move back.
From the moment we were together-together, I dreamed of what our life would be like when we finally lived in the same place. I imagined moving to wherever he was doing his residency after my undergrad. I would write fiction and wait tables until our incomes were steady. We’d come back to Barry’s Bay whenever we could, splitting our time between the country and the city.
“I stayed in Kingston for my residency,” he explains, as if reading my mind. Sam attended med school at Queen’s University in Kingston, one of the top schools in the whole country. Kingston was nowhere near as large as Toronto, but it sat on Lake Ontario. Sam was meant to be near water. “But I’ve been here for the last year to help Mom. She was sick for a year before that. We were hopeful at first . . .” He looks out over the water.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and we sit quietly for a few minutes, finishing our cones and watching someone fish off the town dock.
“After a while, it didn’t seem like things were going to get any better,” he says, picking up from where he left off. “I had been driving back and forth between here and Kingston, but I wanted to come home. You know, go to the treatments and all the appointments. Help out around the house and at the restaurant. It was too much for her even when she was healthy. The Tavern was always meant to be her and Dad.”
The thought of Sam being here for the past year, living in that house down on Bare Rock Lane, without me knowing, without me being here to help, feels monumentally wrong. I put my hand over his briefly and squeeze before returning it to my lap. He tracks its movement.
“What about your work?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
“I’ve been working at the hospital here. A few shifts a week.” He sounds tired again.
“Your mom must have really appreciated you coming back,” I say, trying to sound upbeat instead of how bruised I feel. “She knew you didn’t want to stay here.”
“It’s not so bad,” Sam says, sounding like he means it, and for the second time this evening my jaw drops. “I’m serious,” he promises with a small grin. “I know I ragged on Barry’s Bay when I was a kid, but I missed it a lot when I was away at school. I’m lucky to have this,” he says, nodding to the water.
“Who are you and what have you done with Sam Florek?” I joke. “But no, that’s great. It’s so amazing that you came to help your mom. And that you don’t hate it here. I’ve missed this place so much. Every summer I get cabin fever in the city. All that concrete—it feels so hot and itchy. I’d do anything to jump into the lake.”
He studies me, a serious look coming over his face. “Well, we’ll have to make that happen.” I give him a small smile, then look out over the bay. If things had turned out differently, would I have been living here for the past year? Keeping Sue company at her appointments? Helping with the Tavern? Would I have kept writing? I would have wanted to. I would have wanted all of that. The loss squeezes at my lungs again, and I have to focus on my breath. Without looking, I can feel Sam’s attention on the side of my face.