Every Summer After(31)
Usually I do a good job of keeping that side of myself under wraps. But now and then it’ll come out, like the time I called Sebastian’s progressive-seeming bearded best friend “the worst kind of misogynist” over dinner after he’d repeatedly looked down our server’s shirt and asked me whether I’d go to part-time or quit work entirely after I had children. Sebastian looked at me slack-jawed, having never seen me snap like that, and I apologized for my outburst, blaming it on the wine.
Still in yesterday’s sundress, I ease out of bed and inch toward the bathroom. I’m stiff, but I’m not nauseated. I loosen my belt and pull the dress over my head, take off my underwear, and then step under the hot spray. As the soap and water lift the smog from my brain, I make a plan to head over to the public beach after breakfast. Sam and I never swam at the beach when we were young. Once or twice we bummed around the nearby park with his friends, but the beach was reserved for town kids who didn’t live on the lake. I know there’s no dock and no raft, but I am desperate for a swim.
After my shower, I towel dry my hair until it’s damp and run a comb through it. I chance a look at my phone.
There’s another text from Chantal: CALL ME.
Instead, I write her back: Hey! Can’t talk right now. No need to come here. I’m OK. Ran into Sam yesterday.
I can picture her rolling her eyes at my response. I know I’m probably not sneaking anything by her, and I feel guilty for not calling, but being here and seeing Sam yesterday feels so surreal, I can’t imagine having to put it in words.
I press send and then put on my bathing suit, a bright red two-piece that I have rare occasion to use, and a pair of denim shorts. I’m about to throw on a shirt before heading to the motel restaurant, when there’s a knock at the door. I freeze. It’s too early for housekeeping.
“It’s me, Percy,” says a deep, scratchy voice from outside.
I unlock the door. Sam is looming in the doorway with damp hair and a fresh shave. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt, a coffee cup and a paper bag in one hand. It’s every straight hungover woman’s fantasy standing at the entrance of my room. He holds them out and then looks me over, slowing down over the one-shouldered bathing suit top I’m wearing. His blue eyes are somehow brighter today.
“Want to come to the lake?”
* * *
“WHAT ARE YOU doing here?” I ask, grabbing the coffee and the bag. “Never mind, I don’t care why. You’re my hero.”
Sam laughs. “I told you I’d see you soon. I figured you’d forgive me for overserving you if I came bearing food, and I know you don’t like sweets at breakfast. Or at least you didn’t used to.”
“Nope, still don’t,” I confirm, sticking my nose in the bag. “Cheese and ham croissant?”
“Brie and prosciutto—from the new café in town,” he replies. “And a latte. Barry’s Bay is fancy now.”
“I noticed a more refined air yesterday.” I grin, taking a sip. “Taylor won’t mind if I come to the house? She might feel uncomfortable since we hung out all the time when we were kids.” And this is the problem with seeing Sam before I’ve had time to figure out how to talk to him or at least before I’ve had coffee. Words come into my head and then out of my mouth with no lag time between—it was that way when we were teenagers, and clearly that hasn’t changed, no matter how much I’ve grown, no matter what kind of successful woman I’ve become. I sound petty and childish and jealous.
Sam rubs the back of his neck and looks over his shoulder, thinking. In the two seconds it takes for him to shift his gaze back to me, I’ve melted into a sticky pool of embarrassment and reassembled myself into what I hope is a normal-seeming human.
“The thing about Taylor and me—” I cut him off with a frantic shake of my head before he finishes the sentence. I don’t want to know about the thing with him and Taylor.
“You don’t need to explain,” I say.
He stares at me blankly, blinking just once before pressing his lips together and nodding his head—an agreement to move on. “At any rate, something urgent came up with a case she’s been working on. She had to go back to Kingston this morning.”
“But the funeral is tomorrow.” The words come out in a burst, thickly coated with judgment. Sam, rightfully, looks taken aback by my tone.
“Knowing Taylor, she’ll find a way to come back.” It’s an odd response, but I let it slide.
“Shall we?” he asks, pointing his thumb over his shoulder at a red pickup truck I hadn’t noticed until now. I look at him in shock. There’s nothing about Sam that says red pickup truck, except for being born and raised in rural Ontario.
“I know,” he says. “It’s Mom’s, and I started driving it when I moved up here. It’s a lot more practical than my car.”
“Living in Barry’s Bay. Driving a truck. You’ve changed, Sam Florek,” I say solemnly.
“You’d be surprised by how little I’ve changed, Persephone Fraser,” he replies with a lopsided grin that sends heat where it should not.
I turn around, discombobulated, and throw my towel and a change of clothes in a beach bag. Sam takes it from me and tosses it into the back of the truck before helping me climb in. Once the doors are closed, the rich smell of coffee mixes with the clean scent of Sam’s soap.