Every Summer After(39)

“I can imagine,” I say. “Do you ever think he and your mom . . . you know?” The idea hadn’t crossed my mind as a teen, but as I got older, I thought it might explain why a young, single man whose cooking skills far surpassed boiling pierogies and cooking sausages would live in a small town for so long.

“I don’t know.” He runs his hand through his hair. “I always wondered why he stuck around for so long. He didn’t plan on spending his life up here—it was just a summer job for him. I think he had big dreams of opening his own place in the city. Mom said he stayed for me and Charlie. The last couple of years, though, I wondered if it was for her.”

He looks back down to me with a sad smile, and without saying a word, we both walk around the side of the house and head to the water. It feels instinctive, like I had walked down this hill only days ago rather than more than a decade earlier. The old rowboat is tied to one side of the dock, a new motor attached to the stern, and the raft floats out from the dock just as it used to. My throat is thick, but my whole body relaxes at the view. I close my eyes when we get to the dock and breathe.

“We haven’t put the Banana Boat in this year,” Sam says, and my eyes pop open.

“You still have it?” I marvel.

“In the garage.” Sam smiles, a flash of white teeth and soft lips. We walk out to the end of the dock and I steady myself before looking down the shore. There’s a white speedboat attached to a new, larger dock where ours used to be.

“Your cottage looks pretty much the same from the water,” Sam says. “But they’ve put another room on the back. It’s a family of four—the kids are probably eight and ten by now. We let them swim over and use the raft.”

I have an odd sensation looking out over the water and the raft and the far shore—it’s all so familiar, like I’m watching an old family video except the people have been scrubbed out so I can only make out faint silhouettes where they once were. I long for those people—and the girl I used to be.

“Percy?” I don’t hear Sam until he puts a hand on my shoulder. He’s looking at me funny, and I realize a few tears have managed to sneak out of their holding cells. I wipe them away and try to smile.

“Sorry . . . I feel like I was just transported back in time for a second.”

“I get that.” Sam is quiet and then crosses his arms across his chest. “Speaking of going back in time . . . think you could still do it?” He nods to the other side of the lake.

“Swim across?” I scoff.

“That’s what I thought. Too old and out of shape for it now,” he says with a tut.

“Are you screwing with me?” Sam’s mouth ticks up on one side. “You brought me here to insult my age and my body? That’s low, even for you, Dr. Florek.” The other side of his mouth moves upward.

“Your body looks good from where I’m standing,” Sam says, looking me up and down.

“Perv.” I unsuccessfully fight back a grin. “You sound like your brother.” My eyes go wide at what I’ve just said, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“It’s been a long time,” he continues. “I’m just saying we aren’t as spry as we used to be.”

“Spry? Who says ‘spry’? What are you, seventy-five years old?” I tease. “And speak for yourself, old man. I am plenty spry. Not all of us have gone soft.” I poke his stomach, which is so hard it’s like negative percent body fat. He smirks at me. I narrow my eyes, then study the far shore.

“Let’s say I do it: swim across the lake. What’s in it for me?”

“Other than bragging rights? Hmm . . .” He rubs his chin, and I stare at the tendons snaking along in his forearm. “I’ll give you a present.”

“A present?”

“A good one. You know I’m an excellent present giver.” It’s true: Sam used to give the best gifts. Once, he mailed me a worn copy of Stephen King’s memoir, On Writing. It wasn’t a special occasion, but he’d wrapped it up and left a note on the inside cover: Found this at the secondhand store. I think it was waiting for you.

“Humble as always, Sam. Any idea what this excellent gift will be?”

“None whatsoever.” I can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of me or the big grin across my face.

“Well, in that case,” I say, unbuttoning my shorts, “how could I refuse?” Sam gapes at me. He didn’t think I’d do it. “You better still know how to row.”



* * *





I LIFT MY shirt over my head and stand with my hands on my hips. Sam’s mouth is still hanging open, and while my two-piece is hardly skimpy, I suddenly feel extremely exposed. I have no issues with my body. Okay, yes, I have plenty of issues, but I recognize them as insecurities and don’t tend to worry too much about my soft belly or bumpy thighs. My relationship with my body is one of the few healthy ones I have. I go to a regular spin class and do a weight circuit a couple of times a week, but it’s mostly because I can manage my stress better when I exercise. I’m by no means as toned as the insufferable women who do spinning in short shorts and sports bras, but that’s not the goal. I’m fitish—there are just some jiggles in places I like to think are fine to be a bit jiggly. Sam’s gaze runs down to my chest and back to my face.