Love, Hate and Other Filters(19)

First I need a look at myself in just the bikini.

In front of the mirror, I wince. My breasts are held back from total exposure by a few inches of string. I double-knot the halter at my neck—insurance against accidental breast spillage—then reach for the dress. I step back.

This is actually okay. Good, even. With flip-flops, I’m swimming-lesson ready. My clothes are, anyway.

My phone buzzes. It’s Violet. Eight hours later … so it’s late afternoon in Paris. I imagine her texting from some café at sunset, some French boy hanging over her shoulder, jealous of me on the receiving end.

Violet: ARE YOU WEARING THE BIKINI?

Me: Why are you yelling?

Violet: Because that’s what I’m going to be doing if you’re not in it.

Me: I exchanged it for a granny one-piece with a ruffle. Mistake?

Violet: Did you wax?

Me: OMG

Violet: There better be mascara on those rolling eyes. Waterproof.

Me: Yes. Happy?

Violet: Me? You’re the one kissing two different guys over spring break.

Me: One.

Violet: I’m aspirationally texting.

Me: I’m aspirationally kicking your ass.

Violet: Haha. Gotta run. Meeting Jean-Paul. Who I will definitely be kissing. IRL.

Me: I would be disappointed to hear anything else.

Violet: Bisous.?

When the doorbell rings, I take a last look in the mirror, then take a deep breath before walking down the stairs.

I stop short. I spy Phil through the slightly frosted glass panels in our door. He’s checking himself out. He runs his fingers through his hair, structuring it just so. I knew that tousle was too perfect to be disinterested bedhead. Then he breathes into his cupped hand. I bite my lips so I don’t laugh and give myself away before he’s done primping. Then I open the door and step out into the warm sun.

“Don’t worry,” Phil says as we walk to his car, “I won’t let anything happen to you. Besides, the water’s not very deep.”

“What do you mean? Where would this not-so-deep water be?”

“You’ll see.”

“Is it the Y? The Waubonsee pool?”

Phil smiles across the car at me. “I thought you wanted to go someplace without witnesses present.”



After taking a right turn into the Fabyan Forest Preserve, Phil follows a side road that runs parallel to the river for nearly half a mile and then parks by the old Japanese Garden, which has been closed for over ten years. The park district didn’t have the funds to restore it. The Garden is overrun with weeds, the koi pond dried up. Phil parks next to a sign that clearly reads, NO TRESPASSING.

“We’re here,” he says.

I grab my bag and get out of the car, though I have no real idea what “here” exactly is. “The Japanese Garden?”

Phil takes a plaid blanket and cooler out of the trunk. “Not exactly. Remember what I said? Trust me.”

He leads the way down the dirt path, through the trees that create a perimeter around the garden. “You know, the entire forest preserve used to be Fabyan land. Old man Fabyan died without any heirs, so he gave it all to the town. The Visitors Center on the other side of the river used to be his main house. He actually built the Japanese Garden because he fell in love with the culture when he visited. He wanted to bring a bit of it back home. See the little cottage?” Phil pauses, pointing to a small stone structure in a little clearing. “That was his summer retreat. I guess he would ride his horse out here and chill. Basically, it’s the original man cave.”

I follow his arm, and shake my head. “How do you know all this stuff? I had no idea this cottage was even here.”

He laughs. “Another school report. Eighth grade. Ever since then, I come here when I want to get away.”

As we come upon the single-story cottage, I see that there is no glass left in the windowpanes. Gnarled old vines cover half the fa?ade of the house, and the yellowish stones are smoothed from rain. I imagine the cottage feels haunted at night, but surrounded by trees in the spring sunlight, it is beautiful.

“So Gothic romance isn’t exactly my thing, but if I ever direct one, this is so going to be the spot. I’m thinking, Dracula meets Wuthering Heights, but, like, contemporary where Heathcliff is a vampire, because that would explain why he is such a jerk.” I’ve been taking in the surroundings, sort of forgetting Phil for a moment while I imagine how to capture the light around the cottage. I pause and look at him.

He’s just standing there, grinning. “I have no idea what any of that means, except for vampires.”

“What I’m trying to say is, it’s amazing.” I peer inside. The wood slats on the floor are weathered and worn. A beat-up recliner rests in the corner. There’s a fireplace at one end of the main room with a flashlight on the mantle; the inside is blackened with ash and the charred remnants of logs, as if just used.

“Do people hang out here?” I ask.

“That’s me. I didn’t clean out the fireplace last time.” He shrugs. “Like I said, I come here sometimes.”

“But you didn’t tell me that you had taken up residence.” A vivid image of Phil and Lisa sharing a romantic evening in front of a fire springs to mind.

He laughs again, quietly. “Sometimes I wish I lived here.”