October 9, Thursday
head the flat, circular ends of a barrel
THE CAMPGROUND dock stretched into the lake like a wooden finger, weathered planks warm beneath my bare legs as I tried to lose myself in the paperback novel balanced against my knees.
The October sun felt gentle on my shoulders, a welcome contrast to the oppressive heat of summer, but my concentration kept drifting away from the story.
Tom Feldon's face kept intruding on my thoughts—the genuine warmth in his eyes when he'd mentioned knowing my mother, the casual way he'd spoken about their "good times back in the day.
" I hadn't heard a word from him since our conversation at the pub and now I wondered if I should've been more assertive and asked for a paternity test. Or if I should mark his name off the list and start looking elsewhere.
The sound of approaching footsteps made me look up from my book.
Marilyn emerged from the tree line surrounding the lake, her movements hesitant as she spotted me occupying the prime sunbathing real estate.
She wore cut-off denim shorts and a faded tank top, her dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail that emphasized her sharp cheekbones.
Her expression immediately soured when she realized she wasn't alone. For a moment, I thought she might turn around and leave, but after a brief hesitation, she spread a threadbare beach towel as far from me as the dock's dimensions would allow.
She settled onto her towel and donned a pair of drugstore sunglasses. The silence stretched between us, broken only by the gentle lapping of water against the dock posts and distant voices from the campground.
"That was an amazing performance at the talent show," I said finally. "You really deserved to win."
Marilyn's head turned slightly in my direction, her expression hidden behind the dark lenses. A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Didn't take much to beat a bunch of losers who live in tents."
The comment stung, partly because it included me by implication, but also because it revealed something sad about how Marilyn viewed herself and everyone around her. Even in victory, she couldn't allow herself to feel pride.
"Still, you have real talent," I persisted, closing my book and giving her my full attention. "Have you ever thought about performing professionally?"
She scoffed. "So I can be a starving artist? I don't need career advice from someone who gives bourbon tours for tips."
The dismissal was pointed and effective, but I couldn't quite let the conversation die.
Something about Marilyn's defensiveness reminded me of my own tendency to push people away when I felt vulnerable.
Maybe it was the isolation we both faced, or the way we'd both ended up in this in-between place, but I felt compelled to keep trying.
"Where are you from originally?" I asked, keeping my tone casual and friendly. "You have a slight accent I can't quite place."
Marilyn's entire body tensed, her shoulders pulling tight with sudden alertness. She turned to face me with an expression that had shifted from mild annoyance to genuine hostility.
"Why don't you mind your own damn business? Just because we're both stuck in this dump doesn't mean we're friends."
She sprang to her feet with surprising agility. Without warning or preamble, she took three quick steps to the end of the dock and launched herself into the lake in a cannonball that sent water cascading in all directions.
The splash was enormous and deliberate, soaking my book, my towel, and most of my sun-warmed skin with lake water that felt shockingly cold against the October air. I gasped and scrambled backward, clutching my dripping novel to my chest as water dripped from my hair into my eyes.
When Marilyn surfaced several yards from the dock, her expression held vindictive satisfaction as she treaded water and watched me assess the damage. My carefully arranged reading spot was now a soggy mess, my clothes clinging uncomfortably to my damp skin.
"Oops," she called out with false innocence, floating on her back with the confidence of someone who'd grown up around water. "Didn't see you there."
I wanted to respond with anger, to match her hostility with my own frustration, but something in her eyes stopped me.
Beneath the defiance and deliberate cruelty, I caught a glimpse of something that looked almost like desperation.
Marilyn wasn't just being mean for the sake of it—she was protecting herself from something she perceived as a threat.
Maybe my questions about her background had touched on subjects too painful or dangerous to discuss. Maybe her aggressive response was less about rudeness and more about survival instincts I couldn't understand.
"Enjoy your swim," I called, gathering my soaked belongings.
Sometimes the kindest thing you could do for someone was to leave them alone.