Chapter 25
25
Saturday, July 12
51 Days Left at the Lake
I stow away in the boathouse the next afternoon. There are two twin beds and a large sliding door that leads to a small deck with just enough room for two Muskoka chairs. Its peaked wood ceilings are so steep you have to crouch if you’re close to the sides. I’ve set it up like Nan did back when I was a kid, with a bunch of cheap art supplies and a plastic cloth on the table. I can’t remember the last time I messed around with paint and pencils. Right now, I’m sketching the bay while Charlie stains the dock. Or at least I’m trying to sketch. My eyes keep drifting from the shoreline to him. He stripped off his T-shirt five minutes ago.
I woke up this morning with a Chardonnay headache and his voice in my ear.
Alice. Fuck.
I can’t believe I threw myself at him. I’ve never done anything like that before. My need to touch him, to feel his body, to taste him, was overwhelming. It seemed to appear out of nowhere, an apparition that needed to be exorcised. I’m not sure I can blame the wine. We barely kissed, but I haven’t been that turned on in…well, I don’t think I’ve ever been that turned on.
Chewing on the end of my pencil, I watch him work on his hands and knees. He wipes his forehead, pausing to peer over his shoulder at the boathouse. I don’t think he can see past the sun’s glare on the window, but he looks right at me. My stomach flips.
I keep replaying the moment when I pulled his lip between my teeth, when he made that sound , then lifted me off the floor as if he couldn’t hold himself back for another second. And then the spell broke.
It’s probably best for us to stay friends.
Those words haunted me when I laid my head on my pillow, staring at the reflection of the light from his house on the water. I didn’t sleep. Instead, I spent the night reminding myself why Charlie was right to pull back. I had a crush on a friend once before, and it destroyed us. And despite how mixed up I feel about Charlie, I do think that’s what he’s become. A friend.
I’m so deep in thoughts of Charlie that I don’t hear his footsteps ascending the boathouse stairs before he knocks.
“Alice. Can I come in?” he asks from the other side of the door.
I look around for an escape route, but short of throwing myself off the boathouse deck into the water, I’m cornered.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he says. “And it’s too shallow to jump.”
I look down at myself—I’ve got my caftan on over a bathing suit. My standard-issue uniform this summer. I take a second to retie my hair into a neater pile on my head and cross the room. My heart is in my throat.
“Do you ever wear a shirt?” I say, holding the door open.
“I missed you, too.” Charlie leans against the frame, the picture of ease, but there’s a hesitance in his eyes that makes me wonder. His chest is slick with sweat, and he’s breathing heavily. He looks… ugh …too good. “Dock’s all done. Should dry quickly with this sun, but if you want to swim, you’ll have to walk in from the shore until it dries.”
“All right.” I feel like popcorn in a microwave, nerves exploding in my chest. I know he didn’t come here to tell me about the dock.
“I’ve never seen it in here.” Charlie looks over my shoulder at the space behind me. “May I?”
I step aside. Because of the angle of the ceiling, Charlie can only stand in the very center of the room without having to duck.
“It’s cozy,” he says, after giving it a short inspection.
“Uh-huh.”
“An ideal hideout,” he says, meeting my eyes. “Since you’re avoiding me.”
“I am not.”
His brows rise at the speed of my denial. “It’s one of the nicest days of the summer, and you’re hiding in here. Is this how you treat all your conquests? I feel a little used, Alice.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
He shrugs. “Beside the point.”
Charlie’s gaze drifts to my table full of sketch pads and paint palettes, pastels, and brush sets.
“I’m just playing around,” I tell him when he picks up the drawing I’ve been working on. “It’s not supposed to be good.”
“Looks pretty damn good to me.” His gaze returns to mine. “Can we talk?”
“There’s really no need to.” I don’t want to explain myself or listen to Charlie’s reasons for wanting to stay friends. “Seriously. Don’t worry about it for a second. We can move on. Pretend it never happened.”
His eyes narrow, but he says, “Sure.” A beat passes. “But there was something else I wanted to talk to you about. Can we sit?”
“All right,” I say, nervous once more.
We take our places on opposing beds, facing each other. I bend my knees and hug them to me, while Charlie spreads his wide, hands clasped between them, leaning forward. We’re so diametric, we’re almost negative images. The light streams in from the windows, putting us in a moody silhouette. I’d capture it in a photo if I could.
Click.
“My mom was sick for two years before she died,” Charlie says.
I blink. It’s the exact last thing I was expecting.
“Her treatment was harsh, and even after all that chemo, it just…well, it wasn’t enough.” The thick swallow in his throat is the only trace of how much those words hurt. “In the end, she just wanted to be comfortable. I bought her a few gummies to try, and it eased some of her discomfort.
“I wasn’t around as much as I should have been. Sam moved back home, but I was caught up in work. She died three years ago, and I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive myself for not being here more.” He scrapes a hand over his face, then looks at me. “When your grandmother asked me to get her something, I just wanted to help.”
Before I can respond, Charlie drops his head into his palms. I stare, stunned for a moment, not sure what to do. But the sight of him crying is too much for me. I get off the bed, crouching between his knees.
“Hey.” I try to pull his hands away from his face, but he shakes his head, so I trail my fingers up and down his calves, trying to soothe him.
Charlie lets himself grieve for only a few seconds before wiping his cheek with the heel of his hand. “I’m sorry. This is really fucking embarrassing.”
“Oh, this is nothing,” I say. “I once walked around a gallery with my dress tucked into the back of my underwear. I couldn’t figure out why everyone was looking at me until an elderly woman pulled the skirt out of my butt.”
He smiles. “Lucky woman.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m pleased. I like making him smile. I want his dimples firmly in place.
Charlie pats the bed, so I sit beside him with my legs folded.
“I think you’re too hard on yourself,” I say.
His gaze travels around my face, and for a heartbeat I think he’s going to argue with me, but he takes a deep breath and pulls me into him, wrapping his arms around me. I circle my arms around his waist and lean my head against his chest. He smells like sweat and sunscreen and whatever fancy soap he uses.
“What was your mom’s name?”
“Sue,” Charlie says, his voice hoarse. “Her name was Sue.”
I hold him tighter. “I’m sorry you lost her. I’m sorry she’s not here to give you a hug.”
“Thanks,” he whispers after a moment.
I pull my head back enough to gaze up at him. “For what?”
“For listening to me. For being my friend.”
“You’re welcome.” I squeeze him back.
Then I climb off the mattress, holding out my hand.
“Come on. Let’s go for a swim. You smell terrible.”
He lets out a deep laugh and puts his palm in mine.
“You know,” I say as we walk to the water, “you’re a lot more high-maintenance than I would have guessed.”