Sweet Clarity

Prologue

I peered down at my bare feet dangling off the dock.

The sky was clear. Starlight danced on the surface of the lake, and I was half tempted to jump in, to swim in a sea of stars.

Magical was the word that came to mind whenever I tried to understand the changes I had started to feel in myself.

I didn’t sneak out. I didn’t break rules.

And if I’d ever done anything reckless, it was with the best friend I’d had since I was five—not with someone I barely knew.

But nights like this, us spending stolen time together, meant something to me. I just didn’t know what yet.

“Well, this is getting old. Don’t you think?” Hannah’s question snapped me out of my thoughts.

“Oh,” I said. Then, in an attempt to recover and hide how disappointed I was, I mustered up yet another underwhelming response. “Yeah… sorry.”

“ ‘Sorry’? Why are you apologizing? This lake is the problem,” Hannah said, kicking up a few drops with the tip of her big toe.

“Oh.”

Yep, that was me. Ever the stimulating conversationalist.

“I mean, this last week has been great,” she said, turning away from the lake to look at me.

Her eyes stayed on mine, then dipped down and lingered long enough for me to know she was staring—at my lips, my neck?

I wasn’t sure. It made something in my chest wake up.

Almost as fast as she looked me over, her gaze returned to the water and she continued, “I think we can do better. I mean, we’re in the middle of nowhere for fuck—I mean, Christ’s—shit. ”

We both laughed. I guess maybe it is complicated to figure out who or what’s sake it is when you’re up in the middle of nowhere at a Christian summer camp, especially when you’re not even a Christian.

“What I’m trying to say is that there’s way more to this place than this lake and a couple of wooden shacks.” She gestured to the bunks behind us, where all the other counselors and campers were asleep.

By then, sneaking out had become a habit for us. And Hannah was right—the lake was getting old.

“What do you suggest?” I asked.

At the time, I was still so unaware of myself, of what my dread of her saying she was tired and wanted to go back to bed really meant.

I worried that our adventure was already over, that the taste of something else, of something better than what I was used to, had already run out, the flavor gone and chewed up too fast.

“Come on,” she said, standing up.

I followed quickly, dusting off the back of my pajama shorts and slipping into my flip-flops.

We padded up the wooden planks, having learned early on which creaky ones to avoid in the otherwise silent night.

Hannah started jogging, so I did too, and I followed her to the edge of camp, where the administration building sat behind the only paved parking lot on the grounds.

There, among a couple other counselors’ and a few staff members’ cars, was Hannah’s Subaru.

I don’t know if she knew where she was going when she fished her key out of the pocket of her jacket and twisted it into the ignition.

We gently peeled out of the parking lot, and then Hannah laid into the gas once we reached the main road.

We raced into the night, the Camp Refuge road sign disappearing behind us.

I wasn’t thinking about how it might look if someone woke up to discover that we weren’t in our bunks, that both of us were missing and off the grounds entirely—breaking the first and most absolute rule. I didn’t care.

Nothing mattered beyond the way Hannah made me feel, just by being near her, being seen by her.

“What are you doing?” she asked when I reached up and pressed a button over our heads.

Slowly, her sunroof slid open, giving way to the now familiar blanket of stars poking through the clearing in the trees. We snaked our way farther up the mountain, chasing the sky.

I unbuckled my seat belt and stood up. I almost hesitated, but the cool air rushed through the opening and tugged me harder.

Notes of hemlock and sweet maple flooded my nose, waking me up and tickling my brain.

Gripping the edge of her roof, I faced the night: air caressing my skin, wind in my thick, curly hair, blood rushing underneath my goose bumps.

Music came on, the first song on the soundtrack of our summer.

The volume boomed, disrupting the night with Glass Animals’ “Youth.” It was perfect.

I was free. For the first time, I was free.

When I sat back down, I was breathless. Hannah laughed, buzzing from my energy.

I thumbed my way through her Spotify playlist, picking songs that I did and did not know, twisting the volume dial down when she turned onto an unmarked road.

Neither of us had pulled up a GPS. She seemed as familiar with these woods as she was with her own backyard.

In the name of spontaneity, we followed the road until we found ourselves in a tree-lined clearing. Hannah cut the engine but left the car on so that the music could play quietly.

“Come on,” she said, her door already open.

I followed her around to the back of the car. She popped the trunk and climbed in, pulling a lever to collapse her back row of seats.

“Here.” She handed me a hoodie from the top of a pile she had started pulling apart.

I put it on, feeling lucky that she had it. When the collar cleared my head and I reached up to push my hair out of my face, I found her spreading out a comforter and a couple of pillows. I crawled into the trunk and lay down on my side, my body mirroring hers.

Her hazel eyes glistened in the moonlight spilling in from the roof.

Her gaze shifted upward and so did mine.

Humid air licked the soles of my feet as they hung out the back of her trunk.

I stared at the stars, the trees lit by the moon, hoping this moment would never end. The whole world felt so far away.

“This is amazing,” I whispered.

“Yeah.”

I let my eyes fall back down to find Hannah already looking at me. Her hand cupped my face, and her thumb began tracing my cheekbone, down the side of my nose, to my lips. Her fingertip was soft, her hand was warm, and the gentleness in her eyes slowed my heartbeat.

She shifted closer to me, and suddenly my entire world consisted only of her: the rosy hue of her skin, the sharp angles of her nose, the forgiving curve of her cheek, the hazel and gray flecks in her eyes.

I could see where her baby hair started crawling out of her forehead, the way the soft tendrils lay against the side of her face like… like a kiss.

I wanted to kiss her.

I had never kissed anyone before. And I had never thought about kissing a girl.

Not until that moment. But it made sense.

All of it—the past week, the nights on the dock—every day became a waiting game for when it would be time to meet Hannah at my window.

I’d count the seconds after all our campers were asleep so that I could climb out and finally feel like myself.

I had a crush, and this realization sent a ripple of excitement across every inch of my being—to the top of my head, down to my toes, and out to my fingertips. I felt electrified by it. Maybe Hannah did too, because that’s when she leaned in.

I closed my eyes.

I remember the softness of her lips. I remember wondering and worrying for a millisecond if mine were chapped.

But then I wasn’t thinking at all. I remember her hand leaving my face and her fingers grazing my neck.

I remember feeling her hair tickling my forehead, her nose poking into my cheek.

I remember how whole I felt being close to her, and how I wanted to be closer still.

I remember the smell of rain and hemlock drifting in through the open windows, mixing with her mango shampoo.

The comforter was soft, and the floor of the car was hard beneath it.

Her hoodie was worn and warm and it felt like Hannah had wrapped herself around me—and I wanted her to actually be around me.

I remember how that need to be closer to her nearly consumed me, before we pulled apart for air.

Her smile.

My heart racing.

My first kiss.

My mind rushed to collect all the details so that later, when I finally did close my eyes, I could come back here. So that I could always come back here.

There was just one more detail I needed. “What’s the song playing right now?”