8. Imogen
IMOGEN
The stately green cottage at the bottom of Mom’s driveway is charmingly kissed by vines and old paint, comfortable with its original style, not in need of modern adaptations.
I take it in, remembering the last time I walked its cobblestone steps.
It must have been some eleven years ago, likely with Amelia by my side for game night with our friend group, often hosted by Rory.
Cards Against Humanity, or poker with gummy bears instead of chips.
Now, years older, alone, and wearing high-waisted cigarette pants and a baby cardigan instead of my teenage uniform of denim short-shorts and Uggs, I clutch a bottle of wine in clammy hands, belly full of nerves.
I push ahead and knock on the double wooden doors before I can reconsider, realizing this to be a terrible mistake.
Returning to Blair, I hadn’t intended to fall back into my past. I wanted to box it up—literally and figuratively—and carry on with my life in the city.
What am I doing here?
The butterflies making a home in my stomach nearly escape out of my skin when the doors open—revealing a tall, handsome man who resembles the person I saw in their window yesterday…
life-sized. Strands of chocolate hair fall gently onto his forehead.
He wears a dark knit pullover and classic black twill pants.
“Rory?” I ask, uncertainty threading my voice.
The teenager I remember had long, sun-kissed hair often pulled in a bun and a wardrobe consisting primarily of juvenile skatewear.
The man before me is older, confident, even suave.
His jawline is sharper, his posture surer, and there’s an ease about him I don’t recognize.
But the more I stare at his face, the more I know it’s him.
Heat creeps up my neck, and I have a ridiculous urge to shed the cardigan, to look sharper, chicer—like someone who grew up.
Maybe to prove I’ve transformed, too. To show I’m no longer the inexperienced girl who let him dare me into skinny-dipping under a July moon, our laughter echoing across the water as he held my towel hostage on the dock.
“Well, if it isn’t Imogen Bly,” he says, his voice low and amused.
He holds out his arm and nods, ushering me inside.
As I cross the threshold, he pulls me into a tight, confident hug, our bodies uniting perfectly.
His hand lingers a second too long at the sliver of exposed skin between my cardigan and pants.
“You look…” I stare at him, lingering on my next word. “Different. Good different.”
His coy smile deepens, emerald eyes grazing my body as he closes the door. I’m hit with the tantalizing scent of garlic and tomato sauce wafting out of the kitchen. But I’m suddenly too nervous to feel hunger from it.
“Growing up looks good on you, too,” he says as we cross the foyer.
I stutter a laugh. “Um, I brought wine. It’s a lot nicer than the stuff we used to drink out on the boat,” I add, referencing nights of stealing cheap wine our parents wouldn’t miss, sipping it between dock dives.
I can almost feel the summer gnats buzzing overhead.
I hand him the bottle, a natural red from his family’s store.
“We’ll enjoy it all the same.” He grins. “We have an open bottle on the bar if you want some?”
“I’d love that,” I say, trying to sound composed.
He cocks his head, signaling me to follow him across the open room.
Gladly.
Overhead lights gleam off the slate floors as we enter the bar area—
an old, glossy walnut nook, perched by a window overlooking the lake.
The setting sun streams through the lake-facing windows catching dust motes midair.
The bar smells faintly of cedar. An open bottle of red sits atop it—beneath a shelf of more wine and a modest liquor collection.
Rory removes the cork with a hollow pop and pours, crimson liquid swirling into two stemmed glasses.
“So where have you been all these years?” he asks, handing me a glass.
Rory leads me to a sleek leather couch in the living room. We sit close enough for our knees to graze, while a lively fire flickers in the river rock hearth across from us. Beside it is the window I saw Rory standing in yesterday, framing Mom’s dock perfectly. I don’t mention it.
“You know… here and there. Mostly Seattle,” I say, taking a hefty sip, meaning here and there literally, as I’ve never lived anywhere else. “Don’t tell me you’ve stayed here all these years.”
Luckily, he laughs.
Even if home is the nicest place in the world, it’s hard not to imagine something else—if only the closest city.
“I headed to college that first fall. Boston. Didn’t suit me, though.”
“Boston didn’t?” I ask.
“College,” he admits. “I stayed on the East Coast for a while. Lived in New York. I moved to Seattle last year. Feels good to be back in the West.” He takes a sip, eyes on mine the whole time.
“So, what are you doing here now? At your parents’.”
“I do freelance graphic design. I’m helping them rebrand the store. It’s easier to do from here, since there’s a lot to go through. I’ve only been back a couple weeks.” Rory tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, placing a hand lightly on my knee. “But you… you doin’ okay?”
I gulp, aware of how high his fingers are slipping above my knee. I breathe to respond but am interrupted by the sound of clanging pots and ’70s rock music blasting from the kitchen. Mara walks out.
“You’re here!” she chirps. “Join us in the dining room. Emmett’s almost ready to plate.”
Rory withdraws his hand, guiding me to the table.
Small talk is rarely appealing, especially days into your mother’s death.
Answering the repetitive, sad questions is as awkward as asking them.
Emmett, Rory’s older, slightly more muscular doppelg?nger, sits diagonal from me, battering off questions.
“Do they know how it happened?” “What about the house?” “What do you do in Seattle?” “Would you ever move into your mother’s place? ” “Where in Seattle do you live, then?”
He means well, I know. Our families were always close, and the Holloways continued to see Mom frequently after I moved out. These people watched me grow up. Understandably, they have questions.
I answer politely, eyes constantly snagging on Rory across the table—who eats his vodka bucatini with a rough patience. Like the questions are making him as tense as they are me.
Emmett says, “God, I wish we had seen Alice go out in the storm. Mara and I would have gone down there, you know?”
Rory speaks up. “Dad, I think Imogen deserves a night off, don’t you agree?” He winks at me apologetically.
“Honey, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to give you a hard time,” Emmett assures me. “We’re surprised is all.”
“I know. It’s okay.” I nod, swallowing kale salad. “It’s a big elephant, isn’t it?”
“But Rory’s right,” Mara says. “Let’s talk about something positive. This is a happy space.”
“It’s totally fine,” I repeat, twisting a piece of pasta off my stoneware plate.
The lighting is dim from the chandelier, the warm wooden ceiling creating a yellow glow around the room. I want to comment on how cozy their home still is, but Emmett speaks first.
“Have you seen Harry since you’ve been back?”
I hear a minor commotion under the table. When I see Emmett’s expression drop, I realize Mara must have kicked him. I can’t imagine why—as though that name is sensitive. On the contrary, I don’t know anyone named Harry.
“What was that about?” Rory pokes, joining me in confusion.
“Enough of the questions,” Mara announces nonchalantly. She clears her throat. “Have you met the new neighbors yet? The Wickers?
Well, they’ve been here for months, so I guess they’re not quite new.
But they moved into the Turners’ house,” she explains.
“Someone else bought it from the Turners’ kids last year, and now this new family is renting it.
I don’t think your mom ever got them to open the door to meet her.
They can be reclusive. But the son actually—”
“Mom,” Rory interrupts her rambling with a small smile. “You’re still asking questions.”
“No, I haven’t met them,” I tell her.
I remember wondering about the Turners when I drove past yesterday. Their house sits behind a patch of trees diagonal from the Holloways’ home, next to a small, wooded area. It’s a modest house, without a lake view.
“Why don’t you tell Imogen about your work for the store,” Mara suggests to Rory, desperately trying to pass the figurative talking stick. She pours more wine into everyone’s glasses.
Rory dabs his mouth with a cloth napkin. “They want to go modern. Get away from the old hippie vibes,” he explains, running his tongue across his back teeth.
“Aw,” I mutter. “I kind of like the old hippie vibes.”
“I said the same thing.” Rory grins.
“We’re trying to keep it fresh,” Emmett says. “Stay up-to-date with the likes of you kids.”
As if Mara and Emmett Holloway need to stay “up-to-date” with any of us. They’re cooler than most people I know.
“Although maybe they have a point. I hear retro’s back,” Mara says matter-of-factly.
I chuckle. “I’m sure you’re in good hands with Rory.”
“You haven’t seen my work. Maybe I have terrible style,” he says, leaning closer.
“I find that hard to believe.” I raise my wineglass to my mouth. “But I guess you’ll just have to show me.”
“I will,” Rory says, raising his eyebrows at me, poking his salad.
After dinner, Mara collects plates while I stand—thanking them for the meal. I meet Rory’s gaze, steady and unreadable, and without looking away, he announces, “I’m taking Imogen down to the lake. To catch up properly.”
In comical unison, they reply, “That’s a great idea.”
As if remembering my unease with the water as of late, Rory adds, “That cool with you?”
I nod, and Rory grabs a bottle of wine off the bar before leading us out the back door.