8. Imogen #2
Clouds cover the sky; artificial light streams down from houses and shimmers off the lake’s surface to create a string-light effect.
It’s a calm night, with the water gently splashing against the docks, its rhythm growing louder as we descend the rickety steps.
A chilly wind makes me clutch my cardigan tight to my body.
Mom’s dock sits off to our right, half hidden by a large tree that leans out of the shoreline, its roots swallowed by water.
Our docks look alike: slatted wood, three boats tied up, a couple lounge chairs, and stepladders that slip into the lake—though it’s hard to make much out in the dark.
A few houses to our left is Sawyer Dam, which connects the north side of Lake Blair to the south.
Its mouth is wide open, resembling the end of an infinity pool—a forest down beyond it that Sawyer Creek cuts through.
“When were you last out on the water?” Rory asks, breaking the silence.
I think for a moment. “A couple summers ago maybe? When I visited my mom, we never really utilized the lake anymore. It’s usually raining when I come here.”
This part of Washington gets rain nearly half the year, if not more. Although living on a lake is idyllic anywhere, no one really uses Lake Blair year-round. Even Mom timed her pedal-boating around dry spells. Sometimes, though, the wetness was unavoidable. When it was, she’d embrace it.
“I’ve been coming out here a lot the last few weeks,” he says. “I forgot how much I love it.”
Rory climbs into the rowboat tied to his dock and offers me his hand.
It’s soft and strong in mine, and I let him pull me aboard before settling across from him.
He loosens the rope and pushes us off, and for the next few minutes as he rows us into deeper water, he tells me about his work projects—logos and campaigns for beverage companies, record labels, local brands.
I share more of my love for wine—and working in it; spending harvest making and bottling wine in the country with a fun team, then working the bar the rest of the year.
“So. Will you be around for a while?” I ask. “Or do you have a place in the city to get back to?” I hope he says the latter. Seeing him in a normal setting sounds nice.
“I’ve got my own place waiting for me, but I won’t be back there until mid-Octoberish,” he replies, pumping the oars, mellow. “Which means… I’ve still got time to finally take you on a date.”
Nothing about our boat conversation has been distinctly flirtatious, so this surprises me. It makes his words hit even harder… despite the tension between us feeling constant.
“Finally?” I tease, biting the tip of my thumbnail.
“It’s always been you and me, Imogen,” he says, confident.
The thumping in my chest becomes heavier. I’m impressed that he’s speaking so freely, so confidently.
We’ve always connected. We’ve always made sense. But for no clear reason, I never searched for him or kept in touch over the years. Being back in his orbit feels right.
“You don’t even know me anymore,” I admit. “Maybe I’m different. Or weird.” I echo his playful tone from upstairs about his design work.
He narrows his eyes, grinning. “You’ve been different and weird as long as I’ve known you.” He sticks out his tongue as he rows, pushing us farther from the docks and the dam.
I shake my head and grab the bottle of wine between his shoes as I pull my keys out of my handbag. “You’re lucky I have a wine bottle opener on my key ring, by the way,” I say, seeing as he didn’t bother opening the bottle before we came down here.
“I knew you’d have something like that,” Rory says.
“Oh yeah?”
“I had heard about your wine gig,” Rory admits with a sly grin. “You know. People talk. Seattle’s not that big.”
“So you’re stalking me?” I titter, twisting my wine key into the cork.
“You wish I was.”
“Okay, cocky,” I prod, taking a sip straight from the bottle and instantly feeling it heat my insides.
“Give me some of that,” he says, nodding at the wine—still using both arms to row.
“You want some?” I bait.
“Yeah. Get over here,” he demands, his smile practically glowing in the dark.
The gap between us is wide, so I shift into a crouch. But the boat rocks, and I fumble into his lap, nowhere else to go in the narrow vessel.
“Jeez, Imogen. So forward of you.”
I laugh a little too loud and sink onto my knees in front of him. “I think you did that on purpose.”
He winks, lips pursed, gesturing for me to tip the bottle into his mouth so he can continue rowing. With his eyes never leaving mine, I spill it against his lips. A long drop slips down his stubbled chin, lightly showcasing a shadow of dark hair.
“Excuse me, bartender,” he murmurs, tilting his head skyward. “Do you pour wine on all your customers?”
I swipe my fingers across his jaw. “Only the ones who deserve it.”
Right then, we reach the center of the lake, and Rory rests the oars into their cradles.
I turn my body and gently fall into him, my head against his hard stomach.
Doing so is disarmingly easy, dropping into youth; the sneaky boat kisses, the stargazing, the thrill of being close to someone for the first time.
We didn’t know what to do with any of it then.
It’s translated into something natural, yet nerve-racking. A clear tension pulling like a taut string between us that makes me second-guess every word out of my mouth.
He drops his arms around my neck, locking me against his chest, and we stay like that for a while, admiring the vast navy sky, stars scattering among the clouds.
The perfect viewpoint, far enough away from the trees to see everything.
The breeze brushes my face, mingling with the warmth of his body and the wine.
I’m hypnotized by it, the soft bloop bloop glug of water against the boat, the distant chirp of crickets, the cinematic rumblings of Lake Blair spilling off the edge of the dam.
Soon, a sharp ache presses against my back from the wooden seat behind me, forcing me to shift. And although I’m careful, the boat rocks, a sinking twist in my stomach making my head swim. I glance down at the water and shiver, a pang of regret hitting me.
What the hell am I doing out here?
Rory steadies us, pulling me tighter. His lips brush my hair as he whispers, “I got you. I got you.”
Goosebumps rise on every inch of skin I have.
I turn more gracefully this time, sliding down to sit on the other seat while taking a pronounced swig from the bottle.
His eyes never leave my lips. Slowly, deliberately, he leans forward.
Before I can think, his mouth finds mine as he yanks me into him.
His hands slide down my back, my thighs, holding me in place.
I’m so lost in him I forget the bottle in my hands and drop it inside the rowboat. Wine splatters everywhere.
I pull away with a laugh. “Oh fuck.”
I shrug off my sweater, wine-slick now—tossing it in a messy ball to the other side of the boat. I’m left in a thin white baby tee, dotted with red wine.
A faint crease at the corner of Rory’s mouth suggests amusement as he takes a sip from the near-empty bottle.
As he does, my gaze drifts past him, landing on a glowing rectangle across the lake.
Tim’s house. The silhouette of a figure is framed in the floor-to-ceiling window—motionless, as if watching us.
The telescope beside them gleams faintly, almost accusingly.
Rory follows my line of sight. “Nothing to see here,” he calls, with a tone that screams playful. I can’t shake the way his voice echoes across the water, every ripple amplifying the knot of nerves in my stomach.
The figure steps away from the window, and the lantern overhead clicks off, swallowing the house in darkness.
The silence that follows feels unnatural, like being in an old black-and-white episode of The Twilight Zone—where every shadow might hide something.
Where you can be a doll in someone else’s meticulously controlled world.
With their home now encased in that shadow, I can’t help but wonder if they’re still watching.