1. Chapter 1
Chapter one
Gina
Happy Lake, June
Little rainbows dance around the wooden floor and walls of the treehouse as I turn the ring one way, then back the other. Do fake diamonds do this? I should Google it. Instead, I slip it onto the fourth finger of my left hand and study the effect.
It’s too flashy. Far too big. Pretty sure I could gouge someone’s eye out with this thing. Or my own by accident. It’s all wrong for me, and at least two sizes too big.
But it feels…I don’t know…right. My chest feels all fluttery when it’s on my finger, and my stomach does some loop-de-loops like I’m on a roller coaster. I love that feeling.
I slide the plain wedding band on next. It fits perfectly.
No memories come bubbling back from that night. I keep hoping that slipping this ring on my finger will help me remember what happened the night I put everything aside and let loose.
But all I have are dancing reflections and an empty daydream.
My fingers itch to grab my phone and type a message to Benji.
I found him on social media—it wasn’t hard, he has a large following—but what do I say?
I barely remember him. Judging by all the photos of him with gorgeous men and women, I doubt he’ll remember me.
I doubt we’re really married. I searched my name in the Clark County, Nevada online marriage certificate database and found nothing.
That’s why I haven’t slid into his DMs to ask him about that night. The rings, the honeymoon suite—it was all a joke.
I don’t want to be the joke.
Besides, every time I pull up his profile, I end up lingering over the photos of him, wondering if he owns any shirts as he’s never wearing one.
I lose minutes off my day trying to remember him.
I swear my hands know the warmth of his skin and the feel of the grooves between his muscles, but I don’t remember touching him.
Thinking about Benji makes me miss the little breathless moments when every touch ignites a fire inside. I want the solid feeling of another body against mine, of limbs tangling, and the salty taste of skin damp with exertion. The scent of someone lingering on me after.
I don’t remember him. He’s not here, and yet he’s making me want things I can’t have.
Milo and I will have an open marriage since we’re not really a couple, but that has to be our little secret, and in a town the size of Havenwood, secrets are hard to keep—which effectively means our marriage won’t be open.
My phone, still safely tucked in my pocket, chirps, snapping me out of the daydream.
I don’t have to look at the time to know I’m late.
The rings slide easily off my finger, and I tuck them into my pocket.
The ring that goes on is more my style with a small, simple diamond.
I want to claw it off. I have to wear it like the excited fiancée I’m pretending to be, but it’s my albatross, around my finger rather than my neck.
At least I finished sweeping before I sat on the beanbag chair and let the warm day and a lost night distract me.
The treehouse is a camp secret, or at least guests are told it is, which means they come up here.
There are bookshelves full of paperbacks and board games, and the space is fully weatherproof when the windows are shut.
Five or six adults can comfortably fit in the hexagonal structure.
It’s a great spot for bird or wildlife watching.
A few warblers scatter as I step onto the small platform and close the door before climbing down the ladder. It’s supposed to be my day off, but we’re currently short-staffed, so I don’t feel too guilty for taking ten minutes to daydream.
But I can’t be late for this meeting. I toss my broom and dustpan in the trailer and hop on the four-wheeler. I don’t want to run anyone over, so I only push it a little faster than the camp speed limit until I close in on the cabins and have no choice but to slow down.
Happy Lake Lodge and Campground takes up eighty acres on the north side of Happy Lake. There’s something for everyone here—cabins with a lake view, tent sites with ample shade, a wide sandy beach, and smaller, more private beaches accessed by a few of the lodge’s forested trails.
This place is my home. My first job was cleaning the cabins every Sunday and Monday morning of summer vacation. I spent lots of time during my teenage years hiking the trails, finding secret little places where I could escape. My soul belongs here.
“Hey, Gina!” Wade Jannsen calls out in greeting as he emerges from the sauna wrapped in a towel. The old widower lives at the campground in an RV for the summer and migrates to Florida every winter.
“I picked up your meds from the pharmacist this morning—they’re on your front step,” I shout over the four-wheeler engine. His car is in the shop, and taking the RV into town is a hassle, so I arranged to pick up his meds from the local pharmacist.
He waves his acknowledgment—or what I’m taking to be acknowledgment—and picks up the metal detector he left leaning against a tree.
He’ll find them, and probably some old pennies as he fossicks his way back to his RV, so I keep going, slowing again when I catch sight of Pamela Garcia and her best friend Joelle Williams basking in sun loungers.
Pamela worked in the music scene in Minneapolis, and Joelle was a physical therapist working with professional football teams before both retired.
They used to vacation here with their then-husbands and continued the tradition after their divorces, renting their cabin for most of the summer.
When I opened the lodge this morning, they were heading out in one of the canoes, fishing poles sticking out of the front.
“Catch anything?” I ask when Pamela lifts her head.
“Just a view of Wade’s skinny legs,” Joelle cracks. Both women laugh, and then laugh harder when Pamela notices the streak of sunscreen still on Joelle’s deep brown skin, right across her nose. I wave and carry on.
Some teenagers cruise by on mountain bikes, and smaller kids shout from the playground. It sounds like summer. Smells like it, too. The air smells like freshly cut grass and campfire smoke. I can almost taste the lemonade.
The seasons change fast around here, and summer’s too short, so I want to hold onto every warm sunbeam and every ounce of green on display.
If everything goes as planned, all this will be mine in a few short months.
Well, half mine.
My finger itches under the engagement ring.
All I have to do is marry my best friend.
I can’t buy this place without him, and his grandmother won’t sell it to us without the arbitrary commitment of marriage.
Like everyone else in Havenwood, she believes we’ve been an on-again, off-again couple for years.
It’s worth it, I remind myself, but the Vegas ring digs into my leg through my pocket.
Havenwood’s part-time party and wedding planner is already here, her Subaru parked in front of the last petunia-planted wooden barrel, leaving plenty of space for all the guests who won’t be arriving today because it’s a Monday.
Cheryl is a few years older than my mother, works at the grocery store in Havenwood, and is the biggest gossip in the county.
Before I’m tucked in bed tonight, half the town will know I was late.
They’ll say I’m reluctant because I know I’m making a mistake and that even my mother had the good sense not to hitch herself to someone like Milo.
I’m always torn between wanting to defend my mother and wanting to prove I’m nothing like her, but I wish the gossips would open their eyes and see how Milo has turned his life around. Marrying him isn’t a mistake. Or at least not the one they think it is.
I cruise to a stop on the far end under the shade of a sugar maple. After double-checking that I’ve put the emergency brake on, I climb off and run.
Three wide steps lead up to the massive wrap-around deck of the old log A-frame. It’s covered in a riot of flowering potted plants and an entourage of garden ornaments, wind chimes, and bird feeders. My foot barely hits the first step when the screen door opens.
Diana Gustafson—Milo’s maternal grandmother and owner of Happy Lake Lodge—steps out onto the deck, Cheryl in her wake.
I skid to a halt on the second step, giving an apologetic smile.
Diana crosses her arms. Her face looks like someone switched out her lemonade for something sugar-free.
She’s disappointed in me. Guilt that I’m late over something as foolish as daydreaming wipes the smile from my face.
Cheryl, however, beams at me.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, pulling off the headband that kept my dark blonde curls off my face while I was cleaning. They spring free, bouncing in my face. I push them back. “I finished cleaning cabin five early and thought I’d have enough time to check in on the treehouse.”
“What’s Milo’s excuse?” Diana asks me, her eyes narrowing. “He promised he’d help plan this wedding.”
“Um.” Remembering the chirp of my phone earlier, I pull it from my pocket to check. It’s another inappropriate meme from my mother—this time involving a massive cucumber that makes me do a quick double-take. I slip my phone back into my pocket and school my face. “I haven’t heard from him.”
“He must have lost track of the time,” Diana says, her sigh saying what she doesn’t. That Milo has intentionally busied himself with something frivolous.
That prickles me. I love Diana—she was my grandmother’s best friend and is practically family—but I hate that she can’t see how Milo’s changed. He’s not the angry teenager with a rebellious streak anymore.
But it would help if he could make it to something like this on time. If he wants his grandmother to believe he’s reliable enough to run Happy Lake Lodge, he needs to show her—or, I don’t know, maybe talk to her.