Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Mia
It was like I was a moth and the lodge was a flame—I was drawn to it.
I knew he would be there. They would be there.
I was just as excited to see Bower’s grandparents as I was to see him.
They were a comfort like I had never known.
They didn’t get impatient or frustrated with me, didn’t look at me funny when I wore socks with my sandals.
Bower and his grandparents just liked having me around, in whatever state I was in.
A breeze blew the towels on the line upward, revealing my presence.
“Mia!” Bower’s grandma, Betty, was hanging blue-and-white striped towels on the clothesline when I turned the bend to the lodge. She dropped the towel she was hanging and rushed over to me, wrapping me in a loving, squishy hug.
I didn’t enjoy hugging. The last time I’d hugged my parents might’ve been a few months ago.
Their hugs weren’t brief, nor were they restrained.
Maybe it was because I didn’t hug them often, but when their arms were around me, they always squeezed me tight, holding me against their warm bodies for longer than I thought necessary.
I’d tried tapping on their shoulders, pulling away—anything to let them know their body squished against mine was no longer appreciated.
They never seemed to understand that if I accepted a hug, I wanted it to be brief with minimal body contact, and when I pulled away, it was time for them to do the same.
Betty’s hugs were different. I always let her give me a welcome and goodbye hug this week during the summer.
Hers were warm and doughy. Her gray hair was always pulled back into a low bun, so it never flew out and tickled my face.
And the clothes she wore were soft. She never held me for long and picked up on my cues when I’d had enough.
“I’m so happy to see you,” Betty whispered into my ear as I breathed in her scent. She always smelled like fabric softener. She let me go, still holding on to my arms as she took me in. “You’ve grown since last summer. Almost a young lady.”
I grinned, then saw movement behind her. Something orange was coming through the lodge door. Betty turned to follow my gaze.
Bower. Dressed obnoxiously in all orange.
“You look ridiculous,” I said. “It’s not even deer-hunting season.”
Bower smiled, crossing his arms in front of him. He was always so fun to tease. He had grown a lot over the past year. Definitely taller. Maybe a little broader in the shoulders. His blond hair was longer, a little shaggy. He was still Bower, though, with that twinkle in his blue eyes.
“This outfit gets a lot of bang for a buck.” His eyebrows moved as he spoke.
My hand covered my mouth as I held in a laugh.
“Bower Lee Hanson!” Betty scolded. “Where did you learn to talk like that?”
“School,” he answered. “Maybe I shouldn’t go back in the fall.”
She groaned and rolled her eyes, turning back to me. “Keep an eye on him this week, Mia. This is the one week his grandpa and I get a break from his shenanigans.”
“You know I will,” I said.
I’d been told rumors every year about Bower and all the trouble he got into at the resort.
Mostly from my sister. She’d heard stories from the kids she hung out with.
I’d seen Bower tease his grandparents, maybe push their buttons, but I never saw him do anything that wild—nothing a boy up north with a lake at his fingertips wouldn’t do.
It wouldn’t surprise me if the stories Ruby brought home were just that—stories. It was a small world on the lake. It seemed that everyone knew a little bit about everyone, and rumors were bound to fly.
“Is that Mia?” Bower’s grandpa, Gill, emerged from the lodge, brushing his hands off on his plaid short-sleeved button-down.
He smiled as he walked around Bower to approach me.
He placed his hand on my shoulder for just a moment, his blue eyes twinkling as his warm voice welcomed me back to Agate Harbors.
And just like that, I felt like I was home.
I was comfortable here with Betty, Gill, and Bower.
They never pushed past my boundaries; instead they respected the way I wanted to be touched—or in this case, not touched.
Betty and Gill always treated me like one of their own this week of the summer.
I greedily allowed them to coddle me, while also pretending I had supportive parents who didn’t care about my many quirks.
Bower grabbed my wrist. He led me away from his grandparents and walked me toward the beach and the docks.
“Come back this afternoon for Popsicles! I’ve got orange, your favorite!” Betty called out.
I waved goodbye to her as Bower pulled me along, clearly with some kind of plan in mind.
“I hate when she uses my middle name like that,” he complained once we were out of earshot of his grandparents.
I laughed. It was easy to laugh with Bower. It always had been. He was one of those friends where even if we didn’t see each other for a year, we always picked back up right where we’d left off. There were never any awkward moments.
“What are we doing today?” I asked.
“I thought we could fish. I found this new spot a couple months ago and got bait this morning.” He motioned down to his legs that had little red welts on them.
I scrunched my nose. Boys.
The resort’s beach was a wide expanse of shoreline.
Lounge chairs lined the water with folded blue umbrellas stuck in the sand between them.
From the gravel stairs that led to the beach, a wooden boardwalk floated on the sand.
We stepped right from the gravel onto the boardwalk—it was long and transitioned into a dock that suspended people over the water.
The dock had places for boats to be tied and a small marina hut at the end.
We walked until we met the edge of the lake.
Bower jumped off the wood planks and into the sand. He turned to me, expecting me to jump as well.
I stood there looking at the sand. It was crunchy. The pieces were small and abrasive. The sand would inevitably penetrate the socks and sandals I was wearing. My teeth hurt just thinking about the grains rubbing against my skin.
“My canoe is over there on the beach.” Bower gestured toward the silver canoe that was partially pulled onto the shore. Two paddles stuck upright from the sand like stakes in the ground. “I’ve already got two rods and my tackle box in the hull.”
Tiny bead of perspiration dotted my upper lip. Yes, I could do it. I could step onto the sand, get the tiny pieces stuck between my sandals and socks, let the grains push through the fibers of my socks and touch my feet. I could sit on the canoe for a couple of hours while the sand rubbed my skin.
I shuffled back. No, I couldn’t. I tried to take deep breaths but could only expand my lungs so far before I took another breath. And another.
“Mia, what’s wrong?” He walked over to the boardwalk, flicking sand from the backs of his sandals. I backed up further.
This was so embarrassing. I couldn’t walk on the sand. Who couldn’t walk on sand? Everyone did it. They didn’t even think about it.
Bower looked at me, waiting for an answer. He knew I was different—had things that bothered me. He’d never judged me before.
“The sand,” I said. “I can’t walk on it. I don’t know how to explain it…”
How did I explain I couldn’t think of anything else except the sand rubbing against my skin?
How I couldn’t walk on sand because it made my teeth hurt?
Then I’d have to explain that even though my teeth weren’t connected to my feet, my body was somehow wired differently.
It never made sense to anyone I’d tried to explain it to.
“You walked on the beach last year.” He was confused, like everyone else who interacted with me.
My stomach dropped. “It’s gotten worse.”
“It” was the unspoken thing that caused me infinite amounts of stress and trouble. Something no one understood. Even I didn’t understand it, and it was happening inside my body.
Bower turned his back to me.
I sucked in a breath. He was done with me, giving up like everyone else in my life.
Then he crouched down and looked over his shoulder. “Hop on.”
It took a moment for his words to register in my brain. I stood there with my mouth open.
“Come on, Mia.” Bower snapped me out of my trance, and I jumped onto his back, wrapping my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck.
He put his forearms under my knees and stood up. I squeaked in surprise as he jostled me around, adjusting my weight on his back.
We set off toward the beached canoe. Bower made sure not to kick up sand with his sandals as he walked—he even turned around and let me slide off his back directly into the canoe.
Zero sand contact.
Just like that, we were ready to go out on the lake. No problem at all.
He brushed the grains off the handle of the oar he pulled from the sand before giving it to me. I made my way to the front of the canoe, sitting in the forwardmost seat, and laid the oar across my lap.
Bower was an experienced canoer. He threw his oar into the bottom of the boat, letting it fall on top of his fishing rods, tackle box, and coils of rope.
With a single thrust, he pushed us into the water and jumped into the back of the canoe without getting wet.
The canoe wobbled back and forth, but it soon found its balance as Bower started paddling, steering us away from the beach.
I stuck my oar in the water to help. The front passenger of the canoe was there for paddling, and the back passenger was the rutter, the one who steered the boat.
I had the simple job—paddling a couple of strokes on each side of the canoe at my leisure.
The lake was tranquil for it being the afternoon. We kept to the edge of the lake, gliding past other resorts and houses big enough to be resorts themselves. We hardly ever spoke while we paddled. I liked it that way. Nature was meant to be enjoyed quietly.