Chapter 2
HEATH
The last summer plays on a loop in my head. I could tell you what she wore, what the dock smelled like, the exact second I decided I was going to kiss her and the exact second I lost my nerve and my entire self-esteem disintegrated into dust.
Harriet. I thought I was ready for this. I had a plan.
Be cool, be normal, don't stare.
I am not cool, I don't feel normal, and I'm definitely staring.
Harriet's on the edge of that ancient twin bed, and every version of her I've been carrying around got deleted on contact, because not one of them comes close. No glasses, no braces. Not that it ever mattered. I thought she was the prettiest girl I have ever laid eyes on back when she had both.
This is just the same problem wearing a new face, and the problem is I've never once been able to look at her and think about anything else. If I'm the superstitious type, I would have thought she put me under a spell because that's the only way to explain things.
Her chocolate brown hair is longer now, wavy in a way that makes my hands want to reach for it and maybe wrap it around my knuckles. Those brown eyes—the ones I used to get lost in during Sunday dinners when we were kids—watch me carefully, almost politely.
There's something guarded behind that politeness that needles at me. I don't like it. That's how she used to look at my friends, and I don't want her to look at me like that.
The loft shrinks around us. The ceiling presses down, making the space smaller, tighter, charged with something I can't name but feel in my chest.
Gram's not fooling anyone with this "surprise" arrangement. The old woman knows exactly what she's doing, sticking the two of us up here.
Hell, she's probably downstairs right now cackling about how much of a clever fox she is. Can't say I'm mad about it, though. Not when it gets me Harriet alone.
Fuck, I'm pathetic. I knew that back in high school. I know that now.
I'm going to confess this weekend. I came here with my mind already made up. Whatever happened that last summer, whatever made her run, I'm not walking away from it again. Not this time. If she says no, then at least I won't need to spend all my nights playing the game of what-ifs.
The old insecurity tries to claw its way up. Back then, I was sure a girl that smart, going where she was going, saw me as a jock with good hands and nothing upstairs. She laughed at my jokes, yes, but I felt like she didn't deem me worthy to date.
I'm not that kid now. I know what I bring to the table beyond the ball. Some part of me wants her to see it, wants her to know I'm more than she might have thought.
"Hey, stranger," I say, and my voice sounds weird. I've always been a confident guy, but around Harriet, I'm desperate to impress her.
"Hey yourself." The corner of her mouth lifts, and she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear.
"Did Gram get you with the surprise sleeping arrangement too?"
"Yeah. And when I tried to ask if I could sleep in her room instead—"
I laugh, some of the tension in my shoulders loosening. "Let me guess. She told you this might be her last birthday."
Harriet snorts, and the sound is so familiar it hits me square in the chest. "That's what she's been saying since I was eight."
"Eight? Damn, she's been working that angle longer than I thought."
"It's her greatest hit. Right up there with 'I'm too old to learn new technology' and then proceeding to kick everyone's ass at whatever video game the twins bring over."
The ice cracks between us, and just like that, we're laughing, and it's easier than it should be. All those years just collapsed into nothing.
Harriet shifts on the bed, tucking one leg under her, and I catch a glimpse of smooth skin above her knee that makes my brain stutter. I'm a grown man, but one look at her, and my mind starts spinning with all sorts of wicked ideas.
Normally, I'd shut it down. I would, but that requires more fucks than I'm willing to give.
"How long have you been here?" she asks.
"Got in Wednesday. Gram had a whole honey-do list waiting."
"Of course she did. What's the damage so far?"
"Fixed the dock railing, cleaned the gutters, hauled about fifteen bags of mulch around the flower beds." I stretch, feeling the good ache in my shoulders. "Your grandmother's definition of 'light yard work' is creative. She would have made a damn good coach."
"She probably watched you do it from the porch with a glass of lemonade."
"Sweet tea. And yeah, she offered commentary the whole time. It was a lesson in humility, for sure."
"I mean, Gram has been humbling everyone from us to the postman since she realized she could get away with saying things.
Do you remember the time she received a box of active dry yeast instead of instant yeast, and the delivery guy got an hour's worth of lecture about how her book club would laugh at her coffee buns? "
"The very same book club she scolded for always reading historical romance instead of erotica?"
That gets another laugh out of her, and I'd forgotten what it does to me to just sit back and let Harriet talk. The way she jumps from one subject to another mid-thought and drags me happily along behind her.
This is the thing I've been starved of. Her company and just her … presence.
"So what are you up to these days?" I ask, even though I know.
I might have found her faculty page or her Instagram account, which has a profile photo of the raccoon she found in middle school.
I might have even Googled her on those late nights post-game when adrenaline was high, and nostalgia decided to come along for the ride.
"Research, mostly. I'm at the university now. Got a position in the literature department last year. Just landed this grant to study regional folklore preservation, which sounds incredibly boring to anyone who's not me, but I get to travel around collecting stories that are disappearing."
Yep. I know. I might have done my own share of research, but I absolutely refuse to call it stalking. "Boring is subjective."
"Right? What about you? Besides the obvious. Gram mentioned you live about an hour from where I am?"
An hour and twelve minutes, door to door. Not that I've timed it or anything. That would be creepy and desperate and pathetic. "Yeah, bought a place outside the city. Figured I should probably own something that isn't a hotel room."
"That must be nice. Having somewhere that's actually yours."
"It's quiet. Good for the off-season." What I don't say is that I picked it partly because it was close to here. Close to her. "Gram said you're still in that apartment near campus?"
She nods, and I already know it's a small one-bedroom with bookshelves covering every wall and a kitchen barely big enough to turn around in, because Gram told me last year on the porch when I steered us there on purpose and let her talk.
"It's perfect for me. I don't need much space."
She tells me more about her work, and I ask questions I already know the answers to and feel guilty and delighted every time she opens up a little more.
The shirt she's wearing keeps sliding off one shoulder, and I keep losing the battle to keep my eyes on her face. The denim shorts, the way she's tucked her legs up under her, the flip-flops she kicked off and left on the floor—it's all conspiring to make me forget how to form complete sentences.
Half-way through the conversation, I realize most of my blood has stopped circulating to my brain and instead have rushed down south. Fuck my life.
A voice booms up from downstairs. "Heath! You up there?"
Alvin, Harriet's dad. He's always treated me like family instead of some kid who just happened to grow up next door, and he taught me things that "all boys must know."
"Yeah, Mr. Lane."
"Good. I need those linebacker shoulders of yours. Come help me haul this stuff down for dinner."
"Wide receiver," I call back, but I'm already standing. "And yeah, I'm coming."
Harriet grins up at me. "Linebacker?"
"The man's been watching football for thirty years and still can't tell the positions apart." I duck to avoid the ceiling beam. "Don't go anywhere."
"Where would I go? It's an attic. My only options are the stairs and the window."
Downstairs, Alvin's waiting with a grin and a folding table under each arm. "There's my free labor. Grab that cast iron skillet, would you? And the cooler by the door."
I hoist the skillet—the thing weighs about twenty pounds loaded with nachos—and tuck the cooler under my other arm. Easy weight, good to move after sitting still too long.
"Harriet settling in okay?" Alvin asks as we head toward the back door.
"Yeah, she seems good."
"Good. Ma's been wound up about this weekend for months. You know how she gets." He pushes through the screen door, holding it for me. "She basically just summoned all of us here."
The air outside is warm and still, cicadas humming in the trees. The fire pit sits close to the water, ringed with mismatched chairs and a log bench worn smooth by decades of use.
String lights hang between the trees, not lit yet but ready. The dock stretches into the lake, and lights from other houses scatter along the shore.
This place, man. It gets into your bones.
We set up the tables, and Alvin starts arranging the food while I unfold chairs. Through the screen door I can hear Gram's voice, probably telling someone they're doing something wrong, and Harriet's laugh.
My hands still on the chair I'm placing.
"Ma thinks the world of you, you know. Always has. Says you're the only one who visits just to visit, not because you need something."
Guilt pricks at me because God knows, I often come here fishing for the latest information on Harriet. "She's family."
"Exactly." He claps my shoulder. "Come on. Let's get the rest of this spread before Ma comes out here and starts yelling in a voice that could be heard all the way downtown."