The Lake Club

Prologue

There was something romantic about brand-new, empty houses. The delicious, acidic smell of fresh paint. The way the sun fell

in crisp geometric shapes across the wide wooden floors. The gleaming silver of fridges and dishwashers and sinks—the general

air of promise.

from the night before lingered, a desire they were both struggling to ignore, and the beauty and quiet of the house only heightened

the words unsaid.

Nothing can happen. Nothing can happen. The refrain played silently, simultaneously, inside their heads. Still, a low harmony echoed in the background: What if?

They weaved through the house measuring each room’s dimensions, pressing tape measures to crown molding and across doorframes,

meticulously tracking widths and lengths. They moved slowly as they worked, catching glances as they shifted around each other,

studying the place: for the design, for the marketing, for making money, they told themselves. They talked in empty phrases:

“It’s going to be another hot one. Record temps. Can you believe it?”

“I just love those skylights. That sky.”

“Can you hand me the pencil? Can you move a little to the left?”

It wasn’t until an hour in, kneeling along the wall of the main bedroom that, finally, their hands overlapped. It was accidental

at first—they’d been shifting the ruler when their knuckles hit, their pointer fingers brushed—yet neither pulled away. Their

eyes met. And then they were kissing, moving up against the wall.

Had they been anywhere else, maybe the kiss never would have happened—maybe the affair never would have started. Maybe they

never would have become such expert liars, the type who could go about their days and routines interacting as normal, as if

this other plane of passion did not exist, as if they did not know the taste and feel of each other’s sweat, tongue, teeth.

But that day, the house and the world were on their side. The summer was set in motion.

Everything was about to change.