One Golden Summer(12)

I called it One Golden Summer.

It was the standout in my portfolio when I applied to my photography program. Elyse was one of my instructors, and years later, she told me it was the reason I’d been accepted—that it showed I had promise, an eye for emotion, a knack for drawing the viewer into an image. Maybe it’s because I wanted to be in that boat with those kids so badly.

The eight weeks I spent in Barry’s Bay were a turning point. I often felt invisible as a teenager, but behind a lens, invisibility became my superpower. With a camera, I discovered a place in the world where I thrived. I’m a better photographer now, but the way I shot back then, standing on the edge of the dock, had a purity I’ll never recapture. I was doing something just for myself.

Maybe this summer could be a turning point, too.

I grab my laptop and lie stomach down on the bed, scrolling through the two versions of the swimsuit photos. I flick back and forth between the ones with the smoother thighs and stomachs, and the more honest version.

Sixteen years ago, I sat on this very bed, dreaming about being friends with the kids across the bay, hoping they’d notice me and say hello. I waited all summer for an invitation that never came. But I’m not seventeen anymore—I’m days away from my thirty-third birthday.

I think of how I’ve spent my entire career saying yes.

I think of all the beautiful, intelligent women in my life I’ve heard complain about everything from their thighs to their eyelashes.

I think of all the times in my life when I’ve stayed quiet because it was more comfortable than speaking up.

And I do something new.

I submit the photos I like.



* * *





After the email swooshes away, I jump off the bed and head to the kitchen, bringing the yellow boat photo with me. I tack it to the fridge next to Charlie’s note.

It’s a reminder of where it all started. No editing. No artificial lighting. No compromises. One moment of joy, captured for all time.

My eyes drift to Charlie’s letter. I pull it from its Live, Laugh, Lake magnet and read it for the fourth time today, stymied by his self-satisfaction, his extreme thoughtfulness, and the last bullet point on his list.

How impressed are you right now? Text me a picture of your face.

I feel like I’ve been thrown into a game I don’t know the rules to. Is he flirting via to-do list? He sounded roughly my age on the phone, and cocky. Does he want my photo, or is he joking? I know there’s a breezy, quippy middle ground between purely platonic and the melding of souls, but it’s not familiar turf. I’m a soul melder through and through. I’ve never been good at flirting—and I’ve never gone for cocky.

As I pin the note back on the fridge, I catch my reflection in the window. I’ve let my hair air-dry after the swim, and now it’s a cacophony, tumbling over my shoulders in an outrageous collection of swirls and curves and bends. I wear it straight so often that I barely recognize the woman who stares back at me in the glass. It’s not that all this unruly auburn is unattractive—it just doesn’t feel like me. I’m a homebody at heart, a classic Cancer. But my hair is fire, sucking up attention like oxygen.

Maybe it’s because I’m still energized from filing the photos to Willa that I take out my phone and do something I never do. I lift my chin to the light, stick out my tongue, and snap a selfie. I send it to Charlie. A minute later, I swear I hear a deep laugh drifting across the lake on a warm breeze.



* * *





My phone lights with a text just as I’ve lain down in bed.

    Charlie: I assume you found the keys.

Me: And a family of raccoons.

Charlie: I was expecting a thank you for my hard work and kindness.

Me: Thank you.

Charlie: Say it like you mean it.

Me: Are you always this infuriating?

Charlie: No.

Charlie: Usually I’m worse.



I fall asleep fighting back the smile pulling on my lips.





7


Saturday, June 28

65 Days Left at the Lake

Ihave the nightmare again. I’m in the stairwell of my condo building, running up one flight, then another, heavy footsteps following me. When I finally reach the top, I find no door, only a black rotary telephone. I pick up the receiver and dial with shaking fingers, but I can never make my voice work.

I open my eyes to the sound of my ringtone, thinking I’m in Toronto. But then I track the water out the window, the green paint-chipped dresser, and the Algonquin Park poster on the wall. Groggy, I answer the phone.

“I can’t run these, Alice,” Willa says by way of greeting. I sit up, immediately awake. “I’m sorry to call you on the weekend. But I wanted to give you time to fix things. I appreciate what you’re trying to do. It’s noble.”

“I’m not trying to be noble. The photos are exactly what was asked for originally.”

“They’re good,” Willa says. “But too many lumps and bumps will distract readers. This is supposed to be about the bathing suits.”

“I don’t think you’re giving your readers enough credit.”

“Trust me,” Willa says. “I’m only asking for a little bit of polishing and a few nips and tucks.”