One Golden Summer(72)

“Fuck, you’re good,” Charlie murmurs, and my cheeks go hot. “Look at this.”

He holds up a shot I took a few years ago of a florist in Leslieville. She’d asked me to take photos of her and the space for her website after she redecorated. This was my favorite. She’s arranging flowers at a large table, and the surface and floor are carpeted with petals and twigs and leaves. Her hair is braided in a crown around her head, and it’s a little mussed. Hazy light streams through the window, and there’s a timeless quality to both the subject and the shot that I love.

Charlie scrolls some more. He’s going deep.

“You have no photos of yourself,” he says after a little while.

“Why would I?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“It’s a professional account. I’m not going to post selfies.” Yuck. “And I hate having my photo taken.”

Charlie grins. “Isn’t that a cliché—the photographer who can’t stand being in front of the camera?”

“Shut up.” I poke his leg with a toe. “What’s on yours?”

He looks at me, eyebrows raised. “You’d know if you followed me.”

I can’t quite explain why I haven’t. Maybe I’m afraid to see Charlie’s life beyond the lake.

“Fine.” I send him a follow request, and he immediately accepts.

“See,” he says as I look through his photos. “It’s a bunch of random shit and selfies.”

Photos of the lake and the boat. Most are of him with friends. There’s one of Charlie with his arm around Sam on what is clearly his wedding day. Both are dressed in suits. Charlie points to himself. “Sexy as hell.”

“You know, I’ve met professional models who aren’t as confident about their looks as you are.”

“I could be a model.”

I laugh. “You’re too old.”

“Fuck off.”

I peer at the side of his head. “I think I see some silver in there.”

“You do not.”

I don’t.

“Yeah, right here.” I run a finger over his ear, and he turns his head quickly, capturing it between his teeth.

Somehow I find myself on my back with Charlie straddling me. He locks my wrists above my head with one hand, while he reaches for my camera.

“Put that down, Charlie Florek,” I say. “You don’t even know how to use it.”

“I’m getting better.” I’ve been showing him a few basics. “Come on. Just one. You’ve spent the whole summer getting shots of other people. Why not one of you, too?”

“I never let anyone take my photo.”

“Why?” Charlie shifts off me. I right myself, legs folded underneath me so I can face him.

“It makes me extremely uncomfortable.”

He sets the camera down and holds up his phone. “Would this be easier for you? I don’t have any of you, and you probably have thousands of me by now.”

“All right,” I huff.

I watch him focusing on whatever he’s doing with phone settings. He’s so handsome.

“Are you ready?”

“No.” But I smile my cheesiest, toothiest smile.

“Beautiful,” he says when he’s finished.

That night, after Charlie has brought Nan home and we wish him a safe trip to the city, I get a notification: charlesflorek has tagged me in a photo. My chest tightens as I study it. Charlie must have been shooting before he asked if I was ready. It’s me, staring at the camera, staring at him. There’s a gentle smile on my mouth, and my eyes are warm. I look happy—no, it’s stronger than happiness. I look like I’m at peace.

The caption is short. He’s only used one word.

Alice.





38


Saturday, August 9

23 Days Left at the Lake

I meet the rising sun on Saturday with a sense of hope and purpose. The reflection from the lake dances on the ceiling of my bedroom, and the living room is cast in deep yellow. Nan is still asleep, so I fix myself coffee and head down to the dock with my notebook. Charlie has been gone for two days, and I’ve missed him like a rib. Too much, maybe. But he’ll be back today, and Heather and Bennett are arriving this afternoon. I’m counting the minutes until they get here.

Steam from my mug curls into the air. I take in the silent stillness of morning for a few minutes before opening my notebook. I’ve spent much of the last forty-eight hours writing down all the strange and surprising and meaningful things that have happened so far this summer. I’m almost up-to-date—recounting the events of Percy and Sam’s baby shower bash. How nervous I was, and how included I felt. The speech Charlie gave before revealing the tree house. I stop, flip back to the bucket list I wrote at the beginning of the summer. It seemed frivolous then, but now I see how I tricked myself into taking risks, into stepping outside of my comfort zone.

I look across the bay at the yellow boat. The one I’ve now spent so much time in. I’m not the girl I was at seventeen. I’m thirty-three-year-old Alice Everly, and I can do hard things. Jump off cliffs. Kiss cute guys. I can’t backflip into the water, but I can say no to opportunities that don’t serve me. And I can make Charlie Florek blush. I can still feel my legs circled around his hips in the water.