This Summer Will Be Different(9)

“Attention, all passengers,” the captain says. “We’re about to begin our descent into Charlottetown.”

This will be my fifth trip to the island—I came alone last July. I peer out the window, and my stomach dips. From the sky, the island looks like one of Bridget’s grandma’s quilts—a patchwork of farm and field and tree. It may be Bridget’s home, but it’s precious to me, too. Some of my happiest memories are set on this gorgeous crescent of green land.

Some of my biggest mistakes, too.

But I won’t repeat them. Not this time. For once, this summer will be different.

It has to be.

Because Bridget is my most cherished person. My sage. My sister. I’d do anything she asked me to, including an emergency trip. Including not falling in love.





3





Now





I’ve always liked flying into Charlottetown. You exit the plane right onto the tarmac, which used to make me feel like a celebrity. The airport itself is a teeny tiny delight. There’s one baggage carousel, and your suitcase is in your hand within fifteen minutes of setting foot on Prince Edward Island soil.

Based on her instructions, I assume Bridget will be waiting for me in the parking lot, so I head straight for the Cows Creamery cow statue to wait for my luggage. The cow is life-size and cartoony—black and white with a pink snout—and it always makes me smile. I’ve been mildly obsessed with it since my first trip. But my cow is nowhere to be seen. I turn in a circle in the middle of the room, horrified.

“Can I help you find something, sweetheart?” a woman with a broom and dustpan asks. Islanders truly are the nicest humans.

“No. But thank you,” I tell her. “I just noticed that the cow is gone.”

“It’s a shame, isn’t it? Renovations. I miss Wowie, too.”

“I didn’t know she had a name.”

The woman nods. “Wowie.”

She wishes me a good day, and I take two steps toward the baggage carousel, when I’m tackled. Bridget is a full head shorter than me, but she hurls herself at me with such force, I’m almost knocked to the ground. Her arms band around me and my face is engulfed in a cloud of blond.

We saw each other last weekend at the wedding shower her coworkers threw, but she hugs me like it’s been months. Bridget seemed fine then, but I could have missed something. I was distracted that day, uneasy because I wasn’t at In Bloom.

“I’m so glad you’re alive,” I say into Bridget’s hair. “You scared me yesterday.” I squeeze her tight, then hold her out by the shoulders so I can see what I’m working with. She’s wearing cutoff shorts, a tank top, and not a stitch of makeup. She looks almost like she did when we were twenty-three and roommates, before she moved in with Miles.

With her mop of golden curls and pocket-size height, Bridget seems like an adorable sprite, with freckles that sprinkle her nose and shoulders with any hint of sun. But she’s tough and often misjudged—she loves busting up those misconceptions. I saw it firsthand when we worked together.

Once, during a tense meeting, she turned to the guy next to her and told him his attitude was “horse shit.” It was before we were friends, and the way she said horse sounded sort of like harse. I liked it—both the old-fashioned curse and the bald confidence with which she wielded it. Bridget’s East Coast lilt was most obvious after a drink or in the heat of a fight. Then her r’s came out of her mouth as if she was paying them extra attention.

“I’m so happy you’re here.” Bridget smiles, twin dimples popping.

But her cheeks are pale and dark circles hang below her brown eyes. Bridget is devoted to her sleep schedule, but there’s no way she got her self-mandated eight hours last night.

“You know I’d go cliff diving if you asked.”

“Maybe tomorrow.” She squeezes my cheeks. Her physical affection knows few boundaries, and my cheeks take much of it. “All I want is to spend quality time with you, my dear, sweet bestie who I love so very, very much.”

She sounds far more like herself than she did yesterday, but it must be an act. Bridget didn’t ask me to fly to Atlantic Canada eight days before her wedding so we could spend time together. That’s not what this is about. This is a rescue mission.

When I asked how long she needed me to stay, she’d said, “As long as you can.” With any luck, I’ll spend two nights at Summer Wind and be on a plane back to Toronto on Sunday, Bridget in tow.

She nods toward the carousel, where my suitcase has now made an appearance. “There’s your bag.” She loops her arm through mine. “Come on.”

It’s humid outside, the ground wet from rainfall. The sun shines brightly, but there are storm clouds to the east. The weather can change fast on the island.

“Do you want to tell me what happened yesterday?” I ask as I wheel my hardcase to the parking lot.

“I got homesick,” she says, with a no big deal shrug. “With the wedding and the honeymoon and work, I didn’t know when I’d be able to visit, unless I came now. I was hoping to surprise my parents. But I should have called ahead. I know how slippery they are.”

I study her profile, trying to figure out how much of that’s a lie. “You sounded extremely upset.”