Sam rubs the back of his neck and looks over his shoulder, thinking. In the two seconds it takes for him to shift his gaze back to me, I’ve melted into a sticky pool of embarrassment and reassembled myself into what I hope is a normal-seeming human.
“The thing about Taylor and me—” I cut him off with a frantic shake of my head before he finishes the sentence. I don’t want to know about the thing with him and Taylor.
“You don’t need to explain,” I say.
He stares at me blankly, blinking just once before pressing his lips together and nodding his head—an agreement to move on. “At any rate, something urgent came up with a case she’s been working on. She had to go back to Kingston this morning.”
“But the funeral is tomorrow.” The words come out in a burst, thickly coated with judgment. Sam, rightfully, looks taken aback by my tone.
“Knowing Taylor, she’ll find a way to come back.” It’s an odd response, but I let it slide.
“Shall we?” he asks, pointing his thumb over his shoulder at a red pickup truck I hadn’t noticed until now. I look at him in shock. There’s nothing about Sam that says red pickup truck, except for being born and raised in rural Ontario.
“I know,” he says. “It’s Mom’s, and I started driving it when I moved up here. It’s a lot more practical than my car.”
“Living in Barry’s Bay. Driving a truck. You’ve changed, Sam Florek,” I say solemnly.
“You’d be surprised by how little I’ve changed, Persephone Fraser,” he replies with a lopsided grin that sends heat where it should not.
I turn around, discombobulated, and throw my towel and a change of clothes in a beach bag. Sam takes it from me and tosses it into the back of the truck before helping me climb in. Once the doors are closed, the rich smell of coffee mixes with the clean scent of Sam’s soap.
As he starts the engine, my mind begins racing. I need a strategy, ASAP. I told Sam last night I’d give him an explanation for what happened all those years ago, but that was before I met Taylor. He’s moved on. He has a long-term relationship. I owe him an apology, but I don’t have to unload my past mistakes on him to do it. Do I?
“You’re quiet,” Sam says as we head out of town toward the lake.
“I guess I’m nervous,” I say honestly. “I haven’t been back since we sold.”
“That Thanksgiving?” He glances at me, and I nod.
Silence falls over us. I used to twist my bracelet when I was anxious. Now I bob my knee up and down.
When we turn onto Bare Rock Lane, I roll down the window and take a deep inhale.
“God, I missed this smell,” I whisper. Sam puts his large hand around my knee, stopping its jitterbugging, and gives it a gentle squeeze before moving his hand back to the wheel and pulling into his driveway.
8
Summer, Fifteen Years Ago
My feet crunched on the driveway, the air heavy with dew and the lush smell of moss, fungi, and damp earth. Sam had taken up running in the spring, and he was determined to convert me to his cause. He mapped out an entire beginner’s program to start today, my first morning at the cottage. I was instructed to eat a light breakfast no later than seven a.m. and meet him at the end of my driveway at eight a.m.
I stopped when I saw him.
He was stretching, his back turned to me with headphones in his ears, pulling one arm over his head and leaning to the side. At fifteen, his body was almost foreign to me. Somehow, he’d grown at least another six inches since I’d last seen him over the Christmas break. I’d noticed it yesterday, when he and Charlie came to help us unload. （“It’s officially an annual tradition,” I heard Charlie tell Dad.） But I didn’t have time to properly inspect Sam before both he and Charlie had to leave to get ready for their shifts at the Tavern. Sam was working in the kitchen three nights a week this summer, and I was already dreading the time apart. Now, his black running shirt lifted to expose a slice of tanned skin. I watched, mesmerized, a flush creeping up my neck.
His hair was the same thick tangle and he still wore the friendship bracelet around his left wrist, but he must have been well over six feet tall now, his legs stretched almost endlessly past the hem of his shorts. Almost as improbable as his height was that he was somehow thicker, too. His shoulders, arms, and legs all carried more bulk, and his butt was . . . well, it could no longer be mistaken for a Frisbee.
I tapped him on the shoulder.
“Jesus, Percy,” he said, spinning around and taking off his headphones.