That conversation we had between love making sessions comes back to me. She was worried that Keith would somehow ace the exam of a lifetime, and I was quick to comfort her the only way I knew how, by shooting down that ridiculous notion.
When he walked in I was so sure he was lying through his teeth.
Kennedy wouldn’t lie. Would she?
Zoey’s refrain from earlier comes back to me.
Never say never.
After work, I text Kennedy and let her know I’ll be a few minutes. I’ve circled the lake twice now and I’m half tempted to jump into the Poison Barrel for some much needed relief but dread the idea of heading back to the cabin smelling of liquor.
She texts back.Hanging with my girls tonight. Let me know when you’re ready to climb in bed, and I’ll be there to warm it.
A dull smile comes and goes.
Maybe I will have that drink, and if I run into Kennedy, even better. We can hit the whiskey together. That should make all of this bullshit go away.
The sun is still high enough to qualify as afternoon, golden, turning that sad shade of pumpkin before it blanches the granite blue and dips down behind the mountain.
I drive the outer rim of the lake, opposite the cabin, opposite most cabins, nothing but campsites and boathouses out this way. Zoey and her vinyl proposition comes to mind. I think I’ll take her up on it as I park up near the boathouse she’s staying in. I’ve dropped her off a time or two when her engine was giving her trouble. I spot her car near the back, parked cockeyed as if she arrived home in a rage. Can’t blame her. I have no clue why she quit school. I’m not sure I should pry either. I’d hate to send her the wrong message especially since she’s interested in more than gifting me her old record collection. She’s hinted at it more than a time or two.
Zoey pops her head out the door and flags her arms, jumping up and down as if I reached the finish line in some long, drawn out race, and, judging by her enthusiasm, I won.
“You’re here!” She continues to jump like an exuberant schoolgirl. I frown at my own analysis as I get out of the car. “I left my canoe down by the water. Can I borrow your big, strong muscles to help me hoist it back up? I’d hate for the tide to pull it in. Gavin would kill me.”
“Not a problem.”
Zoey skips ahead, bubbling with laughter, and it’s not until we hit the waterline do I note the hint of vodka trailing behind her. It looks as if Zoey had a few troubles of her own she needed to drown out.
She stops abruptly just shy of the marsh and spins toward me, her mouth still panting out a laugh. Zoey whips her T-shirt right off before I can process it—no bra, just two fleshy eyes staring back at me. Her fingers dig into her cutoffs, and, holy shit, she’s naked as a jaybird—minus the feathers.
How the hell did I land in this vagina trap again?
“You dropped something.” The manufactured smile glides from my face. “Seriously. Let’s get back.” I spin in the opposite direction, regretting ever falling for her vinyl record line. “Here, I’ll turn around while you get yourself together.” I bet there are no crates. And where the hell is Gavin when you need him? I pull out my phone to shoot him a text just as she lands on my back like a spider monkey.
“Zoey,” I shout, reprimanding her for almost snapping my spine. “Whoa.” I twist into her and carefully try to help her dismount without copping a feel. My hand glides over the side of her tit, too late. Shit.
“I’m sorry.” She wheezes. “I’m just”—she shoves her forearm to her nose, and her laughter turns to tears—“it’s just been a crap day all around.”
I give a quick glance across the lake and thankfully can’t see the cabin—any cabin across the lake for that matter. We’re well secluded by the marsh, and the thicket just beyond that, but anyone with a view behind us can see us plain as day.
“Let’s get you back, and you can tell me all about it.” I help her gather her clothes. Her T-shirt is long enough to touch past her bottom, so she leaves it at that. I spot her canoe in the bushes, far from any hint of water outside of dew.
Should’ve known.
We head back to her boathouse. It’s the size of a thumbtack—just one tiny bed and microscopic kitchen, the end. I’m assuming there’s a toilet behind door number one. I snap a robe off her bed, wrap it around her body, and Zoey dutifully climbs beneath the covers.
“They’re all in the corner.” She leans her head against the wall, her eyes dull with defeat.
I glance over and spot all five crates, present and accounted for, stacked with battered, well-worn covers.
She gives a hard sniff. “Today would have been my mother’s fifty-eighth birthday.”
“Zoey, I’m sorry. Let me get Gavin over here. You shouldn’t be alone.” I send out a text before she can protest.
“Take the records. Get them out of here right now.” There’s a faraway look in her eyes. Zoey is lost in some desolate, mean place that forces your head underwater and makes you breathe in the horrible hurt of the past, the horror of a barren future. I’ve been there. Not quite in the same way, but I have.
One by one, I haul all five crates to the car, three in the trunk and two situated on the passenger’s side. Zoey was right. I should have made room.
