“I can’t take credit. It’s Mom’s recipe, and she said the lake air makes everything taste better.” His contented smile held the warmth of treasured memories.
Miles seemed to talk about his mother more easily now. That summer, anything related to her had cast him into melancholy, anger, or sadness. Now his mother’s memory seemed to provide comfort. There was something so sweet about a busy man taking time to make his mother’s recipes.
As they ate, he told her about his plans with Hayes and the bereavement camp. Miles using his personal experience to help others wasn’t a surprise. But she worried about him revisiting his pain repeatedly.
“Miles, you’re so kind,” she said. “But can I ask something? Do you ever worry about reliving your own grief every summer?”
He paused and thought about it, the sun still bathing him in an amber glow. He picked up his book and settled it in his lap. Miles held onto books like a toddler held onto a security blanket. They were his barrier for uncomfortable situations, and she’d asked a probing question.
Her heart grew heavy for him. Maybe she shouldn’t have said anything. From now on, Avery promised herself to be more empathetic. She’d been hard on him when she’d first arrived.
“I appreciate you bringing that up,” he said, his finger tracing thecorner of the cover. “But I want to give people what Dad and I didn’t have. It took me too long to find therapy and even longer to find Hayes, who also lost his mom. I think I can handle it.”
Relief washed through Avery at the news he had found support. When they’d broken up, she had suggested he get therapy. He had vehemently refused. She’d always wanted him to find peace. A warmth bloomed in her chest.
“The lake is good for healing. It can rain and rain until at some random moment, the sun comes out and gives you this.” Avery set her plate aside and waved an open palm out over the lake. “And it feels like everything will be okay. I always feel more centered here. There’s a peace that comes from being so close to nature.”
He took a sip of wine and fanned the pages of his book. Seeing him do it again was so terribly cute her heart melted a little.
“That’s grief in a nutshell,” he said. “The rain and rain and random sun.”
Avery swallowed the lump in her chest. The boy who couldn’t talk about his pain had come so far since they’d first met. Miles was using the lessons of his own journey to craft a sanctuary of peace for others.
“Do you have a name for your camp?” she asked.
“Camp Luciole.” Miles thumbed his book.
“Luciole. French, for firefly.” She gasped. “A light in the darkness. Perfect.”
A relaxed smile crossed his face.
“Ayuh. I’ve got a lot to learn. I’m working on a master’s degree in non-profit management at NYU. I just picked my fall classes. This summer, I’m going to Georgia, Minnesota, and Wyoming to observe bereavement camps. The Minnesota one doesn’t allow cell phones. I want to see how that works so we can make an informed decision for our camp. And then there’s finding a property,” he said. “Remember that corporate retreat, over past Bramble Beach? It closed a few years ago. It may be for sale.”
She didn’t remember it. Next time she walked Casper over there, she’d check it out.
“I hope you get it. You seem to enjoy a canoe commute.” She took a sip of wine. Her foot fell against his warm thigh. He didn’t seem to notice, so she left it there. “And thank you for dinner. I’d forgotten you could cook.”
She picked up a clean sheet of paper and he opened his book. The end of the dock felt familiar again. The two of them facing one another and doing what they had done so many evenings that summer. She painted. He read, the Red House over his shoulder. It would be so easyto fall back into this. To open her heart to him again and forget about everything that had happened the day they broke up, and afterward.
Avery moved her foot away from his thigh. Going back was risky.
“Whatcha reading?” She washed her brush in a cup of water.
“War and Peace.” He didn’t raise his eyes, which made for a pleasant view of his thick eyelashes.
She wondered how many times he’d read it. He’d finished it a decade ago and was holding it in @lovetrainnyc’s viral post of him reading on the subway. Counting now made three times, unless he opened to favorite scenes to pass the time. Or for comfort.
Miles uncrossed his feet, which repositioned his leg. His ankle now rested against her thigh. His choosing to touch her made a familiar energy buzz through her. She’d never sat with anyone else like this. She’d missed it.
“Funny,” she murmured.
“What?” Miles placed his finger on the page where he’d stopped reading.
“We are both doing the same things we used to do. You’re reading Tolstoy and I’m painting the Red House.” She smiled.
He pointed and flexed his foot, his pinkie toe grazing her thigh. Avery’s stomach did a little flip.
“You still like the Red House?” he asked.
