Then a voice calls from behind me. “Teddy?”
I careen around at the sound, paying little attention to my balance, and teeter too far to the right. My body pitches off the side of the dock, fully clothed.
Despite knowing how to swim, I flounder around like a drowned cat. My mind, catching and fixating on the familiar resonance of his voice, fails to realize my feet can touch the ground. My heels brush against the mucky bottom of the lake, and when my arms are no longer treading water, I calm.
“I’m so sorry,” I hear him say on a warm laugh, but I can’t see him with the kelp-like strands of hair clinging over my eyes.
I probably should dip my head beneath the water and slick it back, but I don’t think of that. Instead, I claw at the strands untilthey clump in a knotted frame and drag my eyes up the length of an outstretched hand to see his face.
Miles.
He’s beaming at me as he pulls me from the water, where I want to drown in my humiliation a bit longer. When he plants me on my feet, water begins to leak down my forehead. I scrub at my eyes to be sure I’m seeing clearly and it’s not all just a hazy daydream.
It’s really him.
“That was not how I thought that would go,” I joke, holding out my arms. Lake water drips down my white T-shirt and jean shorts, fusing them to my body like a second skin.
“Me neither,” he admits, fighting to keep his gaze above my neck.
“Hi, Miles,” I breathe, testing the sound of his name after all these years while my head wraps around the fourteen-year-old version of him.
He’s still thin but grown into some wider shoulders that hold his chest high. His Bear Lake bucket hat has been exchanged for a Dodgers baseball cap, the tipped-up bill giving me a good look at his eyes.
That part of him is the same. I’d remember those warm speckles of hazel anywhere.
“Your hair’s longer,” he comments first.
I run my fingers through the wet strands, touching the ends where they drape just below my breasts. I started growing it out in middle school after Cozy and I read aCosmopolitanarticle that said most guys like girls with long hair. But I won’t tell Miles that. We told each other a lot that first summer, but we were just young kids then. There’s a lot of stuff girls don’t share with guys now that we’re teenagers.
“Well, it’s been a long time,” I say, like I need to explain myself.
Deep down I was worried he might not like the about-to-start-high-school version of me—hair past my shoulder blades, post-braces, and an extra layer of freckles. He might miss that shrimpy girl with the knobby knees, a missing tooth, and locks that beveled just below her chin.
“I like it,” he says with a grin.
If my heart had lungs, it would have sighed in relief. Instead, it’s pounding like the start of a song just about to hit the chorus. My cheeks bloom into a faint pink as the corners of my mouth tip up in a smile.
“Thanks.”
For a few beats we just stand there, staring at each other. Making up for all the lost time while also floundering for what to say next. Someone clears their throat, and I remember it’s not just the two of us.
“I take it you’re Teddy, and I’m guessing you live in that cabin right in the middle,” the other boy interjects. “I’m Reed.”
He’s much sturdier than Miles, with a head of sandy brown curls and a showstopping dimple in his right cheek.
I pinch my arms against my sides, stuck on the thought of our Oreo cabins. I’m not sure I’m cut out for being sandwiched between two guys all summer. I spent my middle school years struggling to even look one in the eye, let alone two in such proximity.
“That’s me.”
“I’ll get you a towel,” he offers, pointing to my quivering shoulders. Which may or may not have anything to do with plunging into the freezing lake.
My teeth chatter. “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
He works his way around Miles and me before jogging toward the fully finished log cabin. Every part of it looks lived in, from the giant garden that grows past the lower deck tothe speed boat tethered to their dock. They’ve added a sand volleyball court on the far side of the yard and a pair of plush fabric lounge chairs with a scalloped umbrella on the upper deck.
It’s finally filled with a family, I think to myself.
