In the ten seconds he takes searching for a place to land his gaze, he notices his undone shoelace and bends at the waist to tie it. I use the moment to study him.
Everything about him is dark. From the locks of his hair to the full eyebrows resting over a set of eyelashes that curl at the tips. His long, lean lines are more pronounced by his olive skin.
When he stands, stretching to his full height, his shadow dwarfs mine. Which is not difficult to do with at least a foot’s height difference between us.
Perspiration beads across his abdomen, and I clear my throat. Sweat cascades toward the waist of his black workout shorts, and I blink a handful of times before getting ahold of myself and finding his face. Even then, it’s a struggle to think straight beneath his gaze.
“Like I said, I should get going,” he reminds me, taking a few backward steps.
And what do I do?
I stop him. Yet again.
“You never told me your name,” I blurt.
Our eyes meet one last time.
“It’s Miles,” he says.
A smile pulls at the edges of my lips.
Miles.
“See you around, Miles.”
But he doesn’t smile back at me. He just vanishes in a jog like he was a figment of my imagination.
It’s almost seven o’clock by the time I park the hatchback at the cabin. I slip through the backdoor that opens into a mudroom. A mudroom that also serves as the downstairs bathroom and laundry room combined. I poke my head through the opening to a silent home and sigh in relief.
They’re not awake yet.
I was just cleared to drive solo days ago. Had they known I snuck out with the car before the sun was up, I’m certain those privileges would be revoked.
I shut the door and start the shower, stripping off my dry swimsuit as the room fills with steam. If I wasn’t worried abouttipping off my parents, I’d go look at the sketch that’s been haunting me ever since Miles and I parted ways.
Ignoring that thought for now, I lather my hair with Pantene shampoo. It stings against the rug burn on my hand, but I have no choice but to rinse, run conditioner through the strands, and rinse again. I shut off the water just in time to hear the familiar creak of the second stair before the landing. Had I been awake in my room, a knock on the door would have sounded. But the bathroom is the one place they give me complete privacy.
I blot the moisture from my skin with a fluffy bath towel, then reach for the khaki shorts and baby-blue polo draped on top of the dryer. As I pull the soft cotton over my head, I noticeBear Shoreembossed in white thread above the left breast.
If I thought this day was off to an interesting start… it’s about to get even more so wearing a uniform like this. I haven’t so much as strayed from my daily routine in months, and a full-time job is the definition of a change of pace.
Once I have it fitted, I lift the fabric of my shirt, wincing slightly. The skin is raw and sensitive, and the reminder of that constant aching sensation has me glimpsing at my face in the mirror. I run the pads of my fingertips over the invisible lacerations that once marked my right cheek. I know if those can heal, these will too.
I lather a topical cream along my navel and hand. It burns just as bad as the shampoo did, but it’s my best chance of quick healing. I don’t need my parents finding out I sneak out to Bloomington Lake in the mornings.
I reach for the blow dryer next. After experiencing both lengths, I can say that the greatest thing about having a bob is the drying time. I don’t have to hold my arm above my head and fan it until the limb feels like it’s going to dismember from my body. The whole thing dries in less than four minutes. Given mystick-straight hair, it also means I don’t have to do a single thing to it if I don’t want to. Or in today’s case, if I don’t have the time.
When I push open the bathroom door, I’m hit with a smoky smell drifting through the air. The overactive gurgle of my stomach carries me straight to the kitchen before my brain has the chance to remind me that I never mended things with my parents last night.
“Oh good, you’re awake!” my mom squeaks.
She’s wrapped in her signature hand-painted apron, and her curly auburn hair is pulled back with a head scarf.
“You made bacon?” I question in disbelief, saddling up on a barstool.
She tops a piece of jelly toast with blueberry eyes and a bacon smile. Then she leans across the counter and deposits it in front of me.
“It’s a peace offering,” she says. “I can’t promise I won’t still get lost a time or two to what I feel like Ishouldbe doing as your mother, but I made you a promise last night that I intend to keep. Starting with bacon.”
