It’s nearing dusk when the lake comes into view. I feel him shift behind me. And the other thing is he’s closer than usual because of the duffel tied behind him and the pastel purple suitcase that is so obviously his aunt’s, but I didn’t want to say anything.
I slow the bike as I turn off on a dirt road with some gravel here and there. Dust kicks up behind us as Paul’s arms tighten and a cabin comes into view. I park along the side. I get off the bike to grab our stuff, and Paul just sits there, looking up at the cabin and then over at me.
“Where are we?” he asks.
“Lake Arthur.”
“Yeah, I know that, but like…where?”
“4-H camp is over that way.” I point across the water. “Then over that way, some government cats are trying to build some kind of preserve.” I shrug. “I’d say we’re somewhere in the middle.”
“Is this yours?”
I don’t answer him until we’re inside, and I’ve flicked the light switch to make sure it works. It does. “The guy I rent the garage from owns this place.” I set the duffel and suitcase at the end of the bed. “He’s trying to unload it. Been telling me for a couple years to come out and see it. Stay anytime I want.” I hang my leather jacket carefully on a hook by the door. “He can’t make it out here much. Wife and kids and all.”
Paul stands there and looks around.
It isn’t half bad, but it’s definitely small for a family. There’s only the one bed, a record player, and a tiny kitchenette. I walk around the kitchenette to find the bathroom, a small dining table, and two armchairs positioned on either side of a window overlooking the lake. Outside there’s a dock for a boat, a fire-pit, and a lopsided swing hanging from a tree.
It isn’t terrible. Not the Ritz. But not terrible.
Paul appears beside me and looks out at the lake.
“Seem okay to you?” I ask him.
“Nobody knows we’re here?”
“Nope.”
He moves closer to me. “Nobody can see us?”
“Nope.”
He leans in and kisses me, and I sink into it like quicksand, and I think the privacy we have here might just be the thing we need.
Or just the thing we don’t. After all, whoever heard of getting pulled out of quicksand alive?
“So…the cop guy hates the other fella…John Val…?”
“JeanValjean.”
I glance over at him as he watches the flames, the glow flickering off his glasses. The lawn chairs we found to sit in are the metal kind and are a little rusty and creaky. It isn’t a cool night exactly, but the fire warms me, regardless. And the beer.
And him.
“And yeah,” he says. “It’s like a love-hate thing. Or at least I think so.” He shrugs. “It’s like, you love someone so much that you hate them for it.” He takes a sip of his beer.
I give this some thought. “If you love someone so much you hate them for it, then it’s not love to begin with.”
I see him watching me in the flicker of the flames. “You think so?”
I shrug. “I guess some people get mixed up. They don’t really know and confuse themselves.”
He nods and examines his beer bottle. “Maybe.”
I sit back and take another swig. “How did you pronounce his name again?”
There’s a small smile on his lips. “Jean Valjean.”
