He’s there, bundled up in a wool coat, hands jammed in his pockets. He doesn’t move, doesn’t look up, but I can tell he’s been waiting a long time. His hair’s a mess, dark and wild in the wind, and his whole body looks tense, like he’s barely keeping himself together.
I should run. I should scream, or maybe just turn around and disappear. But I don’t.
Instead, I walk out onto the dock, each plank creaking under my weight.
He hears me and turns, and the relief on his face is almost as brutal as the guilt.
“I knew you’d come here,” he says, voice hoarse. “I hoped, anyway.”
I stop a few feet away, arms wrapped tight around my middle.
“What do you want?” My voice is flat, empty.
Hunter studies me for a long time. “I wanted to see you,” he says. “To make sure you’re okay.”
I laugh, brittle. “You think I’m okay?”
He shakes his head. “No. I think you’re hurting.” His eyes flick to the water, then back to me. “I’ve been reading about dissociative fugue. Sometimes water immersion can trigger memories. I don’t know. I thought maybe?—”
“You thought I’d try to drown myself?” I snap.
“No!” He says it quick, then softens. “No. But I thought maybe you’d try to find answers here.”
The silence stretches. A breeze comes off the lake, colder than before, and I shudder.
Hunter looks at the water again, then back at me. “This was your favorite place when you were younger,” he says. “You’d spend hours out here. Even in the winter. You said it gave you peace.”
“Yeah?” I say, not trusting the memory.
He nods. “You’d swim out farther than anyone else. Even when the lifeguards told you not to.” He smiles, a little, but it doesn’t stick. “You said the water itself gave you courage.”
Something cracks inside me. I look at the lake, and I want to fling myself into it, not to drown, but to feel that courage, even for a second.
I step closer to the edge, and the dock wobbles. The mist is thicker here, swirling around my ankles.
Hunter takes a step, but stops himself. “I know you’re angry,” he says. “You should be because I lied about your true identity. I let you live as Daisy because I wanted you. I wanted to enjoy your curves without the condemnation of our family. Of the wider world. But I know now that I was selfish.”
I close my eyes and the memories come, sharper and faster now.
— Summers at the lake, shrieking with laughter, with an assortment of friends.
— The first time I saw Hunter shirtless, the way my stomach flipped, the flush of guilt and thrill. He was visiting home for some reason, so much older and already a man.
— Barbecues in the backyard, Hunter in charge of the grill, always burning the burgers. I’d sneak a raw onion onto his plate every time, and he’d pretend not to notice but always ate it anyway.
— The fight with Dad, the shattering sound of a glass hitting the tile, a woman screaming, and Hunter wrapping his arms around me so I wouldn’t shake apart.
My throat is tight, but I force the words out. “You’re not the only one who lied,” I say. “I lied, too. I let myself be Daisy. I wanted to be yours. I didn’t care about anything else. Not even finding out what my last name was.”
Hunter’s face breaks, the mask slipping. “Tara, you?—”
I shake my head. “No. Don’t talk.”
Hunter kneels in front of me, close but not touching. “I’m so sorry, Daisy,” he rasps. “I should have told you the truth.”
I look up at him, eyes burning. “What if I don’t want to remember?” I ask. “What if it’s easier to just keep being Daisy?”
He searches my face, the question tearing at him. “Then I’ll love Daisy,” he says. “Or Tara. Or both. Whatever you want.”
