Maybe this summer could be a turning point, too.
I grab my laptop and lie stomach down on the bed, scrolling through the two versions of the swimsuit photos. I flick back and forth between the ones with the smoother thighs and stomachs, and the more honest version.
Sixteen years ago, I sat on this very bed, dreaming about being friends with the kids across the bay, hoping they’d notice me and say hello. I waited all summer for an invitation that never came. But I’m not seventeen anymore—I’m days away from my thirty-third birthday.
I think of how I’ve spent my entire career saying yes.
I think of all the beautiful, intelligent women in my life I’ve heard complain about everything from their thighs to their eyelashes.
I think of all the times in my life when I’ve stayed quiet because it was more comfortable than speaking up.
And I do something new.
I submit the photos I like.
After the emailswooshes away, I jump off the bed and head to the kitchen, bringing the yellow boat photo with me. I tack it to the fridge next to Charlie’s note.
It’s a reminder of where it all started. No editing. No artificial lighting. No compromises. One moment of joy, captured for all time.
My eyes drift to Charlie’s letter. I pull it from itsLive,Laugh, Lakemagnet and read it for the fourth time today, stymied by his self-satisfaction, his extreme thoughtfulness, and the last bullet point on his list.
How impressed are you right now? Text me a picture of your face.
I feel like I’ve been thrown into a game I don’t know the rules to. Is heflirtingvia to-do list? He sounded roughly my age on the phone, and cocky. Does he want my photo, or is he joking? I know there’s a breezy, quippy middle ground betweenpurely platonicand themelding of souls, but it’s not familiar turf. I’m a soul melder through and through. I’ve never been good at flirting—and I’venevergone for cocky.
As I pin the note back on the fridge, I catch my reflection in the window. I’ve let my hair air-dry after the swim, and now it’s a cacophony, tumbling over my shoulders in an outrageous collection of swirls and curves and bends. I wear it straight so often that I barely recognize the woman who stares back at me in the glass. It’s not that all this unruly auburn is unattractive—it just doesn’t feel like me. I’m a homebody at heart, a classic Cancer. But my hair is fire, sucking up attention like oxygen.
Maybe it’s because I’m still energized from filing the photos to Willa that I take out my phone and do something I never do. I lift my chin to the light, stick out my tongue, and snap a selfie. I send it to Charlie. A minute later, I swear I hear a deep laugh drifting across the lake on a warm breeze.
My phone lights with a text just as I’ve lain down in bed.
Charlie:I assume you found the keys.
Me:And a family of raccoons.
Charlie:I was expecting a thank you for my hard work and kindness.
Me:Thank you.
Charlie:Say it like you mean it.
Me:Are you always this infuriating?
Charlie:No.
Charlie:Usually I’m worse.
I fall asleep fighting back the smile pulling on my lips.
7
Saturday, June 28
65 Days Left at the Lake
Ihave the nightmare again. I’m in the stairwell of my condo building, running up one flight, then another, heavy footsteps following me. When I finally reach the top, I find no door, only a black rotary telephone. I pick up the receiver and dial with shaking fingers, but I can never make my voice work.
I open my eyes to the sound of my ringtone, thinking I’m in Toronto. But then I track the water out the window, the green paint-chipped dresser, and the Algonquin Park poster on the wall. Groggy, I answer the phone.
