I grimace, clicking the button to close out and shoving the whole outfit back into my pocket. My entire life feels undeclared. It’s hard to imagine I’ll ever get out of Star Lake, let alone be able to decide what I want to do with the rest of my existence. I can feel the beginning of a headache pulsing hotly behind my eyes.
Luckily, work is busy enough that I don’t have a ton of time to dwell on it. It’s strange and weirdly gratifying to see the lobby full of people after two weeks of it feeling like a ghost town: dads in dorky cargo shorts wheeling giant suitcases and potbellied kids floating on brightly colored rafts in the lake. A group of middle-aged ladies from Plattsburgh planned their annual book-club retreat for this weekend, and they camp out on the porch drinking rum runners all afternoon.
I wave at Imogen’s Jay as I dart through the kitchen, smile at Tess as I hurry past the pool; Penn’s got me running all kinds of tiny, urgent errands: sussing out sugar cubes for a persnickety tea drinker in the dining room and wiping up an unidentified spill on the wide-planked pine floor in the hallway off the lobby. Penn went for a vintage-rustic look in the redesign, the big leather couches coupled with thrifted plaid blankets in all the guest rooms, a giant stuffed moose head holding court on the wall above the reservations desk that all of us have taken to calling George. “He’s fake,” I assure one stricken-looking elementary schooler, although I have no idea if that’s true and in fact suspect it’s not. Win some, lose some, I guess. Poor George.
“Nice job today,” Penn tells me, a lull just before dinner giving her five minutes to play a quick game of tic-tac-toe with Fabian on the back of some hotel stationery. Desi’s sacked out on the floor under her desk, thumb shoved into her mouth. “And since you started, really. Thanks for your help.”
“No problem,” I say, attempting to swallow down a yawn with only partial success—I feel good, though, like how I used to feel after track practice back at the beginning of high school, like I’d accomplished something worth doing. I think of the email from Boston still sitting in my inbox, the one about picking a major—about figuring out, once and for all, what I want. “Can I ask you something?” I say. “How did you know that coming here and opening this place was what you wanted?”
Penn looks over at me for a moment, like she’s surprised that I’m asking. She’s wearing a suit today instead of the jeans and T-shirts I’m used to seeing; this morning I grabbed her by the arm on my way through the lobby and yanked off the tag that was still sticking out of her collar. “Well, I managed restaurants for a long time,” she says, drawing herOon Fabian’s paper and rattling off the names of a couple of places I actually recognize, spots my mom and her editor go when she’s in New York City. “Before that I used to plan parties for rich people.”
“You did?” I ask, picturing it—Penn in a fancy dress and heels and a headset, directing caterers and designing lighting schemes. I nudge Fabian in the shoulder, pointing to a spot on the grid that’ll give him a win no matter where his mom goes next. “Did you like it?”
Penn considers that. “I liked being the boss,” she tells me. “I liked solving problems. I liked being around other people. Kept me from disappearing into myself too much, I think.” She reaches out and sifts her hands through Fabian’s silky curls, looking almost dreamy. “I loved the city,” she confesses softly.
“Yeah?” I ask, curious. “What made you leave?”
Penn comes back to herself then, smiles as Fabian holds up the notepad, triumphant, three wobblyXs all in a row. “Was time for a change,” is all she says.
Day 22
The next day is another long colorful blur, a Grand Opening cookout on the shore of the lake and an old-fashioned pie-eating contest, prep for a huge fireworks display set to start at the end of the night. Gabe sneaks in midafternoon and finds me in the office for a quick, guilty kiss, his warm hands resting on my hipbones and his sly mouth moving against mine. “Missed you,” he murmurs when my hands wander up to tangle in his silky hair. I’m surprised by how pleased I am to hear him say the words.
“Missed you back,” I tell him, and realize all at once that it’s true. We’ve been texting a bit since our date at the movies, but I think he somehow got I needed time to parse stuff out. It’s unexpected, how the sight of him—feel, smell, taste—makes me smile.
Gabe grins against my lips, slow and easy. I push Patrick’s bruised face out of my mind.
We make plans to meet up for breakfast in the morning, and I walk him out the side entrance of the Lodge to the parking lot, tugging his belt loop to say good-bye. I’m headed back inside when I run into Tess.
“So that’s happening, huh?” she asks, pale eyebrows raised and a dozen different embroidery floss friendship bracelets stacked up one arm—she had a poolside arts-and-crafts thing on the schedule this morning, I remember. She grins at me. Then, off my clearly stricken expression: “Oh, God, sorry, no, I’m not trying to give you a hard time or anything. I like Gabe, I think he’s a good guy.”
“No,” I say immediately, the impulse to lie like a reflex. I remember what I said to Patrick that day in the store,I know what you think, but there’s nothing going on here. “I mean, he’s a good guy, I just—”
“Hey, don’t worry about it.” Tess holds a freckly hand up, shaking her head. “You know, don’t even answer that. It’s none of my business, I won’t say anything to anybody.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say, exhaling. “Thanks.”
Tess shrugs. “No problem,” she tells me, reaching up to scrape her hair into a ponytail. “Hey, listen, I don’t know if this is hugely weird or whatever, but Imogen and I were talking about it, and we were going to ask you anyway—we’re gonna do Crow Bar tomorrow, if you wanna come with.”
It’s a suicide mission. It’s completely absurd.Why are you even talking to me?I want to ask her.Why are you being sonice?Still: “Sure,” I hear myself answer, like this summer’s got a swiftly moving current, like somehow I’m getting swept away. “That could be fun.”
Tess grins. “Good,” she declares, turning around and heading for the lakefront. “And, hey, your Chapstick’s totally smeared.”
Day 23
Crow Bar is a squat stucco building near the entrance to the highway, a giant silhouette of the black bird in question leering down from the wooden sign outside. It’s after ten when the cab drops us off, the short, stocky bouncer giving us a perfunctory once-over before he waves us inside. The place is a dive right off the highway in Silverton that’s notoriously easy to get into even if you don’t have an ID, and for good reason: It’s dingy enough that no self-respecting adult would ever want to hang out here. It smells dank and beery, with a pool table at one end and a jangling game of Buck Hunter, the crush of bodies and the clang of a dumb Kings of Leon song on the jukebox. I freeze for just one second in the doorway, and Imogen slips her hand into mine and tugs me along through the crowd.
“Shots?” Tess asks, eyes wide and grinning. She’s more dressed up than I’m used to seeing her, her red hair loose down her back and a scattering of freckles along her cheekbones that make her look sort of mischievous. I can see what Patrick likes about her: In the cab over here she offered me both her drugstore-brand lip gloss and some dried mango from her purse, friendly enough to make me wonder if maybe girlfriends aren’t totally out of the question for me this summer, even one as improbable as Patrick’s. If maybe it’s okay to relax.
“Shots,” Imogen echoes, and I laugh, digging some cash out of my purse to hand to Tess. I can see Patrick across the bar along with Jake and Annie from the Lodge, their faces lit by the blue-red glow of a neon sign for Pabst. After a moment they catch me looking: Jake waves and Annie tips her beer in not-quite-friendly recognition, but Patrick just stares at me, eyebrows raised, before saying something I can’t make out to both of them and disappearing toward the back of the room.
Tess heads over to say hello to them. Imogen weaves her way to the bar. I scan the crowd for another moment, spotting some faces I recognize and more who clearly recognize me—a few girls who used to sit at my lunch table, and Elizabeth Reese in a slinky black top. I stop and blink when my gaze lands on a girl not two feet away from where I’m standing, raven hair and red lips, pale skin like Snow White in the enchanted forest; the Donnellys have always been a ridiculously good-looking family, but Patrick’s twin sister is the winner of that genetic lottery, no question. Julia’s dressed in skinny jeans and ballet flats and a long, loose tank top with a bright purple bra underneath, and she’s frowning.
I gasp. I can’t help it, like seeing a wolf in the middle of a shopping mall or the feeling of tumbling off a cliff right before you fall asleep. Julia was totally straightedge the first two years of high school, didn’t drink or smoke at all. Crow Bar is the last place I ever expected to see her.
Looks like the feeling is mutual; her blue eyes widen when she notices me, like maybe she thought herwelcome home fuck youcampaign was enough to keep me in the house for longer than this. Then she sighs. “Bitch,” she mutters, just loud enough so I can hear her. She sounds profoundly annoyed, like she’s irritated at having to expend the energy it takes to hate me, like it’s a game I keep making her play even though she’s bored. Julia and I grew up like sisters, shared clothes and dolls and makeup until we were sixteen years old. Now, standing here in the middle of Crow Bar at the beginning of our last summer before college, she tilts her delicate wrist so that the contents of her beer glass tip right down the front of my shirt.
For a second, I only just gape at her, Julia who lovesFull Housereruns, Julia who snorts when she laughs. We’ve got a little audience by now, the half-dozen people standing in our immediate vicinity, plus Imogen, who’s crossed the bar like some long-dormant Spidey-sense was tingling in her brain stem. “Jesus, Julia,” Imogen says, grabbing my arm and pulling me back like she thinks maybe Julia’s about to do something worse. “What the hell?”
