“I said the same thing.” Rory grins.
“We’re trying to keep it fresh,” Emmett says. “Stay up-to-date with the likes of you kids.”
As if Mara and Emmett Holloway need to stay “up-to-date” with any of us. They’re cooler than most people I know.
“Although maybe they have a point. I hear retro’s back,” Mara says matter-of-factly.
I chuckle. “I’m sure you’re in good hands with Rory.”
“You haven’t seen my work. Maybe I have terrible style,” he says, leaning closer.
“I find that hard to believe.” I raise my wineglass to my mouth. “But I guess you’ll just have to show me.”
“I will,” Rory says, raising his eyebrows at me, poking his salad.
After dinner, Mara collects plates while I stand—thanking them for the meal. I meet Rory’s gaze, steady and unreadable, and without looking away, he announces, “I’m taking Imogen down to the lake. To catch up properly.”
In comical unison, they reply, “That’s a great idea.”
As if remembering my unease with the water as of late, Rory adds, “That cool with you?”
I nod, and Rory grabs a bottle of wine off the bar before leading us out the back door.
Clouds cover the sky; artificial light streams down from houses and shimmers off the lake’s surface to create a string-light effect. It’s a calm night, with the water gently splashing against the docks, its rhythm growing louder as we descend the rickety steps. A chilly wind makes me clutch my cardigan tight to my body.
Mom’s dock sits off to our right, half hidden by a large tree that leans out of the shoreline, its roots swallowed by water. Our docks look alike: slatted wood, three boats tied up, a couple lounge chairs, and stepladders that slip into the lake—though it’s hard to make much out in the dark. A few houses to our left is Sawyer Dam, which connects the north side of Lake Blair to the south. Its mouth is wide open, resembling the end of an infinity pool—a forest down beyond it that Sawyer Creek cuts through.
“When were you last out on the water?” Rory asks, breaking the silence.
I think for a moment. “A couple summers ago maybe? When I visited my mom, we never really utilized the lake anymore. It’s usually raining when I come here.”
This part of Washington gets rain nearly half the year, if not more. Although living on a lake is idyllic anywhere, no one really uses Lake Blair year-round. Even Mom timed her pedal-boating around dry spells. Sometimes, though, the wetness was unavoidable. When it was, she’d embrace it.
“I’ve been coming out here a lot the last few weeks,” he says. “I forgot how much I love it.”
Rory climbs into the rowboat tied to his dock and offers me hishand. It’s soft and strong in mine, and I let him pull me aboard before settling across from him. He loosens the rope and pushes us off, and for the next few minutes as he rows us into deeper water, he tells me about his work projects—logos and campaigns for beverage companies, record labels, local brands. I share more of my love for wine—and working in it; spending harvest making and bottling wine in the country with a fun team, then working the bar the rest of the year.
“So. Will you be around for a while?” I ask. “Or do you have a place in the city to get back to?” I hope he says the latter. Seeing him in a normal setting sounds nice.
“I’ve got my own place waiting for me, but I won’t be back there until mid-Octoberish,” he replies, pumping the oars, mellow. “Which means… I’ve still got time to finally take you on a date.”
Nothing about our boat conversation has been distinctly flirtatious, so this surprises me. It makes his words hit even harder… despite the tension between us feeling constant.
“Finally?” I tease, biting the tip of my thumbnail.
“It’s always been you and me, Imogen,” he says, confident.
The thumping in my chest becomes heavier. I’m impressed that he’s speaking so freely, so confidently.
We’ve always connected. We’ve always made sense. But for no clear reason, I never searched for him or kept in touch over the years. Being back in his orbit feels right.
“You don’t even know me anymore,” I admit. “Maybe I’m different. Or weird.” I echo his playful tone from upstairs about his design work.
He narrows his eyes, grinning. “You’ve been different and weird as long as I’ve known you.” He sticks out his tongue as he rows, pushing us farther from the docks and the dam.
I shake my head and grab the bottle of wine between his shoes as I pull my keys out of my handbag. “You’re lucky I have a wine bottle opener on my key ring, by the way,” I say, seeing as he didn’t bother opening the bottle before we came down here.
“I knew you’d have something like that,” Rory says.
