Rory steps closer, enough for me to smell peppermint on his breath, mixing surprisingly well with cedar smoke on his coat. His hand finds mine and he leads me toward a black Jeep.
“No motorcycle?” I ask, partly kidding.
“Oh, you saw that?” His brow lifts. “I pulled it out of the garage the other day to see if it still ran, but it needs some work. If you want, we can postpone our date until it’s fixed up.” His tone is so serious that I know he must be joking.
“Yeah, probably for the best,” I shoot back.
His newly formed smile turns into a laugh. “You’re trouble.”
We climb into his car, the leather seat cold against my thighs, and make the short drive to downtown Blair. The Smiths hum low from the speakers—background noise to our conversation about favorite haunts in Seattle. Rory coasts through the winding turns with ease, telling me of his late-night diner routine: French fries, a milkshake, and whatever graphic design project he’s tinkering with at 2:00 in the morning. I listen, watching the sun set beyond the Douglas fir trees that line our town, admiring their glow behind bruised clouds, which fill the air with the vague, perpetual mist that is so typical of Blair.
By the time we pull into the Waterside Theater’s small parking lot, I remember it’s Saturday. But we quickly find a spot by the entrance. Couples wander in pairs, some loitering with ice cream cones, others drifting toward the doors of the theater. The scene is perfectly subdued as the summer has officially melted into sleepy fall. Across the way, I spy the modest stretch of town’s center: another grocery store,coffee shop, a boutique or two. Everything you’d need for ordinary life. Next to the movie theater, the old pizza shop beckons us with its steamy windows and hand-painted sign: THEBESTNEWYORKSLICEWEST OF THEBIGAPPLE!
I spent countless nights here as a teenager, enjoying cheesy slices before dining on popcorn and candy during whatever movie I watched until I was plump with nausea and regret.
The courtyard outside the theater radiates beneath a canopy of string lights, golden hues reflecting off damp pavement. Tables sleep under folded umbrellas until spring, and just beyond them is an iron fence to mark the lake’s edge. It all showcases the quaint beauty of Blair and reminds me that—although it’s my hometown—it can feel cinematic, too.
Rory and I join the short line at the pizza window, breathing in waves of baked dough and boiled tomatoes. We whisper flavor options to each other like excited children:White Truffle Goat Cheese? Spinach Mushroom Pepperoncini?Something calledSix Degrees of Kevin Bacon?
My stomach growls on cue, and at our turn, Rory points to our chosen slices, pays without hesitation, and slides a plate into my hand.
He guides me to the water’s edge so we can dine with a view of the very place we both grew up, as if we can’t admire it from the homes we’re currently occupying. But this outlook brings a different perspective, far away from the woes of packing and panicking, the formalities of residency.
“It really is beautiful, huh?” I say, leaning against the iron fencing. I take a bite of pizza, cheese stretching stubbornly against my chin. I slurp it up and blow hot vapor out of my mouth, waving my other hand in front of it in a poor attempt at cooling the nibble on my tongue.
“Do you not see the massive steam rising off it?” Rory teases, already leaning into his own slice.
“I’m starving,” I protest, the bite still sitting against my back teeth.
Rory takes a bite of equal size. “Fuck, thatishot.”
We dissolve into laughter, chewing through the heat, and watch a fresh order of fog roll across the black water’s surface.
The laugh dies in my throat when my gaze slips to the right: the community dock. Where Mom’s body was found. Even from over here, around the bend of downtown, the sight of it creates a pressure in my chest.
I should hate the lake, seeing it only as a vicious killer. But I can’t. It’s too alluring. Too cruelly beautiful.
“Yeah,” Rory says, answering belatedly. “We really lucked out with our childhoods.”
Almost jarringly so, I feel like a teenager again. Like Rory has smacked a rewind button. Eating the same pizza. Dating my handsome next-door neighbor. Staring at this landscape. A layer of distaste forms, and I’m suddenly intent on adjusting the conversation—to focus on ourcurrentrealities, and not inch backward toward adolescence.
“Is that why you really came back to Washington? So that you could live on this lake again eventually?” I ask, reluctantly bringing the pizza to my mouth, masking my desperate inquisition as a casual question.
Rory takes a brief pause, setting his slice back on the plate. He swallows, eyes freezing in a distant stare. “Actually, I lost someone, too. That shook up my plans a bit.”
I take a bite of pizza at the worst time. Because now all I can do is chew with a fist to my lips, hoping he’ll keep talking, or mercifully change the subject.
“This is great date conversation,” he chuckles, trying to recover. “But… my girlfriend of two years passed away. And I couldn’t walk around without being reminded of her everywhere.” He readjusts his lean against the gate. “That’s about the time I headed to New York. I stayed there a few years, but it felt like the only way to feel normal was to come back to Washington. Start over again. So I did.”
My eyes drop in sympathy. “Rory, I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
“It was years ago. You were bound to find out sometime.” He looks out at the vast water, a breath of wind blowing against our cheeks.
“I’ve recently learned how little people’s apologies help when someone you love has passed,” I offer. “So instead, I’ll say… thanks for telling me.” I shift closer, my shoulder grazing his. “That sounds like a lot. Especially when you were so young.”
I don’t expect him to tell me the exact details, no matter how curious I am. I don’t press.
Rory looks at me, then back at the lake. “Can I ask you something?”
