It was easy to persuade Sue to let me work at the Tavern. But my parents needed more convincing. They didn’t understand why I’d want to spend evenings at the restaurant when finances weren’t an issue. I told them that I wanted to earn my own money and, rookie mistake, that I wanted to hang out with Sam. Considering how much time we already spent together, they found this information disturbing and, being a cunning pair of PhDs, took advantage of the drive to Barry’s Bay at the beginning of the summer to stage an intervention.
I should have known something was up when Dad came back from our bathroom break holding a twenty-pack of Timbits (a rare treat) that was heavy on the chocolate glazed (my favorite) and then passed the entire box to me to hold on to. (Red flag! Red flag!)
My parents lectured me so rarely, they muddled through it awkwardly. This one was classic:
Dad: “Persephone, you know how much we like Sam. He’s . . .”
Mom: “He’s a lovely boy. I can’t imagine what it’s been like for Sue to raise those two boys on her own, but she’s done an impressive job.”
Dad: “Right. Well, yes. He’s a great kid. And we’re happy you have a friend at the cottage, kiddo. It’s important to expand your social circles beyond Toronto’s upper-middle class.”
Mom: “Not that there’s anything wrong with our circle. You know, Delilah’s parents say that Buckley Mason is a very promising young man.”
Dad: “Though I don’t know about hockey players.”
Mom: “The point is that we’re concerned you’re spending too much time with Sam. You’re practically joined at the hip, and now with the restaurant . . . We don’t want you to . . .”
Dad: “To get too attached at such a young age.”
I told my parents that Sam was my best friend, that he understood me like nobody else did, and that he was always going to be in my life, so they better get used to it. I said having a job would teach me to be more responsible. I left out the unrequited crush part.
Working at the restaurant felt like being a part of a highly choreographed dance, all the performers working together to execute a near-flawless routine that looked a whole lot easier than it was. Sue was a great boss. She was direct but not condescending or short-tempered. She laughed easily and knew at least half of the guests by name, and she managed the crowds with ease.
Julien controlled the back of the house with unspoken power and a glare that could turn your skin icy even in the kitchen’s inferno. He was younger than Sue, maybe in his early thirties, but his back was shot from years of lugging sides of pigs and kegs of Polish pilsner. I was terrified of him until I overheard him teasing Charlie on his after-dinner-rush cigarette break: “Good thing you’re going to university soon because you’re about three girls away from running through the whole town.” Anyone who poked fun at Charlie was okay in my book.
Charlie and Julien manned the stoves, grill, and deep fryer together. They had a silent way of communicating, working off the order sheets in a system Julien first learned from Charlie’s dad. It was unsettling at first, seeing Charlie like he was at the restaurant, sweaty and serious, his forehead tight with concentration. Every once in a while I’d catch his eye, and he’d toss me a quick smile, but just as fast, he was back to focusing on the food.
Sam, being the younger of the boys, was relegated to the dishwasher and to breaking out each order. He’d pass the sheets to Julien, who’d shout out the series of dishes, and Sam would gather the necessary supplies, running up and down to the basement walk-ins when needed.
The best part of all of it was that Sue put Sam and me on the same schedule: Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights. I liked catching his eye when I brought back the dirty dishes and how the kitchen steam turned his waves into curls. And I liked cleaning up at the end of the night with him, even though Sam’s dishwashing skills often meant running a rack of cutlery through the machine twice. But I liked that, too: Sam was perfect at almost everything but washing up.
IT WAS A dry summer with fire bans across the county, and I was a tightly wound ball of frustrated teenage sexual energy. Sam picked me up on the way back from his morning runs to swim just like the year before, and on the walk over to his place, I couldn’t stop staring at the way his shirt clung to his stomach or the drops of sweat running down his forehead and neck.
Now that he was sixteen, Sam was allowed to drive the Banana Boat, and we took it to the town dock for a couple of ice creams early one evening in July. We sat on a bench by the water, finishing our cones, debating the merits of animal dissection in biology class, when Sam leaned over and ran his tongue around the rim of my cone, catching the drips of pink and blue. He’d done the same thing last summer, but this was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.
“You’ve got the taste buds of a five-year-old,” he said as I stared at him with wide eyes.
“You licked my ice cream.”
“Yeah . . . what’s the big deal?” He frowned.
“Like, with your tongue. You’ve got to stop doing that.”
“Why? Are you worried your boyfriend will be mad or something?” He sounded a little angry. Delilah had been the one to convince me to keep seeing Mason, saying there was no point waiting around for my Summer Boy to get a clue. But I had explained to Sam on multiple occasions that Mason was not my boyfriend, that we were dating but that it wasn’t serious. Neither Sam nor Mason seemed to understand the distinction.
“For the millionth time, Mason is not my boyfriend.”
“But you kiss him,” Sam said.
“Yeah, sure. It’s no big deal,” I replied, not sure where he was going.
He took a bite out of his cone, then squinted at me. “Would you think it was a big deal if I told you I kissed someone?”
My heart exploded into tiny particles. “You kissed someone?” I whispered.
I could tell Sam was nervous because he broke eye contact and looked out at the bay. “Yeah, Maeve O’Conor at the end-of-year dance,” he said.
I hated Maeve O’Conor. I wanted to murder Maeve O’Conor.
“Maeve is a pretty name,” I choked out.
His blue eyes met mine again, and he pushed his hair off his face. “It was no big deal.”
THE CIVIC HOLIDAY loomed large that summer. For the first time, Mom and Dad were leaving me alone at the cottage. It was also the weekend I’d chosen to swim across the lake again. My parents didn’t want to miss my now-annual feat of athleticism, but they were headed to a party in Prince Edward County, where a dean at the university had purchased a farm to turn it into a small winery. It was a must-attend event and almost all they could talk about until they waved goodbye early Saturday morning.
The air was sticky, promising a rain that probably wouldn’t fall if the first half of summer was any indication. The grass around the Floreks’ house had long ago turned brown, but Sue was determined to keep the flower beds in shape. She went into the restaurant earlier than usual to make extra batches of pierogies for the long weekend crowds, and Sam, Charlie, and I were tasked with watering all the gardens in the baking heat before we left for our shifts.
Like most evenings, we took the Banana Boat to the town dock and walked to the restaurant. I wore my usual—a dark denim skirt and a sleeveless blouse—and I was slick with sweat by the time we got there. I splashed my face with cold water in the bathroom and redid my ponytail, smoothing down the strands that had frizzed in the humidity, then applied a little mascara and pink lip gloss, the sum total of my makeup routine.
The tables were full from the moment we opened the doors, and by the time the last customers had been served, Sue was exhausted. Julien told her she looked like shit and forced her out the door while the rest of us closed up.
“I feel like I’ve been boiling in pierogi water all night,” I told Charlie and Sam when I was done, joining them outside the back door, where they always waited for me, sitting with their backs against the wall, once they had finished in the kitchen. I handed them their tip-outs.
“I’ve been standing over pierogi water all night,” Charlie said, standing to tuck the money in his pocket and pulling on his shirt to show me how damp it was. “You’ve got nothing to complain about. I’m jumping in the lake when we get home.”
He wasn’t joking. As soon as we tied up the boat, he jumped onto the dock, unbuttoned his shorts, and peeled off his shirt. Sue had left the porch light on, but it was dark at the water, the moon casting enough of a pale glow that I could just make out Charlie’s bare ass when he pulled down his briefs and jumped into the lake.
“Shit, Charlie,” Sam said when his head bobbed back up. “Give us some warning.”
“Just doing Percy a favor,” he laughed. “You kids coming in?” I’d skinny-dipped on hot-hot nights when I couldn’t fall asleep but never when anyone else was around. I smelled like cabbage and sausage, and my clothes were plastered to my body. A swim sounded amazing.
“I am,” I said, unbuttoning my blouse, ignoring the knots in my stomach. “Turn around while I get undressed.” I dropped my shirt on the dock. Charlie swam out farther, and I checked behind me, finding Sam staring at me in my white cotton bra.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, then turned away, pulling off his own T-shirt.
I stepped out of my skirt, slid off my underwear, unfastened my bra, and then dove into the water. Sam jumped in seconds later, a flash of white limbs. We kept our distance from each other, but I paddled away further still and turned onto my back, spreading my arms and legs, floating under the open sky. My feet tingled with relief. The water swirled around me, and my eyes grew heavy. Eventually someone splashed me, and Charlie said, “I think it’s time to get Percy to bed.”
He ran up to the house in his underwear and came back with towels, and Sam walked me home through the path.
“Ready for the swim tomorrow?” he asked when we got to the bottom of the steps.
I hummed in response. “You might have to give me a wake-up call.” I said good night, climbed the stairs up to the cottage, and sprawled out naked on my bed.
THE SOUND OF knocking woke me suddenly. I glanced at the clock: 8:01 a.m.
“A phone call would have been fine,” I grumbled after I threw on a cotton robe and trudged downstairs to open the door. Sam gave me a guilty half grin, and I motioned for him to come in.
“Thought an in-person alarm would be more effective. You seemed really tired last night.” He shrugged. He was wearing a bathing suit and a hoodie. His light brown hair fell over his face in a tumble.
“You know, for such an anal guy, your hair is extremely messy.” I glowered.
“Someone’s grumpy this morning,” he said, slipping off his sneakers.
“I just woke up, and I’ve really got to pee.” I walked to the bathroom. “There are Cheerios in the cupboard and bagels in the bread drawer if you haven’t eaten yet.”
The phone started ringing mid-pee. “You mind getting that?” I yelled to Sam. “It’s probably Mom or Dad.”
When I came out, he held the receiver in my direction.
“Hello?”
“Percy, it’s Mason.” My eyes skipped to Sam’s.
“Hey. I didn’t think you woke up this early,” I replied as Sam turned and busied himself with the toaster. There was no privacy on the main floor of the cottage, and Sam was going to hear every word.
“It’s your swim today, right? I wanted to wish you good luck.” Mason called the cottage to talk about once a week. If he hadn’t, I think I would have forgotten about him almost entirely, the same way I forgot about nearly everything to do with my life back in the city when I was at the lake.
“It is, thanks. It’s looking a little gray outside,” I said, peering out the window, “but it doesn’t seem like there’s wind, so I should be good.”
“Who was that who answered the phone?”
“Oh, that’s Sam.” Sam glanced over his shoulder. I’d mentioned him to Mason before, and he knew that we were friends—I just hadn’t told him Sam and I were best friends or that I was harboring a not-insignificant crush on him. “He’s spotting me while I swim, remember?” Sam pointed to himself like, Who me? and I bit back a laugh.
“He’s there early.” It wasn’t an accusation. Mason was too sure of himself for jealousy.
“Yeah.” I laughed nervously. “He wanted to make sure I got out of bed. Busy night last night.”
“Well, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to check in before your swim. And”—he cleared his throat—“to tell you that I miss you. I can’t wait to see you when you come back. I want to hold you, Percy.” I watched Sam smear cream cheese on a bagel. His forearms were thick and covered in fine, fair hair that glowed in the sun. He looked big in our small kitchen. There wasn’t a hint left of the gawky thirteen-year-old boy I met three years ago.
“Me too,” I replied, feeling guilty for the lie as it left my mouth. I hadn’t really missed Mason at all.
When I hung up, Sam handed me the bagel on a plate.
I thanked him and sat on a stool chewing while he prepared one for himself. When he was done, he stood on the other side of the counter and took a bite out of his breakfast, watching me while he ate.
“Was that the famous Buckley?” he asked, his mouth full. I gave him a flat look.
“Mason.”
“Does he call a lot?”
I took a big bite of my bagel to stall. “Every week,” I said after a minute. “It’s probably good he does, otherwise I might forget he exists.”
Sam stopped midchew, his eyebrows lifted in surprise.
“What’s with the face?” I asked.
He swallowed and then cleared his throat before answering. “Nothing. It just doesn’t sound like you’re that into him.”
“It’s not that I don’t like him—he’s been sweet.”
“Good, Percy. He should be,” he said with a hint of exasperation.
“I know. That’s not the issue.” I looked down at my half-eaten bagel. “I told you before—I like someone else more.”
“The same guy you emailed about?” Sam asked quietly as I moved sesame seeds scattered on my plate with my finger. “Percy?”
“Yep, same one,” I replied without looking up.
“Does he know?” I looked up at Sam. I couldn’t tell if he knew we were talking about him. His expression was impassive.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “He can be hard to read.”
We finished breakfast in silence, and then I changed into a racer-back swimsuit Mom had bought. She had decided swimming was the perfect hobby and wanted me to try out for the swim team in the fall. I was considering it.
You couldn’t call it a nice day—it was muggy and overcast, but at least the lake was flat.
“You seem a lot less antsy today than you did last year,” I said as we stepped onto the Floreks’ dock.
“I actually had nightmares about it for a full week before you did that swim,” he said. “I thought you were going to drown and that I wouldn’t be able to save you. Now I know you can do it without breaking a sweat.” He kicked off his shoes and pulled his shirt over his head, leaving both on the dock. He rolled his shoulders in backward circles a few times.
“And now you’ve got all that,” I said, motioning at his bare torso, the shadows playing off the ridges of his chest and stomach. He chuckled.
“I’ll do a couple of warm-up laps with you, and then we’ll head out?”
“Whatever you say, Coach.”
Sometime while we were at the water, Sue and Charlie had come out onto the deck with coffees. I waved at them from the water while Sam got the boat ready. And then, giving each other a thumbs-up, we set off.
It wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t as hard as last summer, either. I didn’t need to switch strokes or slow down—I kept a steady, rhythmic pace. My legs were tired but didn’t feel as though they were going to drag me to the bottom of the lake with their weight, and my shoulders ached but the pain didn’t consume me. When I reached the shore, I sat in the shallow water catching my breath while Sam pulled the boat up on the beach.
“Seven minutes faster than last year!” he announced, hopping out of the boat, dropping a cooler bag on the sand, and sitting in the water beside me, his skin slick with sweat. “I think your mom’s right; you should join the swim team. You didn’t even stop to catch your breath!”
“Says the guy who practically runs a marathon every morning,” I panted.
“Exactly.” Sam grinned. “I should know.” He passed me a cold bottle of water, and I chugged half, handing the rest to him to finish off. The wind was starting to pick up and the air smelled thick.
“Looks like it could finally rain,” I said, watching the breeze dance through the leaves of a poplar.
“That’s the rumor. Mom says a big storm is supposed to hit,” Sam said, wrapping his arms around his knees. “Too bad she needs me to work an extra shift, otherwise we could do a scary movie night.”
“Blair Witch!” I suggested.
“Totally. How have we not done that one yet?”
“Well, I have, many times,” I said.
“Obviously.”
“But never with you,” I added.
“A huge oversight,” Sam replied.
“The hugest.” We grinned.
I was almost catatonic by the time I got back to the cottage, my belly bloated from one of Sue’s epic breakfasts and my body completely drained. I passed out on the couch and didn’t wake up until well after five, which meant Sam would already be at the Tavern, whereas I had the night off. My parents left me home alone all the time in the city, but they were always around when we were at the lake. I had fallen asleep so quickly the night before that it had barely registered that they were gone. Now I wasn’t quite sure what to do with myself.
Groggy, I shuffled into the bathroom and splashed water on my face, then slurped the cold liquid from my hands. I headed down to the lake with a notebook and sat on one of the Muskoka chairs at the foot of the dock. The wind had picked up since morning and was throwing whitecaps over the gray water. I jotted down a few ideas for my next story, but soon raindrops began to fall on the pages, and I was chased inside.
I boiled a hot dog for dinner and ate it with some of the rice and bean salad Mom had left. Bored, I riffled through our DVD collection until I found The Blair Witch Project.
It was a terrible choice. It scared me every single time I’d seen it, and I had never watched it alone. In a cabin. In the woods. On a dark and stormy night. Halfway through, I paused the movie, locked the doors, and did a sweep of the cottage, checking the closets, beneath the beds, and behind the shower curtain. Just as I pressed play again, a loud crack of thunder shook the cottage, and lightning quickly followed. With every flash, I expected to see a gruesome face pressed up against the back door window. By the time the movie ended, the storm had passed, but it was dark and rainy, and I was totally freaking out.
I made myself popcorn and put on Uncle Buck, hoping for a comedic distraction, but not even John Candy and Macaulay Culkin could calm me down. The wind wasn’t helping things, sending bits of bark and small branches flying onto the roof in a symphony of scratches and thunks. And, wow, I had never noticed how much the cottage creaked. It was just after eleven when I broke down and called the Floreks’ number.
The phone had barely rung when Sam picked up.
“Hey, sorry to call so late, but I’m kind of losing it here—the wind is making weird noises, and I just watched Blair Witch, which I guess was pretty stupid. There’s like no way I can sleep here by myself tonight. Can I stay over there?”
“You can stay over me. You can stay under me,” the voice on the other end drawled. “Any way you want, Pers.”
“Charlie?” I asked.
“The one and only,” he replied. “Disappointed?”
“Not at all. I’ve never been more turned on,” I deadpanned.
“You’re a cruel woman, Percy Fraser. Let me hang up on the other line, and I’ll get Sam for you.”
Sam was at the door in less than five minutes, standing under an umbrella. I thanked him for walking over and apologized for being so childish.
“I don’t mind, Percy,” he said, then took the tote I’d thrown my toothbrush and pj’s into.
He rolled his eyes when I asked if he’d brought a flashlight, because when had he ever needed a flashlight, and as we set out, I linked my arm through his, staying as close to him as possible. I almost screamed when I heard rustling in the bush and then the snap of a twig, and I wrapped my free arm around Sam’s waist, gluing myself to his side.
“It’s probably a raccoon or a porcupine,” he said, laughing, but I kept a tight grip on him until we stepped onto the porch.
“We’ll have to be quiet,” he whispered as we crept inside. “Mom’s already asleep. Busy night.”
“You’re not going to lock that?” I pointed to the door behind us as Sam moved toward the kitchen.
“We never lock it. Not even when we go out,” he said, then seeing the sheer terror in my eyes, walked back over and turned the dead bolt.
The main floor was in darkness, and the faint sound of Charlie watching TV in the basement drifted up the stairs. Sam poured two glasses of water, and I studied the shadows that filled the hollows beneath his cheekbones. I couldn’t remember when they had gotten so prominent.
“I’ll take the couch down here, and you can sleep in my bed,” he said, handing me a glass.
“I really don’t want to sleep alone,” I whispered. “Can’t we both just sleep in your room?”
Sam ran his hand through his hair, thinking. “Yeah. We have an air mattress somewhere in the basement. Takes a while to inflate, but I’ll go get it.” It was late, and I didn’t want to put Sam out more than I already had, but when I suggested we share his bed, he sputtered.
“I swear I don’t kick in my sleep,” I promised. His jaw twitched and he ruffled his hair again.
“Yeah, okay,” he said uneasily. “But I need to shower. I smell like onions and deep fryer grease.”
I BRUSHED MY teeth in the main floor bathroom and changed into the cotton shorts and tank top I usually slept in, arranged my hair in a thick braid, and then waited for Sam in his bedroom, which was neat and orderly even though he hadn’t planned on having a guest over. The photo of us sat on his desk, and Operation stood upright on the top of his bookshelf next to a photo of him with his dad. I had knelt down to get a better look at his set of Tolkiens when he came in, softly closing the door.
“I’ve never read these,” I said without looking up. He crouched down beside me and took out The Hobbit. His hair was damp and neatly combed off his face. He smelled soapy.
“I’m pretty sure you’d hate it, but you’re welcome to borrow it.” He handed me the book. “There’s a lot of singing.”
“Huh . . . I’ll give it a try, thanks.” We stood at the same time, and Sam loomed over me. When I looked up at him, he was turning a very pink shade of pink.
“That’s the shirt you wear to bed?” he asked. I looked down, confused. “It’s a little low from up here,” he croaked. The tank top was white with thin straps and, come to think of it, was kind of on the revealing side. A prickly heat climbed up my chest and neck.
“You could solve that problem by not looking down it,” I muttered, though a part of me—a big, hungry part—was thrilled. He ran his hand through his hair, messing it up.
“Yeah, sorry. They were just . . . there.”
I eyed his cozy pants and T-shirt. It seemed like a lot of clothes for such a warm night. “Is that what you usually wear to bed?”
“Yeah . . . in the winter it is.”
“You do know it’s the middle of summer, right?” He shifted on his feet. It hit me then that Sam was nervous. Sam was almost never nervous.
“I’m aware. When it’s hot, I, uh”—he rubbed his neck—“I usually, you know, sleep in my boxers.”
“Okaaaay,” I murmured. “Sweats it is.”
We both looked over at the single bed. “This isn’t going to be weird, right?” I asked.
“Nope,” he said without confidence.
Sam folded back the navy-blue top sheet, and I climbed in. I wasn’t sure what the protocol was here. Should I face the wall? Or was that rude? Maybe I should lie on my back? I hadn’t made a decision when Sam sat down beside me, our bodies touching from shoulder to hip. I could smell his peppermint toothpaste.
“Do you want the light on to read?” He eyed the book I was still holding.
“I’m still pretty tired from the swim today, actually.” I passed him the paperback, and he placed it on the nightstand and shut off the lamp.
I decided lying on my back was best, and shuffled down the bed so my head was on the pillow. Sam followed suit. We were squished up against each other. I lay there with my eyes open for a good ten minutes, my heart racing and my skin sizzling everywhere it touched his.
“I’m really hot,” he whispered. Apparently neither one of us was sleeping.
“Just take off your sweats and the shirt,” I hissed. “It’s fine. I’ve seen you in your bathing suit. Boxers aren’t too different.” He hesitated for a few seconds, then wiggled his pants off and pulled his T-shirt over his head. I couldn’t tell, but I think he folded them before putting them on the floor. We were still both awake when Sam turned his head toward me, his breath hitting my cheek.
“I’m glad this isn’t weird,” he said. I burst out laughing. He tried to shush me through his own laughter, but that just set me off even more. He rolled over to face me, putting his hand over my mouth. Every cell in my body came to a halt.
“You’ll wake Mom, and, believe me, you don’t want to do that,” he whispered. “She was so tired she took her wineglass to bed with her.” He slowly took his hand away, and I fought the urge to put it back on my face. We lay there silently, him turned toward me, until he spoke.
“Percy?” he asked, and I rolled onto my side. I could barely make out the shape of his body—the nights up north gave new meaning to the word dark. “Do you remember when I told you about kissing Maeve?”
My heart picked up a pair of drumsticks.
“Yeah,” I murmured, not sure I wanted to hear what came next.
“It didn’t mean anything. I mean, I don’t like her like that.”
The question flew out like a reflex: “Why did you kiss her then?”
“We went to the end-of-year dance together, and the last slow song of the night was playing . . . and, I don’t know, it just seemed like the obvious move.”
“You asked her to the dance?” He had told me he went, but he didn’t say he had gone with a date.
“She asked me,” he clarified. “I know I didn’t tell you, but I figured we don’t really talk about this stuff. I wasn’t sure.”
I chewed on this for a second, then asked, “Was that your first kiss?” Sam was quiet. “You’re not going to tell me? You were there for mine.”
“No,” he replied.
“No, it wasn’t your first kiss, or no, you aren’t going to tell me?”
“It wasn’t my first kiss. I’m sixteen, Percy.”
“When?” My voice was hoarse.
“You sure you want to know?” he asked. “Because you sound a little weird.”
“Yes,” I hissed. I wanted to scream. “Just tell me.”
“It was last year—a girl from school. She asked me to go skating, and she pushed me in the penalty box and then kissed me. It was kind of crazy.”
“She sounds psycho.”
“Yeah, we didn’t go out again.” He paused. “But I went out a couple times with Jordie’s sister’s friend, Olivia.” Jordie’s sister is a year older than us.
“And you kissed her?” My voice was strangled. My head was spinning. Three girls. Sam had kissed three girls. Sam had kissed an eleventh-grade girl. It shouldn’t have surprised me. He was cute and sweet and smart, but he was also mine, mine, all mine. The thought of another girl spending time with him, let alone kissing him, made me nauseated.
“Um, yeah. We kissed.” He hesitated. “And we fooled around a bit.”
“You fooled around with an eleventh-grade girl?” I squeaked.
“Yeah, Percy. Is that so surprising?” He sounded offended. “You don’t make out with your boyfriend?” I took a deep breath.
“He. Is. Not. My. Boyfriend.” I was whisper-yelling. I shoved Sam’s shoulder once, then again, and he grabbed my wrist, holding it against his bare chest.
“And you don’t make out with your non-boyfriend?” he asked.
“I’d rather make out with someone else,” I blurted, immediately wanting to suck the words back into my throat.
“Who?” Sam asked. My skin went tight with adrenaline, but I kept my mouth shut. He squeezed my wrist slightly, and I wondered if he could feel how quickly my pulse raced. “Who, Percy?” he asked again. I groaned.
“Don’t make me tell you,” I said so quietly I wasn’t sure if I’d said it out loud, but then I felt Sam’s hot breath on my face and the press of his nose and forehead against mine.
“Please tell me,” he pleaded softly. I was overwhelmed by him—this smell of his shampoo, his damp hair, the heat coming from his body.
I swallowed thickly, then whispered, “I think you know.”
Sam stayed silent, his mouth inches from my own, but his thumb began to move in back-and-forth strokes across my wrist.
“I want to be sure,” he murmured.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and let the words fall from me.
“I’d rather kiss you.”
As soon as the admission left my mouth, Sam’s lips were on my lips, pressing and urgent. It felt like jumping off a cliff into warm honey. Just as quickly, he pulled back and rested his forehead against mine, taking quick, shallow breaths.
“Okay?” he whispered.
I shook my head. “More.”
He closed the gap between us, peppering kisses on my lips, sweet and soft, but not nearly enough, and when he let go of my wrist, I put my hand in his hair, holding him closer. I ran my tongue over the crease of his bottom lip, then pulled it into my mouth. He moaned and suddenly his hands were everywhere all at once, on my back, over my hips, across my stomach. And then his tongue met mine, minty and teasing. I wrapped a leg around his and pulled our hips together. A pained, desperate noise vibrated from the back of Sam’s throat, and he gripped my side, putting a sliver of space between us.
“You all right?” I asked. He didn’t respond. “Sam?”
“I’m nodding,” he said.
“Sorry,” I whispered. “I got a little carried away.”
“Don’t be sorry. I liked it.” He took a deep breath, then paused before adding, “But I think we should probably try to sleep. Otherwise I’ll get carried away.”
I nodded.
“Percy?” he asked.
“I’m nodding.”
And then he kissed me again. At first it was slow, all hot tongue and gentle sucking. I whimpered, wanting more, more, more, and moved my hands down his back and into the waistband of his boxers. In reply, he grabbed my butt and pulled me against him. I could feel his excitement, and I pressed into him. He sucked in his breath and froze.
“We need to stop, Percy.” Before I could ask if I’d done something wrong, he rasped, “I’m like really close.”
I exhaled in relief. “Okay.”
He brushed my face with his fingertips. “So . . . sleep?”
“Or something like that,” I laughed quietly. Eventually, I turned to face the wall, a smile on my face. Somehow I did fall asleep, and just before I drifted off, I heard Sam whisper, “I’d rather kiss you, too.”
SOMETHING WOKE ME suddenly. I opened my eyes, not sure where I was, feeling a weight across my middle. I blinked at the wall a few times before remembering.
I was in Sam’s bed.
With Sam.
Who had kissed me.
Who had his arm wrapped around me.
Two hard knocks sounded on the door. I gasped. Sam’s hand moved over my mouth.
“Sam, it’s nine o’clock,” Sue called. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t want to get out for a run.”
“Thanks, Mom. Be down in a bit,” he called back. We lay still as her footsteps moved away from the door, then Sam took his hand from my mouth, keeping his arm snug around me. I wiggled back into him, and I felt him hard against my backside.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “It just happens when I wake up.”
“So I have nothing to do with it? My ego might take offense at that.”
“Sorry,” he said again.
“Stop apologizing,” I hissed.
“Right, sor . . .” He leaned his head on my back and shook it back and forth. “I’m nervous.” The words were muffled against my skin.
“Me, too,” I admitted. “But I don’t mind. It’s kind of nice.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I pressed back into him again. He swore under his breath.
“Percy.” He held my hip away from him. “We have to go have breakfast with my mom, and I’m going to need a minute.”
I smiled to myself, then turned over to face him. His hair was more rumpled than usual, and his blue eyes were hooded with sleep. He looked cute. Sam was doing a similar inspection of me, his eyes moving back and forth over my face and quickly down to my top.
“Good morning,” I said.
“I like this shirt.” He grinned lazily and ran his finger over the strap.
“Perv,” I laughed, and he kissed me, hard and deep and long, so that I was out of breath when he pulled away.
“One for the road,” he said, then added, “I’m getting you a sweatshirt. Charlie doesn’t need to enjoy your pj’s.”
I followed Sam downstairs, wearing one of his hoodies, which came down to my thighs. Sue was sitting in her spot at the kitchen table in a floral robe, drinking a coffee, her hair pulled into a haphazard bun atop her head, reading a romance novel. There was a faint smile across her lips. It disappeared as soon as she saw us hovering at the doorway.
“Percy slept over last night,” Sam explained. “She called after you went to sleep—freaked herself out watching horror movies.”
“I hope that’s okay, Sue. I didn’t want to be alone.”
Sue looked between us. “And where did she sleep?”
“In my bed,” Sam replied. I would have lied to my parents before admitting a boy slept in my bed. But Sam wasn’t much for lying.
“Sam, fix two bowls of cereal,” Sue ordered. He did as he was told, and I sat across from her, making uncomfortable small talk about my parents’ trip. Once Sam came to the table, she cleared her throat.
“Percy, you know you’re always welcome here. And, Sam, you know I trust you. However, given how much time you two spend together and now that you’re getting older, I think it’s time we had a serious talk.” I glanced at Sam; his jaw hung open. I twisted my bracelet underneath the table.
“Mom, that’s really not necess—” Sue cut him off.
“You are far too young for any of it,” she began, looking at each of us. “But I want to make sure if anything ever happens between the two of you—or with anyone else,” she added with her hands raised when Sam tried to interrupt, “that you are being safe and that you are being respectful toward one another.”
I looked down at my cereal. There was nothing to disagree with.
“Percy, Sam told me you’re seeing an older boy in Toronto.” I lifted my eyes to meet hers.
“Yeah, sort of,” I murmured.
She pinched her lips together, disappointment flickered in her eyes. “Do you like this boy?”
“Mom!” Sam was red with embarrassment. Sue leveled him with a look, then turned back to me. I could feel Sam’s eyes on me, too.
“He’s nice,” I offered, but Sue waited for more. “I’m pretty sure he likes me more than I like him.”
Sue reached over and put her hand on mine, fixing me with her eyes. I knew where Sam got that from. “I’m not surprised. You’re a kind, smart girl.” She squeezed my hand and then leaned back. She went on in a sterner voice, “I don’t want you to ever feel like you have to do anything you don’t want to with any boy, no matter how nice he is. There’s no rush. And anyone who wants to rush isn’t worth rushing for. Does that make sense?”
I told her it did.
“Don’t take any crap from any boy—not even my own sons, okay?”
“Okay,” I whispered.
“And you,” she said, looking to Sam. “The best girls are worth waiting for. Trust and friendship come first, then the other stuff. You’re only sixteen, just about to start eleventh grade. And life, hopefully, is long.” She smiled sadly. “Okay, that’s enough mom talk,” she said, putting both hands on the table and pushing herself out of the chair.
“Oh! One more thing: If Percy wants to sleep over again, you, my dear son, will be on the couch.”
MY PARENTS RETURNED and so did the hot, dry days, turning the air thin and dusty. A small brush fire started on the rocky point across from the cottage. We saw smoke billowing from the scrub and then watched boaters pull up to help put it out. Sam, Charlie, and I took the Banana Boat over and anchored it just out from shore. I waited while the boys joined the water-bucket chain. The flames were only ankle height, but when Sam and Charlie climbed back into the boat after it had been put out, they were so chuffed with themselves you’d have thought they had rescued a baby from a burning building.
Sam and I swam and worked and talked about pretty much everything—how tired he was of small-town life and small-town thinking, how I was considering trying out for the swim team, the finer points of the Saw movies—but we never talked about the night we kissed. I wasn’t sure how to bring it up. I was waiting for the perfect moment.
Mason phoned the cottage landline now and then, but we only talked for a few minutes until the conversation fizzled out. After one of our calls, Dad looked at me over the top of his glasses and said, “Every time you talk to that kid, you look like you’re trying to go to the bathroom after eating too much cheese.” Gross. But he had a point. I just didn’t want to break things off with Mason on the phone. I was waiting until I got back to the city.
The weather changed the third week of August. A thick cover of dark clouds settled over the province, their overstuffed bellies drenching everything from Algonquin Park to Ottawa. Cottagers packed up early and left for the city. A light mist moved in over the lake, making everything look black and white. Even the green hills on the far shore looked gray, as though they had been shrouded in gauze. Dad wasn’t much of an outdoorsman and was happy to have us all inside, keeping the fire fed to ward off the damp. Mom and I snuggled up on the couch. I worked on my story while she made her way through a half-dozen books she was considering adding to her gender-relations course syllabus. Sam sat at the table working on a one-thousand-piece puzzle of fishing lures with Dad, who talked animatedly to him about Hippocrates and ancient Greek medicine. I tuned it out, but Sam was captivated. Just like working at the restaurant gave me a taste of freedom in the form of a paycheck, I got the sense that talking with my dad gave Sam a window into a larger world of possibilities. I think I gave him that, too, in a way. He loved it when I talked about the city and the different places I’d visited—the museums, the huge movie theaters and concert halls.
After six straight days of heavy rain, I woke up to the sun beaming in through the triangles of glass in my bedroom, the reflection off the lake dappling the walls and ceiling. Sam took me on a hike through the bush, following a streambed that had been dry all season but was now bubbling over the rocks and branches in its way. The weather had turned cool after the rain, and I wore blue jeans and my old U of T sweatshirt; Sam had thrown on a plaid flannel button-up, rolling the sleeves past his forearms. It was damp underfoot and mushrooms had sprouted up all over the forest floor, some with jolly yellow-and-white domed caps and others with flat pancake tops.
“Here we are,” Sam announced after we’d walked through dense bush for about fifteen minutes. I peered around his shoulder and saw that the gentle slope we’d been climbing had flattened, making a small pool of water. A fallen tree, covered in emerald moss and pale lichen, lay across its middle.
“I like to come here in the spring when the snow has just melted,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe how loudly the water in this stream rushes.” He climbed onto the tree and scooted down, patting the spot beside him. I shimmied over till we were both sitting with our legs dangling above the pond.
“It’s beautiful,” I said. “I’m kind of waiting for a gnome or fairy to appear from over there.” I pointed to a thick, rotting tree stump with brown mushrooms growing at its base. Sam chuckled.
“I can’t believe we’re going back to the city next weekend,” I murmured. “I don’t want to leave.”
“I don’t want you to, either.” We listened to the gurgle of the stream, swatting away mosquitoes, until Sam spoke again.
“I’ve been thinking,” he began, his voice quiet and shaky but his eyes direct.
I knew what was coming. Maybe I’d been waiting for it. I tilted my head down so my dark hair fell around my face, and studied our feet.
“About us. I’ve been thinking about us,” he said, then nudged my foot with his. I peered over at him—the humidity had made his hair curl at the ends—and smiled weakly.
“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about kissing you that night in my room.” He gave me a shy grin, and I looked toward the ground again.
“You think it was a mistake, don’t you?”
“No! That’s not it at all,” he said quickly and put his hand over mine, lacing our fingers together. “It was incredible. I know it sounds corny, but it was the best night of my life. I think about it all the time.”
“Me too,” I whispered, looking at our reflections in the pool below.
“You and me are special,” he started. “There’s no one else I’d rather spend time with than you. There’s no one else I’d rather talk to than you. And there’s no one else I’d rather kiss than you.” He paused, and my stomach swooped. “But you’re more important to me than kissing. And I’m worried that if we rush that side of things we’ll fuck up everything else.”
“So what are you saying?” I asked, looking at him. “You just want to be friends?”
He took a deep breath.
“I don’t think I’m saying this right.” He sounded frustrated with himself. “What I mean is that you’re not just any friend to me . . . you’re my best friend. But we go for months without seeing each other, and we’re really young, and I’ve never had a girlfriend before. I don’t know how to do relationships, and I don’t want to screw it up with you. I want to be everything, Percy. When we’re ready.”
I fought the stinging in my eyes. I was ready. I wanted everything now. At sixteen, Sam was it for me. I knew it then, and I think I knew it that night three years ago when Sam and I sat on my bedroom floor eating Oreos and he asked me to make him a bracelet. I moved my eyes to his wrist.
He pulled my hair back from the side of my face, and I squeezed my eyes shut. “Can you look at me, please?”
I shook my head.
“Percy,” he pleaded while I wiped a tear with my sleeve. “I don’t want to put pressure on you and me that we can’t handle. We’ve both got big plans—eleventh and twelfth grade will decide what schools we can get into and whether I can get a scholarship.” I knew how important grades were to Sam, how expensive his schooling would be, and how he was counting on an academic prize to help with tuition.
“So we just go back to being friends like nothing happened, and then what? We find other boyfriends and girlfriends?” I glanced at him. I could see the agony and worry on his face, but I was angry and embarrassed, even though, somewhere deep, I knew what he was saying made sense. I didn’t want to screw things up, either. I just figured we could handle it. Sam was the most mature boy I knew. He was perfect.
“I’m not looking for another girlfriend,” he said, which made me feel a teeny-tiny bit better. “But I realize I’d be a huge jerk if I told you I don’t think we should be together right now and then asked you not to see anyone.”
“You’re a huge jerk either way,” I said. I meant it as a joke, but it tasted like burned coffee on my tongue.
“Do you really mean that?”
I shook my head, attempting a smile. “I think you’re pretty great,” I said, my voice breaking. Sam’s arm encircled my shoulders, and he squeezed tight. He smelled like fabric softener and damp soil and rain.
“Swear on it?” he said, his words muffled by hair. I felt for his bracelet blindly and tugged.
“I think you’re pretty great, too,” he whispered. “You have no idea how much.”
