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My back is sticky with sweat as I peel my t-shirt off, dropping it in a pile by the water’s edge with my socks and sneakers. My shorts go next, then I’m tugging my ponytail straight before wading into the cool water in only a bikini.
Insects whine on the edge of hearing. The lake water sloshes over slippery pebbles, lapping against my legs, and my nipples bead against the emerald green fabric. Goosebumps ripple across my bare skin, and as I wade deeper I’m thinking of him, him, him.
The mystery man.
My mystery man.
Sure, I only saw him for a few seconds, but already I’m possessive as hell. Don’t want anyone else getting too close to the broad shoulders stretching his faded blue t-shirt. Don’t want anyone else sitting in that strong, sturdy lap.
Who is he? Is he still in town? Has he been thinking about me too?
Will I ever see him again?
Air punches out of me when the cold water reaches my most sensitive parts. My movements are jittery as I set off swimming, chin held above the water, breast-stroking my way toward the center of the lake. This is normally my favorite way to start the day—my ultimate summer treat—but this morning, I can’t seem to get present.
Can’t focus on the cool, refreshing water, or how silky it feels against my skin. Can’t appreciate the stretch and warmth of my muscles getting going, loosening up from last night’s ache, nor the strength and power in my own body. Can barely even see the majestic landscape I’m swimming in right now, with the mountains and the forests and the curl of smoke drifting over the distant treetops, marking a nearby cabin, all of it bathed in pink and gold light.
I’m too busy trying to recall my brief glimpse of that man, repainting him in my memory. Was he carrying a backpack or a duffel bag? Did he scowl at me, or did he smile?
Lord knows it was a hot, hectic shift last night, and I’m not sure I trust my own memory. Maybe he was never there. Maybe I hallucinated that man, conjuring him up like my own personal oasis in the desert. He sure looked made-to-order for me.
Something plops not far away, disturbing the glassy surface of the lake. A small fish lunging for a bug, maybe. A warm breeze tickles my cheeks, and I close my eyes for three strokes, drawing in a deep breath and centering myself.
Doesn’t matter if the man was imaginary or real. Doesn’t matter if he’s still in town or gone forever.
I’m here now in this lake, swimming beneath these mountains, and I need to focus or get my ass back on dry land. Sighing, I swim forward.
* * *
For the last year or so, Saturday mornings have come with a new tradition. My big brother Rowan and his new wife settled in a cabin low on the mountainside, about thirty minutes’ walk from town—and soon after Rowan quit his tenure as the local cryptid, his wife Evie nudged him to invite me around for breakfast on their deck.
I know it was her doing—but I also know that Rowan was thrilled when I said yes. Left to his own devices, he probably would have kept an awkward, guilty distance for months.
So: Saturday mornings. Breakfast on Rowan and Evie’s deck. In the wintertime, we bundle up under blankets and cook sausages over the fire pit, but in the summer, I squelch up the mountain path with my bikini still wet under my clothes. My skin is streaked with sunscreen, and I swat at any bugs that fly too close to my head.
I’m kind of a hot mess, but who cares? Rowan and Evie are family—the only family I’ve got. They don’t care if I’ve got frizzy hair and damp patches on my t-shirt at breakfast.
Their cabin is tucked between the trees, with a wraparound deck and carved chairs set out for warm evenings. Inside, it’s spacious yet cozy, with bookshelves and squashy sofas and a log burner for cold winter nights. The crib Rowan’s been carving for their new baby stands in one corner. From the outside, it looks like something from a fairy tale—like it should be made of gingerbread.
Branches rustle overhead as I approach the deck, and birds call out to each other, alerting that another human is near. I’m used to the chirps and whistles, and the wind chimes humming where they hang from the cabin rail, but I’m not used to the booming laughter that echoes from the open cabin door.
Rowan doesn’t laugh like that. He’s never laughed like that. He’s more of a wry chuckle kinda guy.
The deck steps creak under my weight, and I pluck at my damp t-shirt, suddenly self-conscious. Who’d visit Rowan and Evie this early on a Saturday?
Another boom of laughter, followed by the rumble of voices. The smart, normal thing to do would be to knock on the door and go inside, but for some reason I hold back, nerves squirming in my belly.
I’m normally fine with strangers. I tend bar, for god’s sake.
So why have my palms gone all clammy?
Maybe I should slip away before anyone notices I’m here, scurry back down the path and get dressed in proper clothes before I come back. Drag a brush through my hair, rub away the worst sunscreen streaks—that kind of thing. I could take a minute to breathe past these sudden nerves, then come back up here before anyone misses me. Yeah.
I turn on my heel.
“Tess!” Evie calls, bursting through the open doorway with a wide smile. “You’re here!”
My sister in law squeezes me close, her baby bump pressing against my own jittery stomach. I hug her back, my heart dropping in defeat.
