Every Summer After

We sit in the truck staring at THE Floreks’ house. Or at least I stare at the house. Sam is watching me.

“It looks amazing,” I say. And it does. The lawns are green and mowed, the flower beds are blooming and tidy, and the siding and trim on the house are freshly painted. The basketball net still hangs on the garage. There are terra-cotta pots of happy red geraniums on the porch—Sam probably planted them himself. The thought makes me squishy.

“Thanks,” Sam says. “I’ve been trying to keep it up. Mom would hate to see her gardens taken over by weeds.” He pauses, then adds, “But it’s also been a good distraction from everything.”

“How have you been managing all this on top of the restaurant and work?” I ask, turning to face him and waving my hand at the house. “It’s a huge property for one person to maintain.” God, how did Sue do it? And raise two kids and run the Tavern?

Sam runs a hand over his smooth cheek. Shaving only made his cheekbones more prominent, his jaw more angled. “I guess I don’t sleep much,” he says. “Don’t look so horrified. I got used to staying up for long stretches when I was a resident. Anyway, I’m grateful I’ve had something to do. I would have gone crazy sitting around the past year.”

Guilt curls around my heart. I hate that he did this alone. Without me.

“Does Charlie help much?”

“Nah. He offered to come back, but he’s busy in Toronto.” I cock my head, not following. “He works in finance, on Bay Street,” Sam explains. “He was up for a big promotion—I told him to stay in the city.”

“I had no idea,” I murmur. “I guess his boss has better luck getting him to wear a shirt than your mom did.”

Sam chuckles. “Pretty sure he wears a suit and everything.”

I clear my throat and ask the question I’ve been wondering all morning, “And Taylor? She lives in Kingston?”

“Yeah, her firm is there. She’s not exactly a Barry’s Bay girl.”

“Didn’t notice,” I mutter, looking out the window. I can see Sam smile from the corner of my eye before he gets out of the truck and walks around to my side. Opening the door, he offers me a hand to hop down.

“I know how to get out of a truck, you know?” I say, taking his hand anyway.

“Well, you’ve been gone a long time, city slicker.” He grins while I get out. He’s got one arm on the door of the truck and the other on the side, caging me with his body. His face turns serious. “Charlie should be home later,” he says, eyeing me closely. “He went into the restaurant this morning to help Julien with a few last-minute things for tomorrow.”

“It’ll be great to see him again,” I say with a smile, but my mouth has gone dry. “And Julien. He’s still there, huh?” Julien Chen was the long-suffering chef at the Tavern. He was terse and funny and kind of like a big brother to Sam and Charlie.

“Julien’s still there. He’s been a big help to me and Mom. He took her to chemo when I had shifts at the hospital, and when she was in there for the last few months, he stayed with her almost as much as I did. He’s taking it pretty hard.”

“I can imagine,” I say. “Do you ever think he and your mom . . . you know?” The idea hadn’t crossed my mind as a teen, but as I got older, I thought it might explain why a young, single man whose cooking skills far surpassed boiling pierogies and cooking sausages would live in a small town for so long.

“I don’t know.” He runs his hand through his hair. “I always wondered why he stuck around for so long. He didn’t plan on spending his life up here—it was just a summer job for him. I think he had big dreams of opening his own place in the city. Mom said he stayed for me and Charlie. The last couple of years, though, I wondered if it was for her.”

He looks back down to me with a sad smile, and without saying a word, we both walk around the side of the house and head to the water. It feels instinctive, like I had walked down this hill only days ago rather than more than a decade earlier. The old rowboat is tied to one side of the dock, a new motor attached to the stern, and the raft floats out from the dock just as it used to. My throat is thick, but my whole body relaxes at the view. I close my eyes when we get to the dock and breathe.

“We haven’t put the Banana Boat in this year,” Sam says, and my eyes pop open.

“You still have it?” I marvel.

“In the garage.” Sam smiles, a flash of white teeth and soft lips. We walk out to the end of the dock and I steady myself before looking down the shore. There’s a white speedboat attached to a new, larger dock where ours used to be.

“Your cottage looks pretty much the same from the water,” Sam says. “But they’ve put another room on the back. It’s a family of four—the kids are probably eight and ten by now. We let them swim over and use the raft.”

I have an odd sensation looking out over the water and the raft and the far shore—it’s all so familiar, like I’m watching an old family video except the people have been scrubbed out so I can only make out faint silhouettes where they once were. I long for those people—and the girl I used to be.

“Percy?” I don’t hear Sam until he puts a hand on my shoulder. He’s looking at me funny, and I realize a few tears have managed to sneak out of their holding cells. I wipe them away and try to smile.

“Sorry . . . I feel like I was just transported back in time for a second.”

“I get that.” Sam is quiet and then crosses his arms across his chest. “Speaking of going back in time . . . think you could still do it?” He nods to the other side of the lake.

“Swim across?” I scoff.

“That’s what I thought. Too old and out of shape for it now,” he says with a tut.

“Are you screwing with me?” Sam’s mouth ticks up on one side. “You brought me here to insult my age and my body? That’s low, even for you, Dr. Florek.” The other side of his mouth moves upward.

“Your body looks good from where I’m standing,” Sam says, looking me up and down.

“Perv.” I unsuccessfully fight back a grin. “You sound like your brother.” My eyes go wide at what I’ve just said, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“It’s been a long time,” he continues. “I’m just saying we aren’t as spry as we used to be.”

“Spry? Who says ‘spry’? What are you, seventy-five years old?” I tease. “And speak for yourself, old man. I am plenty spry. Not all of us have gone soft.” I poke his stomach, which is so hard it’s like negative percent body fat. He smirks at me. I narrow my eyes, then study the far shore.

“Let’s say I do it: swim across the lake. What’s in it for me?”

“Other than bragging rights? Hmm . . .” He rubs his chin, and I stare at the tendons snaking along in his forearm. “I’ll give you a present.”

“A present?”

“A good one. You know I’m an excellent present giver.” It’s true: Sam used to give the best gifts. Once, he mailed me a worn copy of Stephen King’s memoir, On Writing. It wasn’t a special occasion, but he’d wrapped it up and left a note on the inside cover: Found this at the secondhand store. I think it was waiting for you.

“Humble as always, Sam. Any idea what this excellent gift will be?”

“None whatsoever.” I can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of me or the big grin across my face.

“Well, in that case,” I say, unbuttoning my shorts, “how could I refuse?” Sam gapes at me. He didn’t think I’d do it. “You better still know how to row.”

I LIFT MY shirt over my head and stand with my hands on my hips. Sam’s mouth is still hanging open, and while my two-piece is hardly skimpy, I suddenly feel extremely exposed. I have no issues with my body. Okay, yes, I have plenty of issues, but I recognize them as insecurities and don’t tend to worry too much about my soft belly or bumpy thighs. My relationship with my body is one of the few healthy ones I have. I go to a regular spin class and do a weight circuit a couple of times a week, but it’s mostly because I can manage my stress better when I exercise. I’m by no means as toned as the insufferable women who do spinning in short shorts and sports bras, but that’s not the goal. I’m fitish—there are just some jiggles in places I like to think are fine to be a bit jiggly. Sam’s gaze runs down to my chest and back to my face.

“I can row,” he says, a suspicious glimmer in his eye. He pulls his T-shirt over his head and drops it on the dock. Now I’m the one gaping.

“Are you serious?” I squawk, flailing at his torso, my verbal filter completely removed. Eighteen-year-old Sam was in great shape, but adult Sam has a freaking six-pack. His skin is golden and so is the hair that dusts his broad chest. It gets darker as it forms a line from his belly button to below his jeans. His shoulders and arms are muscular but not in a weirdly thick way.

Sam bends over to take off his socks and sneakers, then rolls up his jeans so his ankles and the bottoms of his calves are bare.

“I know, I’ve gone soft,” he says, his blue eyes glittering like sun on water.

I give him my most unimpressed look. “I’m not sure the shirtlessness is necessary.”

“It’s sunny out. It’s going to be hot in the boat.” He shrugs.

“You’re trouble.” I scowl. “I’m going to assume those aren’t just decorative”—I motion at his arms—“and that you’ll be able to keep up with me.”

“I’ll do my best,” he says and steps into the boat.

I roll my shoulders and then circle my arms to loosen them up. What the hell am I doing? It’s not like I’ve kept up with swimming. Sam pushes off from the dock, turns the boat with the oars so the bow is facing the far shore, and waits for me to dive in. I stand at the edge of the dock watching him, his bare feet propped on the bench in front of him. I look at the water in front of me, then back at him. I’m not sure if it’s déjà vu that hits me or the weight of standing in this very spot while Sam drifts in that very boat, but my hands are shaking.

“How old are we?” I call out. It takes him a moment to respond.

“Fifteen?”

I study the rocky beach at the other side of the lake. Adrenaline surges under my skin. I take a deep breath through my nose, then dive in. A sob vibrates through me as I swim under the cool water. If I’m crying when I surface, I have no idea, and I start swimming slowly.

I can see the edge of the boat when I tilt my head for air, and I try to concentrate on how Sam is back beside me and not all the years he wasn’t. It doesn’t take long before my shoulders are tight with knots and my legs begin to burn, but I keep kicking and slicing my arms through the water.

I’m in a mindless rhythm when a cramp seizes my big toe. I slow down and try curling it up to ease the muscle, but an agonizing pain shoots up my calf. I try to keep kicking but the spasm gets worse, and I have to stop swimming. I grit my teeth trying to tread water and yelp when the cramp doesn’t release. I can barely hear Sam shouting until I see the side of the boat right next to me.

“Are you okay?” He looks panicked. I shake my head, and then I feel his hands under my armpits, hauling me out of the water. My stomach scrapes on the side of the boat as he pulls me in, hands at my waist and then under my butt. I fall on top of him in a sopping pile of limbs.

I’m lying with my head on his bare chest, trying to catch my breath. The pain subsides if I stay still, but when I wiggle my toe, it shoots through my leg again, and I hiss.

Only then am I aware of Sam’s hands, which tighten on my hips. I’m fully pressed to him, my forehead, my nose, my chest, my stomach—all I want to do is run my tongue across his warm chest and roll my hips against his jeans to relieve what’s happening between my thighs. It’s totally inappropriate, considering the amount of pain I’m in.

“You okay, Percy?” His voice is strained.

“Cramp,” I breathe into his chest. “In my toe and calf. Hurts to move.”

“Which leg?”

“Left.” I feel Sam’s hand move down my thigh to my calf to the muscle. Goose bumps radiate from under his fingers, and a shudder runs through me. He pauses for a second, and I lift my head to look at him. His eyes are dark and unblinking.

“Sorry,” I whisper. He shakes his head so slightly it’s almost imperceptible.

“It helps to relax the muscle,” he says and wraps his whole hand over my calf, applying pressure, then moving in slow circles, kneading gently. My heart is beating so fiercely I wonder if he can feel it, too. I shut my eyes and involuntarily squeeze my thighs together. He must feel the movement because his left hand increases its grip on my hip. I can feel his breath on my forehead.

“Better?” The question comes out in a rasp. I shift my leg slightly, and it does feel better.

“Yeah.” I push myself up, but now I’m straddling him awkwardly on the floor of the boat. His chest is slick with the water. I start brushing it off, but he puts his hand around my wrist. He’s looking up at me, eyelids heavy.

“You’re trouble,” he says, echoing my words from earlier. The air between us pulls tight like a rubber band. I take a deep breath, and Sam’s gaze follows the rise of my chest, and yep, my nipples are obscene under my top. To be fair, I’m cold and wet.

Sam swallows and meets my eyes again. I’ve seen this look from him before, stormy and focused and completely consuming, like I could fall into his eyes and never get out. His fingers move slightly at the back of my hip, just under the edge of my bathing suit. His other hand runs up and down the back of my thigh. What is happening?

Taylor, I think. Sam has Taylor. Sam’s hand leaves my thigh and he rubs his thumb over the creases between my eyes, smoothing out the frown lines, then runs it down over my cheek, cupping my face.

“You’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known,” he says, and it sounds like coarse sandpaper. I blink at him. His words are confusing and wonderful, and I feel a little high and a lot turned on. But I know we shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t want this. He traces my lips with his thumb, and the fingers of his other hand dig more deeply into the flesh at the back of my hip.

“This is a bad idea.” I choke the words out.

His eyes move rapidly across my face, and he sits up beneath me so that I’m on his lap. He rests his forehead on mine and closes his eyes, taking shallow breaths. Is he shaking? I think he’s shaking. I move my hands to his shoulders and rub them up and down his arms.

“Hey, it’s okay. Old habits, right?” I say, trying to lighten the mood, but my heart is screaming at me. “Why don’t we head back and have a swim to cool off,” I say, looking around, seeing now that I hadn’t even made it halfway across the lake.

When I look back to Sam, his jaw is clenched as though he’s trying to decide something, but he only says, “Yeah, okay.”

SAM HEADS UP to the house to change when we get back from our very short, very quiet boat ride. I had gotten a quick glimpse of my cottage from the water, a flashback of my parents sitting on the deck with cold glasses of wine. Now I sit at the edge of the dock waiting for Sam with my feet in the water, replaying what just happened, lingering on the moment when his fingers slipped under my suit. My hips still tingle where his hands gripped them. I once wanted Sam in every way I could have him—that hasn’t changed. And if he had kept going, I would have, too. I’m ashamed by that truth, but it is the truth. I know myself. My self-control is on ice when I’m around him. I wonder if that would be a good premise for a book, a woman with no self-control. I smile to myself—I haven’t daydreamed about stories in a long time.

I hear Sam’s footsteps behind me, and I look over my shoulder. He’s wearing a pair of coral-colored swim trunks that look amazing against his tanned skin and holding a pair of towels and a water bottle.

“What are you thinking about?” He puts the towels down and sits beside me, his shoulder touching mine, and passes me the bottle.

“Just an idea for a story.”

“You still write like that?”

“No,” I admit. “I don’t really write at all.”

“You should,” he says gently, after a moment. “You were really good. I’m pretty sure I still have an autographed copy of ‘Young Blood’ in the desk drawer of my old bedroom.”

I look at him wide-eyed. “You don’t.”

“Yeah. Actually, I know I do. It holds up.” He must see the question written on my face, because he answers it without me asking. “I’ve been staying in my old room for a year—I went through my things a while back.”

“I can’t believe you still have it. I don’t think I even have a copy anymore,” I say with disbelief.

“Well, you can’t have mine.” He grins. “It’s dedicated to me, if you’ll remember.”

“Of course,” I murmur as my mind drifts into nostalgia. I wish Sue were here. She would have got a kick out of watching thirty-year-old me attempt to swim across the lake without any training.

The question leaves my throat as soon as it enters my head: “Did your mom hate me?” I turn to Sam and watch him puzzle out how to answer. He’s silent for a long moment.

“No, she didn’t hate you, Percy,” he says finally. “She was concerned that we stopped speaking so suddenly. She asked a lot of questions—some of them I had answers for, and others I didn’t. And, I don’t know, I think she was hurt, too.” His blue eyes fix on me. “She loved you. You were family.” I press my lips together, hard, and tilt my face skyward.

This is the moment, I think. This is the moment where I tell him.

But then Sam speaks again. “I don’t, either, by the way.”

“You don’t what?” I ask, looking at him.

“I don’t hate you,” he says simply. I hadn’t known how badly I needed to hear those words until they left his lips. My bottom lip begins to tremble and I bite down on it, concentrating on the sharpness of my teeth. My courage has vanished. I’m as brittle as dry straw.

“Thanks,” I say when I’m certain my voice won’t break. Sam bumps me gently with his shoulder. “Shall we?” He slants his head toward the raft. “Maybe we can get some more freckles on that nose of yours.” I exhale a nervous laugh. He stands up first, then holds out a hand, pulling me up.

“I would apologize in advance, Percy, but I know I won’t be sorry,” he says with a smirk, and before I can ask what the hell he means, he picks me up like a sack of flour, and tosses me into the water.