Meet Me at the Lake

My apartment is almost empty. Over the past few days, I’ve packed everything into bubble wrap and newspaper, replaying my time in Toronto. My university years, my first shift at Two Sugars, and all the long walks, bad dates, and sloppy nights out along the way. It’s just me, the movers, a tray of dark roasts, and about a dozen boxes left now. It’s strange seeing my little home this way, stripped of all the trimmings that made it mine.

I’ve lived here for five years, longer than anywhere other than the resort. I remember how excited I was when I found it, how spacious the one-bedroom layout seemed, how grown up the stainless-steel kitchen appliances made me feel. It’s the main floor of a skinny semidetached, and as I look at it now, it feels cramped despite the missing furniture. The view out the kitchen window is of a solid brick wall. There’s no outdoor space. Even though I could smell my neighbor’s cooking and hear his nocturnal activities and dog’s claws clacking above me, this place felt like my own. It felt like me.

My phone vibrates with a message. I drop the cloth I’m using to wipe out the fridge and take off my rubber gloves. For a fraction of a second while I get the phone from the back pocket of my jeans, I think it might be Will, and I hold my breath until I see that it’s an email to the Brookbanks events reservation account.

It’s been a week since the dance, and I haven’t heard a single thing from him. I know today won’t be any different. After I picked myself up off his cabin floor, I went back to the house, taking his drawing with me. I composed furious text messages in my head. I typed out a few, but it didn’t seem right sending them. He gave me so little in the end. He lied to me all summer. Despite all the questions I have, I decided Will didn’t deserve any of my emotions, even the wild, wrathful ones. I wrote a brief message saying I hoped Sofia was okay and to go through Jamie for the rest of the consultancy work. I asked him never to contact me again.

But every time my phone buzzes, a traitorous part of my brain hopes it’s him and wishes I hadn’t slammed the door between us shut so firmly. Not that I have a script for what I’d say if we were speaking. The foundation of hurt and confusion never falters. A gnawing ache has settled in my belly. I thought I knew what it was like to miss Will Baxter, but the emptiness I felt years ago was a crevice compared to this canyon.

The message is a general inquiry about a company holiday party, so I bookmark it to reply to after I get this place clean, hand over the keys, and head back to the resort in the rusty Cadillac. All week, I’ve been dreaming of the Webers burger I’m going to eat on my way home.

I promised Jamie I’d keep up with bookings while I was gone and justified the less-than-ideal timing of my trip by meeting with a few potential sommeliers in the city. I think he knew I needed space to clear my head. I’m going to take a few days off once we’re staffed up to buy a car, box some of Mom’s things, and start redecorating the house so that it feels like me.

“Forget to pack this one, eh?” calls one of the movers. I follow his voice into the bedroom, where Will’s ten-year-old portrait of me hangs in the otherwise blank space. My one-year plan is tucked behind the drawing. When I lost the streetcar pin years ago, I tore apart my apartment, emptied all my purses, dumped my dresser drawers out on the bed, but I never found it. I put the list inside the frame that day.

“I think I have an empty picture box somewhere,” says the young, bleary-eyed redhead, who reeks of the joint he smoked before getting started. I think his name is Landon or possibly Landry. “Want me to wrap it up?”

“No, that’s okay. I don’t know if I’m taking it or not,” I tell him. Maybe I’ll bring it with me. Or maybe I’ll dump it in the garbage bin on my way out the door. Fifty-fifty chance.

Landon or possibly Landry shrugs.

I take it off the picture hook and leave it on the kitchen counter for now.

The movers work at an incredible speed for two stoned twentysomethings. I hired a team from Huntsville, and they aren’t used to narrow downtown Toronto side streets. They’ve pulled half onto the sidewalk but are still blocking part of the road, and between the angry honking, passive-aggressive bicycle bells, and sneers from pedestrians trying to navigate around the giant truck, they seem frazzled and anxious to get the hell out of here. Peter is meeting them at the house since they’ll have a head start on me. I direct them out of their makeshift parking space and then start on the stove.

I’m scrubbing the oven when the doorbell rings. I look around. I don’t see anything the movers have forgotten. I poke my head out the front window, but it’s not Landon, Landry & Co. on the steps; it’s a woman in a voluminous white shirtdress, her dark brown hair falling straight to her shoulders. The man who lives in the unit above mine is a smoking-hot linguistics PhD who teaches French on the side. I assume she’s buzzed the wrong apartment.

“Can I help you?” I call out, and she jumps before turning my way. She’s stunning. The oversized burgundy leather bag she’s carrying probably costs a month’s rent. I can see how precisely winged her liquid eyeliner is from five feet away.

She studies me and asks, not altogether kindly, “Are you Fern?”

“I am,” I say, wary. Strangers don’t just show up on your doorstep in this city.

She looks over her shoulder like she’s not supposed to be here and then back at me. “I’m Annabel. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

—

Annabel and I stand across from each other at the kitchen island. It’s as though all of Will’s extremes have been softened in his younger sister. Her hair and eyes are a touch lighter, the color of pennies rather than cola. Her face is more rounded, her nose less dramatic. She doesn’t have the Will Baxter posture, but she’s every bit as put-together.

“You don’t really look like his type,” she says, unfazed by her barren surroundings.

I glance down at my grimy T-shirt, ripped jeans, and running shoes. My hair’s pushed back with a headband. No makeup. Sweat sheen. Coffee breath. I’m not anyone’s type at the moment.

“Well, I guess I wasn’t.”

“I didn’t mean that as an insult.” Her gaze drops to Will’s illustration on the counter. “I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

That doesn’t sound much better. “I don’t want to be rude, but why are you here? How did you find me?”

She hitches her purse strap higher on her shoulder. “I googled you. Found out where you worked and told your old boss I was a college friend.”

Fucking Philippe.

“And you did this because?” I ask. “Is Sofia okay?”

“She’s on the mend. How much did my brother tell you?”

“Only that she was in the hospital.”

She nods, as if she’s not surprised. “It was meningitis. They kept her there until she was out of danger. I called Will early Saturday morning freaking out. Sofia was shivering and vomiting. I couldn’t get ahold of our family doctor. Will told me to go to the ER immediately, and I did, thank god. It was awful.” Annabel’s eyes well, and she waves a hand in front of her face. “I won’t go into detail, but she’s going to be fine. I don’t want to imagine how fast Will must have driven to get back to the city so quickly, but he met me at the children’s hospital and stayed with us. Your friend called yesterday.”

“My friend?”

“The angry one. I didn’t really catch her name. I could hear her chewing out Will through the phone. She was going on and on, and he was sitting there saying ‘I know’ over and over. I don’t think he even noticed I’d taken the phone from him until I was yelling at her.”

“Whitney.” She didn’t tell me she’d called Will, although I’m not shocked.

“That’s it,” Annabel says. “Apologize to her for me. I may have called her some not-so-nice things before she explained that my brother had taken off on his girlfriend and that you were in the city if he wanted to make things right.”

“I wasn’t his girlfriend,” I say. It feels important to make the clarification.

“No? It sounded pretty serious from what Whitney told me and from the little Will said.”

I want to know exactly what Will said, word for word. I want to know his tone of voice, what he was wearing, and where they had the conversation. “You still haven’t explained why you’re here,” I say instead.

“My brother doesn’t really screw up—don’t tell him I said that. But according to Whitney and from what I’ve managed to get out of him, he screwed up with you.” Annabel straightens herself to a Will-like stance. “I’m here to defend his honor or whatever.”

“Will knows you’re here?” I ask, hating how hopeful I sound.

“No, he’d be pissed. He told me you didn’t want to be contacted and that I needed to”—she makes air quotes with her fingers—“ ‘respect that.’ But please hear me out. I didn’t come all the way to the west end for fun.”

I let out a heavy sigh. “All right.”

“I’ve had a long, shitty week, and Will hasn’t been as helpful as he thinks—he’s just a big, mopey disaster. Anyway, his recent fuckup aside, my brother is extremely loyal to the people he loves. I think when he offered to work with your mom, he was—”

I wave my hands to cut her off, assuming she has misspoken. “Excuse me?”

Annabel slants her head. “Earlier this year? After he stayed at the resort for that wedding? He offered to work with your mom?” She must see the shock on my face. “He didn’t tell you that.”

“He said it was my mom’s idea.” I put a hand on the counter, feeling light-headed.

“Well, I’ll leave that mess for him to explain. But I think it was his way of making things right with you, at least at first. It took me a while to put it all together. That you’re the girl, the one from that day ten years ago.”

I nod.

“Will couldn’t stop talking about you the morning after he met you—how he showed you around the city, how you were different from everyone else. I’d never heard him speak about someone like that before.”

It takes a second for my memory to kick in. “He was meeting you that morning for breakfast,” I say. “Before his flight back to Vancouver.”

Annabel presses her lips together. “I’ll never forget it,” she says. “I threw up halfway through our waffles. It’s when I told Will I was pregnant.”

“He didn’t tell me that,” I whisper. He didn’t tell me a lot of things.

“Our dad found the pregnancy test in the garbage a few days before. He assumed I wouldn’t have the baby, and honestly, I thought that, too. But then he started saying how I couldn’t take care of myself, never mind a child, and I snapped. When I told Will, he offered to stay in the city and come to the clinic with me, but I’d already made up my mind to prove Dad wrong. I was going to have the baby and become the best mom ever.” Annabel shakes her head. “Stubbornness and pride run in the Baxter family, FYI.” She glances at the drawing on the counter.

“Will gave up a lot for me. I didn’t realize how much he was giving up at the time; neither of us did. But I’ve learned a lot since I was nineteen.” Annabel’s eyes move to where my fingers grip the edge of the counter and then she peers around the space. “Is there somewhere we can sit? There’s more.”

—

Annabel and I go out to the front steps. It’s humid in the city, the sun smudged out by fat clouds. A spotted white cat is sprawled on the walkway. Colonel Mustard belongs to the next-door neighbor.

Annabel sets her purse between her sandaled feet and fidgets with the shoulder strap. “Does he talk very much about our mother?” she asks.

I shake my head. I know she still lives in Italy and that Will hasn’t visited her for a couple of years. Other than what he told me ten years ago, he hasn’t said much more.

“I’m not surprised,” Annabel says. “He doesn’t like to. She’s a very gifted artist. And gorgeous and smart and over-the-top charming when she wants to be. But she was kind of an absent parent. Even before she left, she was never totally there. It wasn’t all her fault—I know that now. Her depression could be debilitating. During a bad spell, she’d be in bed for days. And when she was well, she was hyperfocused on her work, like she needed to use every drop of her creativity in case it ran out.” Annabel gives me a look to make sure I’m following, and something about the steadiness of her gaze reminds me so much of Will, my chest squeezes. But then she notices Colonel Mustard.

“I’m sorry. Does that cat have a mustache?”

“Yep.” I click my tongue and the Colonel turns his head, the black patch of fur under his nose on full display.

Annabel squeals and the cat, spotting a mark, stretches, then sashays over, wrapping himself around her ankles.

“We never had pets,” she says, stroking his fur. “Will is allergic to almost anything with four legs. Itchy eyes, asthma, the whole thing.”

It pokes at me like a pebble in a shoe. I didn’t know Will has asthma. The list of things I didn’t know about Will grows with almost every word from Annabel’s lips.

“Anyway,” she says as the Colonel settles by her feet, “when our mother was working, she could shut out everything. Her studio was above the garage, and I remember stomping up the stairs like an elephant. I’d stand right in front of her and have to try four or five times to get her attention before she’d notice I was there. After I became a parent, I wondered if she moved so far away because she felt guilty for not spending enough time with us. Like, if she put an ocean between us, she wouldn’t have to attempt some kind of balance. She couldn’t fail.”

It reminds me of something Peter said about Mom—how one of the reasons she worked so much was because it was the one area of her life where she felt successful.

“Will idolized her when we were growing up,” Annabel continues. “Everyone always said how alike they were. He was so proud of that. The two artists. He looks like Mom, too. And he seemed to understand her. When she was suffering, he’d sit beside her in bed, sketching. It used to scare me when she was like that, but Will would just be with her in the quiet.”

I can picture it clearly, a young Will trying to comfort his mom with nothing more than his solid presence. I think of how he was when we first met—the way he let me speak when I was ready, how he lay across from me in the dark, assuring me everything would be okay.

“Are you all right?” Annabel asks, looking down at my arm. I’ve been scratching.

“Yeah,” I lie, putting my hands around my shins to hold them in place. The more Annabel tells me about Will, the wider the canyon inside me splits. He’s a river, pushing and eroding, and my banks are sand, not granite.

Annabel makes a dubious hum, but she goes on. “When our mom left, Will took it the hardest. We lived with my grandma that summer, and I remember one day, he was drawing out in the backyard. I wanted his help putting a basket on my bike, and I had to call his name a bunch of times to get him to hear me. I said something about him being like Mom, and he got so mad. He told me he’d never be like her. Sometimes I think he’s made it his life’s mission to prove it.”

I stay quiet, watching Annabel’s profile.

“The thing is,” Annabel says, “Will is a lot like our mother. Not in the ways that count—he’s the least self-centered person I know, and his heart is too large for his chest. But he’s creative and passionate, and when he decides he wants to do something, his commitment is unbreakable.” She pulls in a deep breath. “When Sofia was born, he had a hard time. It was different from our mom’s depression, and it’s not my place to tell you what he went through, but I think it only confirmed his belief that deep down he’s the same as her. He stopped drawing altogether. He got an MBA while working full-time. To him, being a responsible adult meant being like our dad—having a steady job, a big paycheck, owning a home—and so that’s what he did. But he gave up this huge part of himself, and I don’t think he’s been truly happy.” She looks at me expectantly. “That’s where you come in.”

“I don’t see how,” I murmur.

Annabel gives me a look of sheer pity. “No? He said you were smart.”

I blink in surprise, and she smiles. “God, you’re both so serious.” She turns so she can face me. “I haven’t heard my brother sound more alive than he has this summer. When he told me he was sketching again, I was so relieved. I thought he was finally starting to take his life back.”

I think of the drawing I found at his cabin, and I wonder if Annabel knows what I know.

“He was so mad at himself that he wasn’t home when Sofia got sick, and I’m sure he sees it as evidence that he isn’t allowed to have all the things.” Annabel stares into the clouds. “And that I’m not ready to live on my own with Sofia. But he’s wrong about both. Just like he was wrong to break up with you.” She looks back down at me, piercing me with her copper eyes. “Although maybe you shouldn’t have dumped all your feelings on him when his niece was in the hospital.”

My mouth hangs open, but Annabel goes on.

“And he’s not going to come to you and apologize, if that’s what you’re hoping. You asked him not to speak to you, and he won’t.” She reaches into her dress pocket and pulls out a torn corner of paper and hands it to me. There’s an address written on it. “That’s where we live. Sofia’s well enough to stay at her dad’s tonight, and I’m going out with my girlfriends, so he’ll be there alone.”

“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. I haven’t begun to process everything Annabel’s told me, and I already feel depleted. “I’m not sure I can.”

Annabel gives me a hard stare. “I’m going out on a limb here. I have no idea whether you’re good enough for my brother, but he’s never sounded happier than when he was with you. I know him better than anyone—better than you. I know he made a mistake, and he knows it, too. He’s been a complete wreck. So I’m hoping you are good enough. I’m hoping you show up.” She studies me for a moment before standing and slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Even if it’s just to end things properly.”