Meet Me at the Lake

by Carley Fortune

while people want to express their sympathy, there’s a limit on how much suffering others can tolerate.

I know this face. I know his irises aren’t actually black—in the sunlight, they’re espresso brown. I know how he got that scar. Because even though I’ve tried to forget him, I know exactly who this man is.

Guys this hot were the worst. Cocky, self-absorbed, dull. Plus, he was tall. Hot plus tall meant he’d be completely insufferable.

I spent just one day with Will, and it changed my life. I once thought he might be my soulmate. I once thought he and I would be here together under very different circumstances. I once thought a lot of things about Will.

“You’re here.” He says it as if he didn’t just string together the two most ironic words in the English language. I’m here? I’m here? I want to scream back at him. I want to ask him where the hell he’s been.

It was his idea to meet at the resort. I showed up. He’s nine years late.

It was my mom who saved my life, but it was Will who helped me figure out how to make it my own.

You and me in one year, Fern Brookbanks. Don’t let me down. That was the last thing he said.

So he was funny and hot and had good taste in music. Whatever.

But my favorite customers didn’t get hearts. “A fern from Fern,” Will said, his voice low.

He looked at me, and something about it—the way his eyes held on to mine for three long seconds—snagged in my chest. It was the first time I’d seen him without any trace of merriment. He seemed older. Maybe even a bit tired. The urge to tell a joke, to see a smile bloom on his face, was strange in its intensity.

“One great thing about meeting someone you’ll likely never see again is that you can tell them anything about yourself without any consequences.”

“Everything has a consequence.” I learned that when I was seventeen.

“There’s nothing less appetizing than a man’s bare foot,” Mrs. Rose pipes up.

What he doesn’t know is how our time together altered the city for me. It’s like we left behind an imprint on the places we visited, and now twenty-two-year-old Will and Fern wander around downtown Toronto on a permanent loop in my memory.

“I think that day with Fern was the most exciting thing that happened to me.” Will looks right at me when he says this, and my mouth falls open.

“Back home, everyone knows everything about me,” I said, tilting my head toward Will. “In the city, I can disappear.”

Owen’s cradled in Will’s arms, looking up at him quietly while Will sings. I watch from the landing. Owen is now dressed in a turquoise sleeper, and Will, I realize, is serenading him with “Closing Time,” the song that ended every single elementary school dance I attended. When he’s done, he lifts the baby to his face, and Owen, the little menace, laughs.

Will and Owen are snuggled in the armchair, a cloth bib around Owen’s neck. I hadn’t thought of a bib earlier. Will reaches for the bottle. “I can do it,” he says. “Unless you want to.” “Be my guest.” I fold myself onto the sofa. “Hungry guy,” Will says as Owen begins glugging away happily.

None of it is enough. Will is a lockbox with no key, and the more time I spend with him, the more I want to jimmy him open. Sometimes I see a glimmer of the old Will, but he disappears as quickly as he came. I’m desperate to hear his laugh.

“I want you to know that. You can trust me.” I shake my head. Trusting Will would be like trusting a mirage.

Will Baxter is wearing an apron. A black apron with vertical white stripes. I didn’t know an apron could be sexy, but this apron is the lost Hemsworth brother of aprons. “You’re wearing an apron,” is how I greet him. “I’m wearing an apron,” is how he replies. “I don’t like to mess up my clothes.”

“Yeah, well. I was lucky to find something that’s allowed me to support my family.” He hesitates. “Is that weird? That I call them my family?” “Why would it be weird? Your sister and niece are literally family.”

“I want to be sure.” His voice is a low rumble. “What do you want, Fern?” I take a breath and then whisper, “You.”

“I could do that.” He takes my earlobe between his teeth, one hand reaching up to hold my wrists in place. “I could go from top to bottom,” he says, tracing his nose down my neck. “Would you like that?”

There’s a flash of mischief in Will’s eyes. “You sure?” He twists the fabric in his hand, pulling it tight between my legs.

“I want to make you want this as much as I do,” he says. “I want you to feel as desperate as I have all this time.”

“I’ll do whatever you want”—and then he shifts so that he’s on top of me—“but I’d really like to look at you the first time. Okay?” I swallow, my throat tight, then whisper, “Yes.”

Will turns around, his eyes sliding down to where the shirt brushes against my legs. “I like . . .” He raises his eyebrows, and nods in my general direction. “This.” “This?” I slant my head. “Yeah. You here. In my clothes.”

I know you’re not ready right now, honey, but I think one day you’ll find your heart’s too big for just you.

“You’re looking a little broody,” I say, sitting beside him. “What’s going on?” “I was thinking about how much I used to hate that guy, and I’d never even met him.”

“You’re jealous?” He presses his teeth to my neck. “So fucking jealous.”

I liked how he made me look—the mysterious curve of my mouth and the arch of my neck—but it was more than that. There was no question the person Will had seen was beautiful—he hadn’t found a rotten core.

“The way you drew me . . . it’s like you saw something I wasn’t sure was there. I don’t think a selfish person could capture someone like that—could see other people the way you do.”

“Your mom said she loved you enough for ten dads.” “That sounds like her.” I think of how much time I’ve spent with Peter in here, watching him work. “But I had you, too.” “Not quite the same as your own father.” “Better,” I tell him. “Much better.”

“Our relationship wasn’t traditional. We were best friends, and sometimes we were . . . partners. I always wanted more than Maggie could give, but I figure I’m lucky I got as much of her as I did.”

“You look very sophisticated.” He glances down at the apron. “You love it.” “It’s weird how much I love it,” I say. But the words in my head say something different. The words in my head say, It’s weird how much I love you. Surely those words have it wrong.

“I’m not that interesting.” “You’re more interesting.”

I told him everything I’ve been thinking about—how I’d have to raise the baby on my own and cancel the trip and put off managing the resort, but that I want to do it. He was quiet the whole time. After I finished, he said, “Okay, Maggie.” Then he kissed my forehead and rubbed my back until I fell asleep.

“You and me in one year, Fern Brookbanks,” he said. “Don’t let me down.” And then Will Baxter turned around and walked out of my life.

I didn’t know how much I needed to hear that. I sat there holding a bunch of pamphlets, crying, and he asked if I was OK. I threw my arms around him and told him he was the best friend anyone could possibly have.

“You always smell so good,” I say into his shirt. “You smell better than other men.” “I’m going to pretend you don’t know what other men smell like,” he says, pulling back and tipping my chin up with a smile. He kisses me, and it’s slow and lush and as sweet as a lemon drop. “I’m going to pretend there’s never been anyone but you and me.”

I’ll admit I’m somewhat jealous, but whenever I’m feeling down these days, I rub my belly and talk to my baby girl. I’m certain she’s a girl. I call her my sweet little pea. I tell her how much I love her. I tell her I’ll love her enough for ten dads. And I tell her stories about all the people who will make up her big, wonderful family here. About her grandparents. And the Roses. And Peter. I tell her how she’ll never feel alone when she’s at home. I tell her I can’t wait to meet her, but that I don’t need to meet her to know I will never love another person as much as I love my daughter.

I waited until the sun had sunk low in the sky. I waited for Will Baxter for hours.

“What are you doing here?” There’s so much I want to say, but I start with the hardest, simplest thing. “I missed you.” The pink creeping up from the neck of his shirt is the only sign he’s affected.

“I’ve never wanted anything for myself the way I want you. I’m completely in love with you.”

“Being with you, being at the lake, away from all this—it’s like I remembered who I used to be, what I used to want. I don’t know that I still want those things. I don’t really know who I am, Fern.”

He smiles, crinkles fanning out around his eyes. There he is, I think.

Will leans toward me until his nose brushes mine. “Fern,” he says. “You’re not an escape. You’re everything.”

“Let me tell you something about me: I am extremely picky about people. Most of them, I don’t particularly like. I have very high standards for the ones I let into my life these days. And you, Will Baxter, are my favorite of all of them.”