Meet Me at the Lake

by Carley Fortune

“You love me,” Will says in a hush, running his thumb over my bottom lip. “I do,” I tell him. “Especially the messy parts. You’re too perfect otherwise, Will. It’s annoying, really.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Are you sure you want all of this?” “I’m sure,” I tell him. “I want everything.”

when I turn around, Will is kneeling in the sand, a tiny green velvet box in his hand. But before he says anything, I throw my arms around his neck and tackle him to the ground. I kiss him through tears and he murmurs something about not having said anything, but I’m too overcome to care, because Will Baxter is my favorite person, and I’m going to keep him forever.

Will kneels in front of me, holding the sand-covered box. A plain gold band sits inside. I can’t believe I didn’t notice he wasn’t wearing it. “I had it resized,” he says, taking his grandfather’s ring out. “It’s the most important thing I own, and I didn’t think you’d want anything sparkly.”

Will tells me how lucky he is to have met his soulmate eleven years ago, and even luckier to have found me again. He tells me I’m his best friend. He tells me he never thought it was possible to be as happy as he is now, with me. He tells me I’m the bravest person he knows. He tells me he loves my loyalty and my playlists and my nose. He tells me he loves me best of all.

I look at our feet dangling in the water, then up at Will. “Sometimes I can’t believe we’re here,” I tell him. “I know the feeling,” he says. “But here we are, Fern Brookbanks. Right where we’re supposed to be.”

Your dad thought it might help to talk to you. He puts his nose to my stomach and sings lullabies or gives art history lessons, but I feel silly whispering to my stretch marks. So I think I’ll do this instead. I’ll write about all the people you’ll meet once you get here. Peter and Whitney and Jamie. Annabel and Sofia. Mr. and Mrs. Rose. The incredible man who I call Will and you’ll call Dad. And I’ll write about the people you won’t. I’ll tell you all about this little world you’ll live in.

And then, one day, I’ll give this book to you. I’ll make coffee—please tell me you’ll drink it—and we’ll wander down the path to the pair of old metal chairs by the water. I’ll sit in Mom’s old spot, and you’ll sit in mine. We’ll watch the waves crash against the rocks, and I’ll share everything with you. It’ll be our place. You and me, at the lake.