by Mila Gray
I look up then and notice Mrs. Lowe standing in the doorway holding a plastic sippy cup of water. How long has she been standing there?
“I should go,” I say, making a move to stand.
She smiles at me. The lines around her eyes crinkle. “Thanks for staying to talk.” Her gaze drifts to her husband, and I wonder how many visitors he gets. He was always a really proud man—Em took after him on that score. I’m sure he hates people seeing him like this.
Em’s mom walks me to the door and just as I’m leaving, she says, “So, do I need to look for a new member of staff or not?”
I shake my head at her, embarrassed now that I even came around and told her that I was quitting. They clearly need as much help as they can get, and I’ll do whatever I can to not make their lives more complicated. I owe them that at the very least.
She takes my hand and squeezes it. “Thank you, Jake.”
I nod, feeling a lump rise up my throat—at her kindness, at what she and Em are dealing with, at how unfair everything is.
“By the way,” she says as I walk out the door, “have you been up to the labyrinth?”
“The what?” I ask.
She smiles again. “You have to see it. You’ll like it. It’s one of Emerson’s favorite places to go.”
I shake my head at her, confused. What labyrinth? What’s she talking about?
“You remember where the Ollendorfs used to live?”
I nod. “Near Blakely Harbor?”
“Yes. Just go past their place and up the hill. It’s there on the right. You can’t miss it.”
“A labyrinth?” I say.
She nods and I leave.
Emerson
After the run-in with Reid and fleeing Rob’s place, I head back to the store to lock up. Toby is sitting behind the counter, engrossed in a well-thumbed copy of Snow & Skate.
“Where’s Jake?” I say, noting that the store looks like it’s had a spring clean in my absence.
Toby looks up and shrugs. “He quit.”
“Quit?” I say, my blood running slow and cold at the news.
Toby shrugs and makes a face—a what did you expect? kind of face.
I turn away. Damn. I quickly correct myself. Not damn. This is a good thing. This is what I wanted in the first place. So why, then, don’t I feel happy about it? I kick the shelf in front of me and a dozen water bottles topple off. I wish I could just quit so easily. I wish I had that option.
Toby picks up the fallen water bottles.
“I’m sorry,” I say, bending down and helping him. “I know you can’t keep working overtime.”
Toby doesn’t reply and we start rearranging the bottles in silence. He has an internship with a top architecture firm in Seattle and college work to be doing. He can’t keep pulling extra hours to help me out. “I’ll find someone else,” I tell him. “I promise.”
Toby puts a hand on my shoulder. “You know, you could do a lot worse than Jake.”
“Huh?” I turn to him. “What are you talking about?”
“For the job,” he says. “He’s a really good salesman. And since the tweenage population of Bainbridge discovered that he works here, we’ve had a constant stream of customers through the door.”
“Twelve-year-olds. The last of the big spenders.” I laugh, though something inside me twists painfully tight at the thought of a stream of girls passing through the store checking Jake out.
“They dig the Chupa Chups,” Toby says, nodding his head in the direction of the counter. I glance over and see that the Chupa Chup stand is bald. “But where twelve-year-olds go,” Toby continues, “their moms follow. We’ve sold four pairs of inline skates today, three skateboards, and we’re all out of the LOWE KAYAKING CO. T-shirts in extra-small.”
“What?” I say, astonished. We barely sell any of those things.
Toby nods. “A fact that may or may not have anything to do with it being modeled by the hot guy you just made quit. We should get new ones printed up ASAP with Jake’s face on them. Or maybe just his naked torso. Have you seen it?” His expression goes all dreamy.
I frown. Yes, I’ve seen it. In the Vogue pictures, not in the flesh. I open my mouth and then shut it again, noticing the balled-up T-shirt on the counter. Toby follows my gaze. “Is that—” I start to ask.
“Yep,” he says, snatching for it. “He took it off when he announced he was quitting, much to the enjoyment of the fan girls in the store. I’m saving it. Figured I could auction it off.”
I stare at him in bewilderment.
“Kidding,” he says, and throws it at me. “You can keep it.”
“I don’t want it,” I protest.
“Well, if you want my advice,” says Toby, “take that T-shirt, go find Jakey-Jake, and plead with him to put it back on. We need him.”
* * *
I do not need Jake, so I don’t go to find him. Besides, I have no idea where he’s staying.
On the way home I decide to stop by one of my favorite places. It’s a traditional Tibetan prayer wheel sitting inside a beautiful landscaped garden overlooking Eagle Harbor.
Right alongside the park is a labyrinth made out of stones inlaid into the ground, and when I pull up on my bike, out of breath from the uphill ride, I see a familiar figure standing at the start to the maze.
What is he doing here? How does he even know about this place? For God’s sake. For seven years, I don’t see hide nor hair of him, and now he’s around every damn corner. Wherever I turn, there he is.
Jake hasn’t noticed me yet. He’s too busy studying the stones. I watch Jake start to walk the circuit, making his way toward the center, which is marked by a stone sun. I could turn around and ride off, but I’m struck by the look of concentration on his face, the furrow between his eyes, and I find myself rooted to the spot. I’m intrigued by this new Jake, by how different he is, how grown-up. I wonder if he thinks the same about me? That I’m the same but different too? How could he? I’m nothing like the way I used to be.
Halfway around, he looks up and notices me staring at him. He falters and for a moment we both stand there watching each other, neither of us speaking. Finally, he says, “I’m lost.”
“You took a wrong turn,” I say, pointing him back.
He nods and turns around, following a new path toward the center. “Remember that time we got lost in Islandwood?” he says without looking up.
“Yeah,” I say, stuffing my hands in the pockets of my jeans. We were on a four-day overnight program with school. Jake and I wandered off when we were supposed to be collecting pond critters. We had heard there was a really old cemetery somewhere in the grounds, and we wanted to see if we could find it. But we got lost and wandered into a bog. They had to send out a search party for us.
“You were so worried,” Jake says now with a smile, glancing my way.
“I was not,” I argue.
He cocks an eyebrow, still smiling.
I frown, hating the way my pulse quickens in response to his smile. “So were you.”
His half smile becomes a full-on grin, revealing his dimple. “I wasn’t worried,” he says, turning his back on me as he walks around the labyrinth. “I wasn’t lost.”
Huh? What does he mean by that?
“So when did they build this?” he asks, pointing at the labyrinth.
“Last year,” I tell him. “It’s meant to represent the different circuits of the planets. The sun is in the middle.”
Jake studies it and nods. Taking a deep breath, I try to calm myself. Being around Jake is sending me into a tailspin. I don’t know whether to be mad at him still or to let it all go, to walk toward him or walk away from him. There are so many conflicting voices in my head, so many conflicting feelings battling it out.
I watch him in silence as he winds his way into the center, where he stops and looks over at me. “Where do I go now?”
“Now you come back,” I say. As soon as I say the words, I look away. Looking at him is like loo
king at the actual sun. I can’t keep my eyes on him for longer than a second. When I do dare a quick glance, I notice that he’s still staring at me as though trying to figure something out. My breathing speeds up in response and my skin starts to warm under his gaze.
“I wanted to, you know,” he says quietly.
“Wanted to what?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
“Come back.”
He holds my gaze, and this time it’s too difficult to look away. I don’t know what to say, though. Is it worth even having this conversation? It feels far too late. And it’s not a conversation I even want to have. If he didn’t want the truth back then, why would he be prepared to listen now?
Finally, I manage to wrestle my gaze away. I turn my back and walk toward the prayer wheel. A few seconds later, I hear Jake’s footsteps following. He stops an inch behind me. A shiver runs up my spine, making me frown and cross my arms over my chest.
“What’s that?” Jake asks.
“It’s a Buddhist prayer wheel.”
“When did Bainbridge get so hippy?” His voice is filled with amusement, and it takes me straight back to when we were kids. Jake was always laughing. We were always laughing.
“What’s it for?” he asks.
“You turn it nine times while saying a prayer, and then, when the bell sounds inside, the prayer is released to the universe.”
“You come here often?” Jake asks, one hand resting on the bell.
I give him a sideways look and see he’s grinning at me.
My stomach flips over on itself.
“Sometimes,” I say, walking off. It’s hard to be near him, to be close to him. Harder than it should be.
Behind me, I hear Jake start to turn the wheel.
What would he think if I told him that I come here all the time? That I ring that bell almost every day? I’ve been ringing it for years. I’ve prayed for my dad to get better. I’ve prayed for the business to stay afloat. I’ve prayed for other things too. Lots of things. The universe never listened. My prayers were never answered.
Until now.
Jake came back.
Jake
The bell rings, echoing out and splitting the silence in two. I open my eyes and look around. Em’s walked off.
She’s standing looking down over the water, a sad expression on her face. I walk toward her slowly, enjoying the chance to observe her. Summer has tanned her face, but she has dark bruise-colored shadows beneath her eyes that I want to brush away. Sadness hangs over her like a fog. She doesn’t smile anymore. Not like she used to. How long has she been like this?
I want to bring back the old Em, the one with the dangerous tinder spark in her eyes, the wicked grin, and the manic laugh that sounded like a donkey braying. I want to breathe life back into her. Because this Em is a pale, broken imitation of the Em I once knew. Can she get that spark back, or is it gone forever? Did I help snuff it out? Or was it the sum of everything? Of everything that happened and everything that didn’t? I can’t help but wonder too what part Rob might be playing in her unhappiness. Every time I think about them together, I grimace and have to stop myself from confronting her about him. It’s not my place.
There’s a bench a few feet away from her and I amble toward it. She doesn’t follow. I sit. And I wait, wondering if she feels it too—that pull that I’ve been feeling ever since I saw her again. Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe I’m imagining it. She’s forever walking away from me, refusing to look me in the eye.
But just as I’m about to stand up again, she sits—as far away from me as she can possibly get without falling off the bench, but it’s something.
“I’m sorry about your dad,” I say after a minute.
Em’s head flies instantly toward me.
“I went around to see your mom, to tell her I quit,” I explain quickly.
Em looks away, a frown line furrowing her forehead.
“I had a good conversation with him.”
She turns to look at me again, frowning this time. “What?”
I shrug. “We talked, about hockey and stuff.”
“Stuff?”
“Yeah.”
Her mouth tightens. What’s she angry about?
“When did he get diagnosed?” I ask.
Em doesn’t speak for a second, and I wonder if she’s going to, but then she sighs heavily. “Three years ago.”
There’s a catch in her voice and her nostrils flare.
“Is there anything the doctors can do?” I ask.
Em shakes her head. “No. It’s the most progressive type. It’s just going to keep getting worse until . . .” She breaks off, biting her lip.
I inhale softly. Shit.
“Em . . . ,” I say, trailing off. What is there to say? Without thinking, I reach over and take her hand. At once she stiffens. I glance down at my hand resting on top of hers. Does she feel the same electric heat that I do? God. I think about sliding her palm over and threading my fingers through hers. I want to do it. I’m about to do it. But before I can, she pulls her hand out from under mine and swipes at her eyes. She’s angry. She always hated people seeing her cry. And perhaps I should have thought twice before reaching out to her. I have no idea how she must feel about people touching her without permission. It was a stupid thing to do.
“Can you get any help?” I ask her.
She shakes her head again, shoving her hands under her thighs. “No, the insurance company won’t pay up.”
“What?”
“They won’t cover any home assistance. They won’t even cover all his meds or help us adapt the house for a wheelchair. We’re completely on our own.”
It takes a few seconds for me to process what she’s saying. They won’t cover his medical needs? It’s no wonder her mom looks so worn-out. No wonder too that Em looks so defeated. It’s just her and her mom looking after her dad and the house and the business. I also figure something else out, stupidly late. “What about college?” I ask her. “Is that why you never went?”
Em turns to me, eyebrows raised, and laughs—a short, bitter laugh that cuts like a knife because it sounds so wrong coming from her, so unfamiliar.
“Who else was going to help my mom look after my dad? And besides, there was no way—” She breaks off abruptly.
“No way what?” I press.
She glares at me, her cheeks flushed. “There’s no way we could afford it. My college fund went to medical bills.”
With that, she stands up and starts walking rapidly back toward the road. I chase after her. “Em,” I say, darting in front of her to block her path.
“Listen, Jake,” she says. “It is what it is, okay? It’s fine. It’s not your problem.”
“But . . . ,” I argue. “I want to help.”
She takes a deep, angry breath in. Her eyes glance off me and out across the bay. Finally, she releases the breath. “If you really want to help me,” she says, “then don’t quit. At least, not until I can find someone else to—”
“I didn’t quit,” I interrupt.
She looks at me in confusion. “But Toby said—”
“I went around to your house to tell your mom I was quitting, but I didn’t get around to it in the end.”
“Oh.”
“I’m not going to quit.”
She nods. “Thank you. I’ll put an advert in the local paper tomorrow.”
“You don’t need to. I can stay for the whole summer.”
She frowns again. Her nostrils flare. “Okay.”
What does that “okay” mean? Are we friends again? Does she want me to stay for the whole summer? Our eyes stay locked. It’s the first time Em’s looked me in the eye for longer than a couple of seconds, and it feels like a breakthrough of sorts. I can’t read her expression, though—there’s too much going on beneath the surface. It reminds me of the riptides you sometimes get in the sound, invisible fast-flowing currents churning beneath a seemingly calm, flat ocean. It bothers me. Em was always so transparent. She could nev
er hide what she thought of anything or anyone. She was famed for her flaring nostrils and for telling it like it was. When she was eleven, she told a famous ice hockey pro who came to guest coach the team that he was “full of bullshit” after he said that girls couldn’t play goaltender as well as boys because of their size.
Time stops still as we stand there and my hand itches to reach for her hand again. I try to tell her just through a look that I’m sorry, but she tears her eyes from mine and starts marching toward her bike.
I walk alongside her, aware—so aware—of her bare arm close to mine, of how much my body is trying to veer toward her—but careful not to touch her, to respect her space.
Em stops by her bike and bends to unlock it. She swings her leg over the saddle, and now I have to try not to stare at the long, lean length of her bare thighs. I fail.
“I’ll . . . um . . . see you tomorrow, then?”
She nods and cycles off, but then she slows and looks over her shoulder at me. “Jake?” she says.
I nod, blood quickening, hope flooding through me.
“I’m glad we talked.”
I smile. The weight rolls off my shoulders. My lungs fill up with air. Maybe there’s a chance . . .
“But just so we’re clear,” she adds as she pedals off, “we can be civil, we can work together, but that’s it. We’re not friends anymore.”
Emerson
(Then)
I walk into the girls’ locker room with my lips burning, my heart exploding in my chest and excitement bubbling through my bloodstream like an invading virus. We kissed! What does it mean? Are we still friends? Or have we crossed over into some strange new world where we’re more than just friends? Are we boyfriend and girlfriend? The thought makes it feel as if a flower is blooming at high speed in my chest.
I pull up short, my smile dying. “Hey,” I say, startled at the sight of a grown man in the girls’ locker room. What’s he doing in here?
“You forget something?” He smiles, holding up my skates.
I smile back automatically, but something tugs on my gut. All the excitement I was feeling just a second ago, thinking about Jake, vanishes into thin air. There’s something odd, something not quite right, but I can’t put my finger on what exactly. And then it comes to me. He called me Em. Only my friends call me Em. Adults only ever call me Emerson.