The last thing I remembered before I was jolted from sleep was the image of empty dark eyes staring back at me as I fell from the rock, blackness closing in all around me. Wet. Cold. I woke, gasping for air, fighting for breath, as a fear of drowning shook my body to its core.
As dawn approached, I sat on the porch swing, hugging my knees to my chest with one hand and palming a steaming cup of coffee in the other. I frowned at the sight of my car parked in front of the cabin, wondering who had driven it here for me. Logan or Drew? I sighed at the thought of Drew. What did the other night mean? What will happen between us now? I was, after all, still legally married; this had to be a one-time thing. And, in my heart, as much as I wanted to pretend that it was over, I still pictured Ryan as my future, the father of my children. I may not be in love with Ryan, but, underneath the anger and despair, I definitely still loved him. There were moments when I wished that I didn’t, but he had been my entire world for so long, and those feelings don’t change overnight.
I wondered how many more days I could spend with Drew before I had to tell him what happened. I hadn’t spoken of it in years. I had tried to bury it deep inside during high school, where it slowly killed me one day at a time, robbing me of sleep, happiness, and a sense of security. When I had started college, I had confessed for the first time what had happened to me during a drunken game of truth or dare with my roommate, Cassie, and two other friends who I had grown close to. I remembered how it had felt to finally say it out loud.
Lexi had admitted to having an abortion during her junior year of high school after choosing truth to avoid the dare of running through the commons of our dorm naked. Christy had revealed her deep, dark secret of a cocaine addiction that she spent most of her senior year recovering from in rehab. And I had blurted out that I had been raped by my best friend’s older brother, instantly wishing that I had chosen dare. In that moment I would have gladly streaked through the commons than deal with the looks on their faces as they processed what my words meant.
They had asked a million questions, and I had answered them as best as I could, tears falling endlessly as I recounted each terrorizing moment. When they discovered that I had never told anyone and that I still had nightmares nearly every time I closed my eyes, they had suggested that I talk to someone, professionally, about it. I had been defensive at first, denying my need for help, but they had soon persuaded me.
Lexi was seeing a campus therapist, to deal with the guilt and shame of her abortion, and Christy had shared how much her therapist in rehab had helped her. And so a week later I had started seeing Dr. Shepley, a campus therapist who specialized in date rape and sexual assault. Dr. Shepley—or Jude, as I called her now—had been my therapist for nearly twenty years. She had slowly brought me back to life, and I still went to see her occasionally, but not as often as I probably should have—given all the failed attempts to have a baby with Ryan.
Ryan knew about my visits with Jude. He knew everything.
After a year of dating, Ryan had grown tired of the distance that I had kept between us intimately. I was having trouble with the sexual part of our relationship. I hadn’t slept with anyone before, my one and only sexual encounter being the sole thing in my life that I longed to forget. Jude had insisted that I trust Ryan with the truth, assuring me that, if he really loved me, he would be understanding and patient. And, of course, she had been right. Ryan was amazing, and, when we finally did have sex, it was incredible. I felt as if he had taken something from William and had given it back to me, allowing me to feel a sense of power and control over my body again.
I never told my mom, only to protect her from the pain. There wasn’t anything that she could have done, and I knew she would feel as if she had failed me, unable to protect me from William, someone who she had trusted and had loved like a son. This realization would have left her broken, and there was no reason to let it destroy both of us. I also feared that she would press charges or contact Mr. Monroe. I wasn’t blind to the fact that it was my word against William’s, and Mr. Monroe would have used his high-powered attorneys to protect his son and his name at all costs. I could not have survived any public knowledge of what had happened. I had just wanted to move on, to try to get my life back. And I had done just that. Yet here I was, reliving it all again, struggling with the decision to tell or not to tell.
The sun was rising in the clear blue sky, and I could feel the temperature rise as well. I retreated into the cabin to put on my swimsuit and pack a beach bag. Twenty minutes later, I walked down the road in my black bikini hidden beneath a black cover-up, large brim sun hat, and a bag filled with a water bottle, salted almonds, and a new historical fiction novel that I had bought months ago and had never had the time to read. Now all I had was time. Time to sleep, time to read, time to cook, too much damn time to think.
I laid a beach towel on the dock, pulled my cover-up over my head, and lounged on my stomach, propped up on my elbows to read my book. The sun felt warm on my skin as I listened to the gentle waves lap against the dock, slowly rocking me to sleep.
***
“You might want to try sunscreen next time.”
I heard his voice, abruptly pulling me from my unexpected nap. It took me a moment to orient myself, but, realizing where I was, I quickly sat up. “Oh, my God, what time is it?” I asked, pulling my mangled hat from my head and rubbing my eyes.
“It’s about two o’clock. And judging by the color of your back, I’m guessing that you’ve been out here for a while.”
As soon as he mentioned it, I could feel the pain from the severe sunburn that spread across the skin of my back and the backside of my legs. I winced.
“Here I brought you some aloe vera cream. Let me put some on your back.” Drew sat down behind me as I pulled my knees into my chest and wrapped my arms around my legs.
He pulled my braid to the side and over my shoulder, brushing my neck with his hand as he swept loose strands out of his way. This simple gesture felt so sensual, intimate. “Thanks.” I gasped at the coldness of the cream and the feel of his hands on my skin.
“Sorry,” Drew said.
“It’s okay. Just cold.” A shiver spread through me even though the sun was hot and intense. His touch evoked memories from two nights ago, when he had his hands, as well as his lips, all over my body. He gently massaged the cream into my skin, and I closed my eyes, savoring his touch. I felt his breath on the back of my neck and then his warm, wet lips as he softly kissed me behind the ear, trailing the tip of his nose down to my shoulder.
I froze and turned my head to look at him. “Drew. Stop.”
“I can’t control myself around you, Gem. You’re so beautiful, you take my breath away.” His voice was almost a whisper against my skin, sending chills through my body.
“We can’t do this, Drew.” I sighed. My words were coming from my head, a contradiction to what my heart was saying.
“I know.” He sighed heavily. “You’re right,” he said as he shimmied to my left to sit next to me.
I reached for my black cover-up and pulled it on over my head, adjusting the thin fabric over my bare thighs.
Drew straightened his legs until his feet and calves were submerged in the water, and I did the same.
We both sat in silence watching a boat zoom by, pulling a teenage boy on a wakeboard. He jumped the wake, catching several feet of air before landing effortlessly behind the boat. The noise from the engine quieted as the boat’s distance grew.
“It seems so cruel that we’ve found each other again after all these years, and yet we still can’t be together.” He sighed loudly again, our eyes never leaving the lake. “Maybe it was never meant to be. You and me.”
I watched my feet as I kicked them slowly in the water, creating small waves that sloshed against the dock. I wasn’t sure how to respond. I felt the same way. But I also felt that there was a reason that we had found each other again.
“Will you let me cook you dinner tonight?” I as
ked as I looked over at him, meeting his gaze. “We may not be able to be together in that way, but you’re my friend, Drew. Let’s focus on that. What do you say?” I bumped his arm with my elbow. “Bill Sherwood brought me a huge rainbow trout that he caught yesterday, and I have some fresh vegetables from the farmers’ market.” I tried to persuade him.
“You’re really gonna give me the ‘Let’s just be friends’ spiel after the other night?”
I flashed him my most innocent expression.
“Okay, friend. Sounds nice,” he conceded.
He smiled at me, a real genuine smile that reached his eyes, and I was suddenly overcome with love for him. Not so much in a romantic way, but a deeper love that was embedded in my very core. He had been a part of my life longer than I could remember, and, though we had been apart for years, he had never really left me.
Nineteen
I slipped on a pair of gold hoop earrings, straightening my hair with my hands, as I took one more look at myself in the full-length mirror. I glanced at the flowing coral-colored dress that hung to my knees, contrasting nicely with my long golden hair that I had curled around my face. I left my feet bare and my makeup subtle, natural. I was fidgeting with the three-quarter-length sleeves of my dress when I realized that I was nervous. I was not sure what was bringing on these nerves. Maybe it was the idea that I was feigning friendship, when I knew that, deep inside, I harbored deeper feelings and a crazy attraction for Drew. Maybe it was the possibility that the truth might come out. Whatever it was, I had to get myself under control.
I went to the kitchen to distract myself with the task of getting dinner started. I had already prepared the fish, which I planned to grill outside on the back patio. A green salad—topped with Bosc pears, gorgonzola cheese crumbles, and chopped walnuts—sat in the refrigerator, ready to be tossed with a creamy vinaigrette dressing. I took the fresh summer squash, zucchini, and red potatoes that I had bought at the farmers’ market, sliced them into thick pieces and placed them on a piece of foil. I brushed them with a creamy herb butter and set them aside to grill later with the fish. I felt so at home in the small kitchen where I had spent many days and nights helping my mother or grandmother cook. Or my favorite mornings when I stood on a chair and helped my grandpa flip his famous dollar-size hotcakes on the griddle.
I heard a light knock. Wiping my hands on a dish towel, I took a deep breath and walked to the door. Drew was standing on the porch, handsome as ever, wearing a navy polo shirt, khaki shorts, and a pair of brown leather flip-flops. His light brown hair was still damp but glistening with product in a messy style. I felt my cheeks heat as I took him in, my heart beating wildly in my chest.
He stepped inside and kissed my cheek. “Hey, beautiful,” he said, as I felt his lips on my skin. “Here, I brought wine.” He handed me a chilled bottle of Chardonnay.
I reached up and brushed a hand over my warm cheek where his lips had just been. “Thank you,” I said, taking the bottle from his hand. “Would you like a glass?” I asked, as he followed me to the kitchen.
“Would love a glass.” He smiled at me.
I set the bottle on the counter and rummaged through a drawer until I found an old corkscrew.
“Here, let me do that,” he said, taking it from me.
I pulled two wine glasses from the cabinet, setting them down on the counter near Drew as he twisted the corkscrew until it was no longer visible. His muscles on his arm flexed when he pulled the cork from the bottle in one swift move. As he poured the wine into our glasses, something caught my eye. Black ink on the inside of his forearm. I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t noticed it before. When he set down the wine bottle, I reached out and held his hand in mine, turning his palm up until the tattoo was clearly visible. I ran my hand over the symbol, familiar yet different. I traced the bold black line with the tip of my finger. I looked up at Drew’s face to find him watching me with a stoic expression.
“You got it too?” I asked.
He nodded, his eyes never leaving mine.
“It’s different. What does it mean?” I asked, looking down again at the broken infinity symbol that was permanently etched in his skin, positioned lengthwise halfway between his wrist and elbow. Still holding his hand in my left, I turned the palm up on my right hand, holding my wrist alongside his.
He traced my tattoo with his own finger.
I had used the drawing that Drew had done when we were younger. The infinity symbol that we had promised to tattoo on the inside of our wrist, to mark our eternal friendship. We had never had the chance to get the tattoos, together, like we had planned.
But I had had done it anyway—alone—when I had turned eighteen, needing to hold on to a part of Andrew. A part of my life that had once brought me happiness and security, a reminder that no matter what had happened, he would always hold that special place in my heart. I wanted to hold on to the Drew that I had known my entire life before everything got confusing and messy, before I grew to resent him, hate him, blame him.
Drew had made my design more feminine with ivy wrapping around the thin line, while the design he had drawn for himself was a bolder, more masculine English script from what I remembered. But what was on his forearm was not the symbol that he had designed years ago. It was different.
“It’s stupid. I got this when I was eighteen.” He shrugged, pulling his arm from my grasp.
His words brought my gaze back to his face. “What does it mean?” I asked again.
He looked straight into my eyes, pinning me in place. “It’s to remind me that nothing lasts forever.” The pain that I saw in his eyes broke my heart. The idea that this symbol reminded him daily of the way our lives had been torn apart back then, that he might live with bitterness and resentment in his heart, brought on a new meaning to the regret I felt about how things had ended.
He picked up our wine glasses, handing me one as he raised his in the air. “To reconnecting?” he toasted in a questioning tone.
I clinked my glass against his. “To reconnecting.” I sipped my wine as I watched him down the entire glass before pouring another.
Drew helped me start the old grill and took over the cooking duties. “Manning the grill,” he had called it, as if it was a man’s job. We talked about all the neighbors as we stood near the barbecue, waiting for the fish to cook. Drew filled me in on all the recent gossip that he had learned since he had arrived, like the news that Mr. Hunter, who was well into his fifties, had left his wife for a woman half his age and now had a newborn son, or the fact that Jacob’s old friend, Martin Basil, now went by Maureen after undergoing gender reassignment surgery.
He told me which families still came to the lake and who had sold their cabins to new families. I felt a familiar pang in my gut as he spoke of all the kids who we had grown up with. Most were married now and had children of their own. The idea that my childhood friends had children and were spending their summers here at the lake, recreating our memories, brought about a burning jealously that I couldn’t deny. I wanted that more than anything. It was funny what we take for granted. The idea of getting married, being a mother. It was always the plan for as long as I could remember. But wanting something wasn’t a guarantee. It doesn’t happen that easily for everyone.
We sat down to eat at the table for two that I had set on the deck that overlooked the creek. We both began the meal in silence. I ate my salad first, while Drew focused on the fish.
As if reading my mind, Drew asked, “So how about you? Any plans for children?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat as I took another sip of my wine. My eyes settled on my finger, tracing the rim of my glass as I contemplated what to say. “We tried. Ryan and I, but I haven’t been able to conceive. We’ve tried everything. In the end we finally settled on trying the old-fashioned way. Ya know, hoping for a miracle.” I took a deep breath, remembering the last time that Ryan and I had made love.
My ovulation kit had confirmed that I was ovulating, and I had told
Ryan as much. We had fallen into our usual roles, undressing ourselves, pulling back the bedding and laying down next to each other. My hands had roamed, finding what I needed and making sure that he was ready. It was hard to think about the emotional connection and sexual chemistry that had seemed to evaporate from our relationship.
The sex was only a method, a procedure, that was hopefully going to result in a pregnancy, a means to an end. We had held each other out of habit, shared only a few brief kisses as Ryan had spilled into me. I hadn’t even had an orgasm. My thoughts had only centered around what was happening inside my body, actually visualizing his sperm fertilizing my egg—a technique suggested by my yoga instructor. Once we were done, Ryan had waited a few minutes before breaking our connection and then had kissed me on the forehead—a gesture that only confirmed my fears—and retreated to the bathroom to take a shower. I had placed two pillows under my hips and settled in for the hour that I would lie still with my hips elevated as I breathed deeply, continuing my visualization.
It was only a week later that I found Ryan in bed—the same bed that we had shared—with that woman. I felt an ache in my heart, thinking of how distant Ryan and I had become, unable to ignore the festering guilt from the sheer fact that it was somehow my fault.
“I’m sorry, Gemma. That must be so hard on you.” Drew’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. “Have you considered adoption?”
“Ryan’s open to adoption, but I have my heart set on carrying my own child. I haven’t been able to think about anything else.” I was trying hard not to break down in front of him. “I want it so bad,” I said, barely a whisper.
Drew reached over and rested his hand on mine, comforting me.
Our eyes met for a brief moment before I freed my hand from his, tucking a stray hair behind my ear. “And you? Kids in your future? Wife?” I asked, redirecting the conversation to him.
“Probably not,” he said, swirling his wine in his glass before taking a drink.
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