by Erin Saldin
“Wanna ignore it?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. I reach for the bag of popcorn, pour a little into the pot, and cover it with a lid.
But . . . it could be Davis.
“Hold on,” I say, and pull the phone out. I look at my mom. “It’s Abby.”
She nods. “I’ll watch the popcorn.”
I walk into the living room and hold the phone to my ear.
“Ana.” She doesn’t wait for me to say hello. “I want to apologize.”
Not what I was expecting. At all.
“I did some thinking after I saw you last week. Some serious thinking. I’m sorry that you’re wrapped up in all of this. It’s not fair to you.” It sounds like it’s hard for her to get the words out. “I wonder if we could—” She clears her throat. “Do you have time to come by the house tomorrow? I want to discuss the . . . paperwork. I think we can come up with a solution.”
I glance back into the kitchen. My mom is holding the lid on the pot and shaking it by the handle. I can hear the kernels jumping against the sides. I’m still thinking about everything she and I talked about. There’s a buzz of possibility in my chest. Maybe this will work after all. “I can come tonight. Now.”
There’s a pause. I can hear a car door slam. “Okay.”
My mom is standing in the doorway, and I mouth her a question: Can I borrow the car? She nods. “Fine.”
“Good. Come over whenever you like. We’re just heading home from dinner. And, Ana,” she adds, her voice a little gruff, “the thing is, you love my mother, and I haven’t taken that into account. I haven’t—thanked—you for that.”
Mom is pouring some popcorn into a baggie when I come back into the kitchen. “For the road,” she says, smiling.
I walk over and lean toward her, hugging her around the neck. “I’m going to tell her what we talked about,” I say. “About handing over the power of attorney to you, in case of emergency.”
She squeezes my arm. “Good luck. Tell her she can call me if she has any questions.”
“I will.” Then I add, “I’ll probably be late. There’s a party tonight.”
She sighs dramatically and smiles. “Okay,” she says. “Try not to have too much fun.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “It’s just some party. Nothing ever happens beyond the predictable.”
Mom sips her cocoa and laughs. “You’d be surprised, mija.”
I get into Mom’s car and pull my phone out again. I’m nervous to tell Abby about my plan, but that’s not what’s causing my stomach to jump and twist, my breath to come jagged and quick.
A text, to Davis. I’ll have to meet you at the party. Abby called—headed to the Den. Cross fingers—I think it worked.
He writes back immediately. Can’t wait for details.
Can’t wait to tell you. Then I write, Can’t wait to see you, hit send, and put the phone facedown on the seat beside me.
Vera’s voice, in my head: When you cherish someone, shouldn’t they know it?
It’s time to stop letting the fire control me. It’s time to be brave.
GEORGIE
August is always a bittersweet month. Everyone can see the specter of school hanging there in the distance like some tropical storm, moving closer day by day. And each day feels like the last: last time on Jonesy’s dock, last ride around the lake in Blake’s dad’s speedboat, last paddleboard to North Beach, last party. Except it’s never the last. There’s always another last party.
August is the best month for business.
If it weren’t for that—for the seven hundred still dangling in front of me like a carrot, seven hundred between me and my new life, my real life—I wouldn’t be here. I’d be home with my parents, listening to them go over the monthly food budget and quietly fight about whether we can afford new snow tires this year. I sure as shit wouldn’t be standing by myself at the last party of the year. I don’t have to be alone—I know this. And there are enough people up here already that if I wanted to party—like, really wanted to—I’d just have to say the word. But, God. That’s the last thing I want to do.
I’m just here to make money and get out.
They finished clearing the burn site last week. Tore down the fireplace, brought in a Dumpster. Everything gone now but the foundation. I hear that the new cabin is going to be even nicer than the one that went up in flames. Money is no object. Right now, though, it’s a blank slate, a slash at the top of Washer’s Landing, like an effect of Divine Punishment—the sort of bullshit that Davis is always going on about. The perfect place for a party.
It’s early still—maybe nine—but it’s already fairly crowded, considering how many people have left Gold Fork early this year. Even so, people keep showing up, streaming through the woods between the cabin site and the road beyond. Two guys lift a keg between them as they walk. Someone else carries a box of wine on each shoulder. Everyone’s got something. It’s the ultimate potluck. The air is humid, heavy on our shoulders as the light dims, sinking below the mountain behind us. The dusk makes weird shadows on the Nelson cabin’s foundation—mottled gray splotches, shapes that resemble the furniture that burned. People hop up and down from the foundation like it’s a game. Duck, duck, goose. Some sit on the edge, legs spread out before them, and drink beers while they talk and watch everyone else. From the foundation, there’s a perfect view of the lake, and to the south, the lights of downtown have started to sparkle and wink. There’s music, but I don’t know where it’s coming from.
Last party of the year. Last party in the world I want to be at.
Last time I was here, it was with Henry.
Last, last, last.
What is it Erik says? Ain’t no party like a pity party.
Where is he, anyway? And where are Ana and Davis? I called everyone half an hour ago, but no one picked up.
I’ve been trying to get ahold of Erik since Ana called me yesterday to tell me about seeing him with his dad at Grainey’s.
Remember when he lost State? she said. Remember the way he looked, when he didn’t know we could see him?
I did remember. We’d all gone to watch him race. And afterward—fourth place, still good, that’s what we thought—we went around to the tent where the athletes left their stuff to surprise him. Only, we saw him before he saw us. He was just holding his water bottle and looking at it. Totally broken.
This was worse, Ana said.
Erik. Where are you?
“There you are.”
Shit.
I thought I’d see him coming. Thought, at least, I’d know when he got here—the quick burn up the spine. Or maybe the way all the birds stop singing when there’s a snake in the woods.
But I felt nothing. And I feel nothing, still, when I turn and look at him and say, in my most neutral voice, “Henry.”
“Very professional.” He laughs, leans in, puts both hands on my shoulders. “Hel-lo, Georgie.”
So this is how he wants to play it.
I pull back.
“What?” he says. “Come on.” He watches me, and I search his eyes, looking for—what, exactly?—dilated pupils, maybe. The familiar glaze.
Sure enough, there they are.
“Couldn’t wait for the party?” I ask. “Or were there just too many leftovers at your house?” I think about what was in the bag I delivered to his dock. A freaking Thanksgiving dinner.
“You’re still mad about that? Georgie,” he says, swaying just a little and catching himself, “I told you. Those guys were just—you know, like, they showed up. Here for a couple days, and then they went home. What was I going to do? I seriously thought you wouldn’t want to come, you know?”
I want to tell him that I don’t care about the guys, or the fact that he didn’t want me to meet them. Not the first night, and not the second, when Erik texted to tell me Henry had another party. It’s not that, really. It was how I felt when his friend hit on me and Henry didn’t step in. The way he pretended we didn’t know each ot
her. The way he slid the money into my hand. Professional. Expected.
Dope dealer.
Pill lady.
Hookup.
That’s what I am first. Anything else is just an adjective.
And I want to hit myself for not knowing it. For thinking I could be anything else to him, this Weekender of Weekenders, a tourist even in his own summer home.
But I say, “Just showed up? They drove all this way without an invitation? I’m sure you were really surprised.”
He looks down at his boots and kicks the dirt.
“And what’s up with ordering behind my back? What, you didn’t want me to know how much you do?” I cross my arms in front of my chest. “That was shitty.”
“Was it shitty because of that, or because you didn’t get a commission?” He stares at me. “Admit it, Georgie. I’m your best customer. Maybe that’s all I am to you.”
“Bullshit,” I say, but I feel a little sting on my neck, a moment of recognition. I shake it off.
“Come on,” he says. “What’s the big deal?” I’m really killing his high. So what.
“That’s the thing, Henry. You keep asking that. I mean, does any of this matter to you? Kyle, the house, your grandmother? Or is it just noise?”
There’s a moment of pain in his eyes, a flash of real sadness. But then he raises his shoulders in a shrug, and I’m too mad to care.
“You know,” I say, “I’m starting to think that’s all there is to you: a big fucking question mark.” I step back, look around. There’s Jane, leaning against some Weekender with a look on her face like she can’t believe her good luck. As I watch, her Weekender stares over her head at another girl, who stares back, smiling. She jerks her head toward the woods, raises her eyebrows in a question. Jane’s Weekender smiles. Typical end-of-the-summer party. Nothing matters anymore. If they haven’t done it yet, everyone knows this is the last chance to blow up their lives. The sentence that’s been ringing in my head like feedback ever since I saw him down at his dock comes out. “Henry,” I say, “let’s just call this.”
He stares at me for a long minute. “Sure,” he says finally. “Whatever.”
Whatever.
Then: “Screw this.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “You know,” he says, “you think you’re different from”—he waves his arm around—“all this. Them. But you’re not. Not really.”
“God,” I say, reaching around behind me and pulling my shirt away from my sticky back. “That’s all you’ve got? Some cliché?” I shake my head.
“They’re clichés because they’re true.”
“Maybe,” I say. “And you’re probably right. I’m not different. I belong here. Unlike you.”
Henry looks around at the party, probably so he doesn’t have to look at me. It’s almost dark now, and some people can only be seen in outline as they tip their heads back and drink. I can’t see his eyes clearly, but they’re glinting a little with what I can almost believe are tears. “You’ve blamed me for Kyle—for everything shitty my family has done. I should’ve known you wouldn’t get it. I should’ve known you’d always protect him.”
“Who?”
“Erik.” Henry glares at me. There are no tears now, if there ever were. “I mean, do you even know what it was like to come back here? To his town? Where he’s, like, the prince of fucking everything?”
I want to laugh. Henry, jealous of Erik? What bullshit. “Sorry that was hard for you, Henry. Sorry you can’t win at being the most abandoned. Christ.”
“Don’t spin it that way,” Henry says. “He didn’t get his crappy dad. I did. Lucky me. He got other things.”
“I’m sure Erik would love to know what he won.”
Henry mumbles. “He got this place.” Pauses, then adds, “He got you.”
“Bullshit.”
He rolls his eyes. “Took me about five seconds at the Fourth of July party to see how much he wants you. And how you’d basically cut someone if they hurt him.”
“It’s not—” I start to say, and stop.
Because it’s not. But it also is.
“I can’t wait to leave this shithole town,” Henry says. “Go back to Chicago. Back to the real people.”
I laugh. “Oh, fuck you, Henry,” I say, and it almost sounds like an endearment. “There are real people everywhere.” I picture Erik, Davis, and Ana sitting on the deck of the Den. Laughing. “You don’t even know,” I say.
“Shouldn’t have even tried,” he continues, almost like I’m not here. He’s talking to his hands—more fucked up than I thought. “Should’ve just kept my head down, like Kyle said. ‘Don’t engage, don’t engage.’ Like this is a war zone or something. I told him that was bullshit.” He looks up at me, and for a second, his eyes clear and I see him again, the real him: long drives and the right song and conversations that hit like drumbeats in my rib cage. The newness of him, like nothing else I’d found in Gold Fork. I’m about to say something when he adds, “Kyle was right. It’s a place worth leaving.” Then he turns and walks, stumbling only once, toward the keg.
I watch him pour himself a beer. Guzzle it without pausing to take a breath. Give some guy a high five. Pour himself another.
Rinse and repeat.
And I know this isn’t the real Henry. I mean, it can’t be. The real Henry had to have been that other guy—the one I wanted to spend hours with, the one I slept with, the one who made me feel like more than just a Dead Ender. Not this guy. Right?
What is it Ana said once? She’d been talking about Vera, I think. Amazing how mysterious people can be. Mysterious even to themselves.
Maybe the only true thing I need to know about Henry is this: I thought it would hurt more. I’m standing here, alone, watching him get drunk, also alone, and it doesn’t hurt like I thought it would.
I turn in a slow circle. Recognize some clients over by the trees. Do some calculations in my head. Good for a hundred, maybe two. A solid start, if I pitch it right.
If I pitch it right. I’m suddenly so exhausted by all of this—the work, this place, Henry, Dodge’s threats, my inability, it seems, to ever be free of any of it—and all I want, all I really really want, is to go home.
I know everyone here. I know no one here.
Clouds have moved in, and I can’t see the stars anymore.
But I also know this: I’m not going anywhere until I see Erik. Ana’s words from yesterday ring in my head: This was worse. I’ll wait here for him, and then I’ll go.
So I do what needs doing: I wave at the group by the trees and head toward them.
Anything to take my mind off the fact that there’s something whispering wrong wrong wrong up and down my spine.
ERIK
We all need to be saved, Davis said the other day. From what, though. That’s the question.
The developers, taking everything they can, breaking it and wrapping it in tinfoil, handing it back to us like a present.
Mom at the dinner table, holding her plate out to me.
Layla. How easy it was to take her things, put them in my backpack to look at later, try to decipher what they mean in the story of her normal, perfect life. Like panning for gold.
My dad. Picking me up, looking at me, turning me one direction and then another. Deciding I’m not worth it.
Throwing me away.
I take the small box out of my dresser drawer.
The canoe is still tied up at the marina. Forgotten, just like when I took it to North Beach. I’m paddling away beyond the buoys before anyone would even see me kneeling there, cutting it loose. Maybe I’ll return it. Maybe I won’t. If you don’t care enough to protect your things, you lose them. Sometimes even when you do everything right, you still lose. I learned that the hard way. So can they.
• • •
I’ve come prepared. Socks stuffed with moss. Water bottles filled with gasoline. And my lighter, safe in its little box.
I pull the canoe out of the water next to the old dock. Take th
e trail that winds through the property—the same one I walked with Davis, Ana, and Georgie when we first saw them here. Seems so long ago now. I hide in the bushes below the deck. From here, I can see the dining room. No one’s there.
Well, they shouldn’t be. What did he say yesterday, when we were having coffee? . . . Dinner at the steakhouse with Abby tomorrow. She loves their mashed potatoes.
I step out of the trees.
It’s easier than it was the first time, because I’ve done some prep work already. Biked out here this morning and waited until they went to the Pancake Parlor for breakfast. Thought about their cozy family meal—bacon and eggs, flapjacks, bottomless cups of coffee—as I stuffed moss in the gutters. Jokes and laughter, everything easy, More coffee, sir? as I placed socks filled with dried sticks between the notches of wood on the outside of the cabin. My dad looking back into the restaurant as he got up to leave, tipping just a little less because maybe it doesn’t look like the kind of place that deserves a good tip, not like those places back home, as I poured gasoline along the corners of the cabin that are hidden by bushes so they wouldn’t notice the smell. An arm around Abby’s shoulder, a hand on Henry’s, steering them both outside, Pretty good summer, right? as I placed fireworks under the deck.
See? I’m a good Boy Scout. I know what makes perfect kindling, what will flare up as soon as I flick the lighter. I know just what to do to burn it all down.
I climb up onto the deck, edging my way across, my back to the log siding of the house.
First, the grill on the porch. Open the lid, twist the valve all the way, lefty-loosey. Turn each burner on high. Then into the house, quiet, quiet. Pull the sliding door open, lifting it slightly so it doesn’t squeak. Though, who cares? There’s no one here.
I’m in the dining room for the first time.
The Nelsons’ cabin was concrete countertops, floor-to-ceiling fireplace, iron beams crossing the length of the house. Everything top of the line. This is shabby. Comfortable. Dusty. A grand old family cabin. The image comes to me, suddenly: the party. Henry’s face as he took me by the shoulders on the deck and turned me around so gently, like he was shooing a toddler out of the room. I close my eyes. Shut down the part of me that hurts. Open them again.