Prompt: “If you tell anyone I cried during that movie, I’ll block you.”

Prompt: “If you tell anyone I cried during that movie, I’ll block you.” 

When you’re never physically together, everything must be intentional.

I guess one could make the argument that intentionality should always matter and be present in all situations, but in my experience, it’s easy for that to fall by the wayside when things are, well, easy.

Sean and I have been friends for years. We met in an entomology lecture during our freshman year and ended up partners for the final project that was something like sixty-five percent of our final grade. The universe couldn’t have plopped two more different people together: me, with my chipped black nail polish, combat boots, and obsessive love of Sapphic literature, and Sean, who showed up to 8 a.m. lectures in a backwards Braves cap and Nike joggers, fresh-faced and somehow still managing to look clean-cut.

To look at us, you’d think we would never have worked. Yet here we are: fifteen years later, on complete opposite sides of the world, settling in to watch a movie together. A monthly ritual that we rarely miss. 

Not that it’s been easy getting here.

“It Happened One Night or Hook?” He’s sharing his computer screen with me, and I can see him scrolling through options on Netflix.But neither of those are on the screen, so I’m not sure where they came from or if either of them is even available on Netflix.

I shake my head and tilt the screen of my laptop so I can see better. “Not like the Hook kind, but I am kind of in the mood for fantasy.”

He groans and keeps scrolling. Flicks past five or six options I definitely would’ve been fine with, like he’s holding out for something specific he can’t quite name. I try not to feel irritated. This movie night only happens once a month. Between time zones and work schedules and life, this – plus some scattered texts and the occasional spontaneous phone call – is about all the time we get with each other.

It annoys me more than I want to admit that we never pick the movie in advance. Sitting here in silence while he scrolls feels like a waste of precious, limited time…even though I know it’s not. It’s still together. And that’s what counts.

I didn’t always feel this way. Back when we were younger, time felt endless. There were entire afternoons we spent doing nothing: lounging around our apartments, walking across campus just to grab coffee, or laying out on the green until it got dark. We didn’t need a plan. Just proximity. Back then, showing up for each other wasn’t a choice; it just happened, almost by accident.

Maybe that’s because undergrad—and life, up to that point—was so easy for both of us. Neither of us had faced any real hardship or friction. And certainly nothing that ever got in the way of our friendship.

But then we graduated. Sean got a job out of state. I stayed behind and started grad school. We both liked to travel, and for a few years we made an effort—meeting up once or twice a year in whatever city sounded good, splitting hotel rooms, getting lost on purpose. Sometimes we managed to time things so we were both home for the holidays and could sneak in a catch-up lunch or walk around the old campus.

But those visits got fewer. Work got busier. He moved abroad. I moved apartments, changed jobs, changed routines. Travel started to feel more like a chore than a break. We were still close – I thought – but something shifted. Not all at once, and not because anything went wrong. Just...naturally. That’s how it happens, I guess. You blink, and suddenly all your friendships require effort.

Suddenly my small picture-in-picture view of Sean’s face, which until now had been furrowed in concentration, two little lines forming between his eyebrows like choosing our movie is the most serious thing he’s ever done, starts shaking and then tilts. Now I’ve been rotated ninety degrees to the right.

“Argh, fuck.” He reaches his arms and swipes at the empty air, and that’s when I realize his laptop has fallen just beyond his reach from the spasm in his legs. He tries again, this time rocking his shoulders like he’s building momentum, reaches his arms out again, and lurches forward.

“You really had your computer just chilling on your legs?” I ask, stifling a laugh. “Are you jonesing for a new computer or something and the only way Margot will go for it is if this one break?”

He doesn’t answer me as he maneuvers the laptop back onto his lap, pulling with his arms and wrists, not his hands and fingers, which are extended but limp, but I can see a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Don’t tell,” he says, huffing quietly from the effort of getting the laptop back in place, then glances at me and holds his right thumb, which he can kind of flex, up to his lips and makes a Shhh face.  

I pantomime zipping my lips and throwing away the key. Then, before he can lapse back into scrolling, I add, “Let’s take that as a sign from the universe and just pick something already.” He pauses and there’s only one title I recognize, and I’m pretty sure it’s a kid’s movie. But it’s time to get this show on the road. I point at it even though that’s pointless since we’re just sharing a screen and not a computer. “Bridge to Terabithia, go.”

The movie opens with a little boy – well, little to us, but probably not to the intended audience – running through a cow pasture and thinking about an upcoming race. The movie opens with a little boy – well, little to us, but probably not to the intended audience – running through a cow pasture and thinking about an upcoming race. Something about the way the boy moves – fast, unthinking, all limbs and energy – makes my chest ache a little.

Twelve years on and it doesn’t seem to bother Sean much anymore, but I still try to be sensitive about it. Maybe that’s dumb – patronizing, even – but I can’t help it. Because the truth is, I still remember when Sean used to move like that. Not in cow pastures or whatever, but in the way he’d vault over benches on the green in college just to make me laugh, or jog backwards in crosswalks because it was funny, or race up a flight of stairs for the sake of sheer competitiveness. He had this loose, easy physicality, like his body was just another extension of his thoughts.

And then it was gone.

I remember when I found out. Not just the facts, which were absurd enough on their own, but the moment I found out. The way time collapsed a little. The way that there was suddenly a Before and an After.

It wasn’t anything dramatic. He just slipped. That’s it. It was a weird, rainy Tuesday, a work trip somewhere north of Copenhagen, and the sidewalk was slick with rain and foliage. He was carrying a tray of coffee that he’d picked up for the team and trying not to spill it. It was the first day of the conference, and even though he had an intern to do such things for him, it was in his nature to just do things like that himself instead. He slipped on the sidewalk and went down hard, landed wrong, and…just didn’t get back up.

I’ve read enough and heard enough since to know how fragile the cervical spine is. How a twist, a fraction of force in just the wrong direction or the wrong place can sever everything you know about your body. But I didn’t know any of that then. All I knew then was that my phone buzzed on Friday morning and there was a message from his cousin, one that I’d met a handful of times over the years but didn’t really know, asking if I’d heard. Then it was hospitals and surgeries and time zones and long pauses on the phone where neither of us knew what to say.

It's stupid and self-centered and I still feel guilty for it, but one of the real kickers of the whole thing, one of the parts that got me the most – beyond the word “paralyzed” – was that I hadn’t even known he was on the trip to begin with. We’d been in the height of our hyper-independent era. We were in our late twenties, ambitious, always in motion. Sure, we still kept in touch, but every conversation was some half-finished text about travel delays or work stress or a meme. It had gotten harder to stay in sync, but I hadn’t quite realized how deep the chasm between us had grown until that moment. And then suddenly nothing else mattered to me but this new version of Sean. The Sean who couldn’t hold run. Who couldn’t sit up. Who, for a while, couldn’t even breathe on his own. The Sean I was convinced was utterly changed, who I didn’t have a mental framework, who I felt like I’d never know again.

Before and After.

But the Sean on my screen now is still Sean. That’s been the biggest relief and strangest revelation. If anything, his best parts are even sharper now. Like, he got funnier. Wryer. Quicker, somehow, even though everything else about his life slowed down. He listens better now, too – really listens, with that quiet, anchoring attention he never quite had when we were younger and multitasking through every conversation. He doesn’t pretend not to care anymore or bother to hid his feelings anymore, either. About people. About showing up. He says what he means. He makes the time. I don’t think he used to realize that time was something you could make on purpose.

It seems a little unfair that it took something so big to bring the best parts to the surface. But maybe they were always there and just easier to miss when everything was easy.

But every so often, like when his laptop tips off his lap due to a spasm or his hands don’t quite obey him, I still catch myself holding my breath. It’s not pity – I swear it’s not, he’d hate that, and I know better than to pity someone just for being paralyzed now – but something quieter and harder to name. Grief, maybe? That sounds dramatic…yet accurate. Not just for what he lost, but for how easily it could have gone the other way. How easily I could’ve missed this – missed him afterwards – entirely.

He laughs suddenly – at something characters onscreen are saying, not at me – and the sound breaks my reverie. I shift, pulling the blanket I’ve got over my legs tighter as his laptop wobbles slightly as he nudges it into a more secure position with the back of his arm. A few more minutes go by and he shifts again. Over the years, he’s gotten good at making adjustments look casual to the point of being almost imperceptible, just small movements – angling his shoulders, tilting his neck slightly like he’s trying to stretch without really moving. But even with that, and even though the picture-in-picture is small, the movie taking up most of the screen, I still catch it.

But then his head dips for a second, like he’s thinking, and then he pauses the movie, which surprises me. 

“Is this movie about to emotionally devastate me?” he asks flatly.

I shrug because I truthfully don’t know. It’s a kids’ movie and I’m a forty-year-old woman. “Doesn’t matter now,” I tell him, “we’re eighty minutes into it, we’re not stopping now.”

We both chuckle in soft agreement as he starts the movie again. The boy from the beginning is back on the screen, and he’s watching a rope swing sway above the creek. Even though I don’t know exactly what’s coming, I can guess, and I feel my stomach drop.

I glance down at Sean’s picture-in-picture. His expression is still, eyes slightly glassy all of a sudden, but his mouth is set in that stubborn, slightly ironic crooked half-smile he always wears when something hits too close to home and he doesn’t want anyone to say anything about it.

We’re both quiet as the scene onscreen continues. Jesse, the boy, learns that his best friend, Leslie, is dead, that she tried to swing across the creek without him and the rope snapped. Just like that, she’s gone. It’s the kind of accident that happens fast, without much warning, and changes everything. It’s a kids’ movie, sure, but it’s also about the randomness of loss, about how no one ever thinks that moment is going to be the moment.

As the credits roll, Sean lets out a long breath. One of those slow, shaky exhales that people try to play off as a sigh but is usually something else.

I make his picture-in-picture full screen now that the movie’s over. One glance at his face and there it is: the unmistakable shimmer of tears in his eyes. Just a trace, nothing dramatic. He’s still smiling, sort of, though there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth that gives away the effort it’s taking to keep it there.

“You okay?” I ask gently, smiling softly. Truthfully, I feel just as verklempt. I’m just not as comfortable showing it as he is now. 

He wipes at his face with the back of his wrist. “If you tell anyone I cried during that kids movie, I’ll block you.”

I start to laugh at the irony of my thoughts against his words, but before I can respond, there’s a blur of movement and the laptop pivots smoothly away from Sean. Suddenly Margot’s face fills the screen, her hair a mess, wearing one of Sean’s old college T-shirts that somehow looks chic on her.

“Penny!” she says brightly, her French accent lilting, making my name sound like Peh-nee instead of Pen-ee. “You are keeping him out of trouble?”

It’s the line she always uses when we talk – something Sean must have told her early on, about how I was the more responsible one in college. “Trying,” I say, grinning. Then, a little teasing, a little apologetic: “Afraid I may have actually caused it this time.”

Margot laughs, and the screen jostles again until she exclaims “Yah-ha!” and Sean yells “Cheater!” I can tell she’s standing now.

“He cried at the end, hmn?” she stage-whispers.

“Can confirm,” I say, delighted.

Sean groans in the background.

Margot gives him back the laptop and disappears, but not before kissing his cheek and whispering something that makes them both laugh. The light in his room shifts; the lamp beside his bed clicks off, leaving his face lit only by the laptop glow. I hear faint sounds of movement in the background—Margot getting ready to start their nighttime routine. It’s the middle of the day for me, but late there. We both know we’ll have to wrap up soon.

I stretch in my chair and start folding the blanket in my lap. “Hey, so Jason says we should plan a virtual game night again soon. Something low-key, if you two are up for it.”

Sean nods, mouth twitching. “As long as it’s not charades.”

I laugh. That's a game night suggestion that my husband will never live down. There’s a beat of comfortable silence. We sit like that for a moment, just sharing the space while we still have it.

“You good?” I ask again, and this time not about the movie.

He nods, his expression softening. “I really am.”

If I were there, I’d reach for his hand. He’d squeeze back, weakly, barely a flicker, but something. Instead, we trade soft, knowing smiles. We sign off the way we always do: no big goodbyes, no forced sentiment. Just a wave, a promise to text soon, and one last lingering moment before one of us clicks the red button and the screen goes dark.

We don’t get the luxury of ease anymore. Not with time. Not with distance. Not with a million other things.

But that’s okay. Because nothing between us happens by accident now.

And maybe it never really did.

Pillow Talk

It’s late at night and they’re lying in bed when she notices it. She reaches across his chest and fingers the silver chain around his neck, traces the shape of the symbol where it sits just underneath his collarbone. He watches her through half lidded eyes, the corners of his mouth soft. 

“Have you always been religious?”

Noah hesitates just a beat too long before he answers, and that hesitation reveals to Talia everything he doesn’t explicitly say when he tells her, “Not remotely.” 

“Mmm, so you’re a poser?” She teases him with a light smile, moving her finger from his collarbone to a spot lower on his chest flirting with the area where she knows things start to get patchy.

His chuckle is low and throaty, and she knows it’s from her touch as much as from her question. “Near death experiences will do that to you.” He shrugs, shoulders lifting slightly and then falling heavily like everything below them is weighted. 

“Luckily it was only a near-death experience,” Talia murmurs, kissing a spot on his sternum.

Noah's eyes drift closed at the touch of her lips. When he opens them again, there's something vulnerable there that wasn't present before. He nudges his arm towards hers using mostly the movement in his shoulders, his hand flopping limply onto the top of hers where it sits on his chest. 

"An attempt at divine insurance," he says finally. "It was my mother's idea."

He falls silent, and Talia doesn't push. Instead, she traces the outline of the medal with her fingertip, the metal cool against her skin despite having been warmed by his body. She waits, watching the subtle changes in his expression.

"Saint Christopher," he offers after a long moment, his voice softer. "Patron saint of travelers."

Talia shifts closer, draping part of her body over his. She works one leg between his, careful not to bump the tube running from his lower abdomen to the leg bag. His legs, soft and pliable from years of disuse, make it easy. "Fitting. You traveled a lot for work, right?"

Noah's lips quirk up at one corner. "That's not why she chose it."

"No?" Talia prompts gently. Her hand glides from the medal to his shoulder, then down his arm, kneading softly as she goes, feeling the muscle fade from toned to slack.

He watches her hand travel, and for a while, he seems content to let the conversation lapse and stop there. His own hand comes up to her face, brushing over her bottom lip with the back of his knuckles, his fingers curled limply, in a gesture that sends warmth spiraling through her. 

"He's also the patron saint against sudden death," Noah finally says, his eyes focused on her mouth.

"Ah," Talia murmurs. She leans in, kisses him softly. "Hence the near part of the phrase ‘near-death experience’, right?” 

His chuckle rumbles deep in his chest. Even though it made him laugh, he’s actually not sure she meant it as a joke. But that’s been his experience with Talia for several weeks now. She makes him want to laugh unexpectedly, even at – especially at – the previously unlaughable things.

He takes a moment before he turns his expression more serious. "It wasn’t for work. I was coming back from a ski trip with the guys. Just a quick weekend out at Eldora and back. I was driving through the night to make it to work by 8am on Monday." He takes a breath, and Talia can see him deciding how much to share. It isn’t like they’ve never talked about this, but Noah hasn’t exactly been forthcoming about the finer details either. He’ll drop breadcrumbs – October, four years, a car wreck – but nothing substantial, and Talia’s not usually one to push. “It was the middle of the night and a deer jumped out in front of me.” 

His right leg, the one underneath hers, suddenly jerks in a spasm. She flashes him an Oops kind of look, like her legs being entwined with his might have set it off. He shakes his head at her silent non-question question. “Good timing, huh?”

Talia smiles and moves her hand from where it had started to drift lower back up to his chest. “Go on,” she encourages quietly, pushing more than she ever has. 

Noah exhales slowly. "Not much else to tell. I swerved but still hit the deer. My car rolled. Woke up two days later with a spinal cord injury." He says it matter-of-factly, but Talia can feel the weight of all he's not saying. "Mom showed up at the hospital with this." His knuckles touch the medal briefly. "Said Saint Christopher must have been watching over me, that I was spared for a reason." His lips quirk up at one corner. "The thing is, not one of us has ever been religious, much less Catholic."

Talia laughs softly against his skin. "Religious conversion by trauma?"

"Something like that," he says, his smile warming his eyes. "Mom went full spiritual seeker after the accident. I got Saint Christopher. My sister got crystals."

"Do you believe it though?" Talia asks, her voice soft.

Noah doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he reaches for her and hooks his wrist around her arm, then weakly tugs her closer until she’s half-draped across his chest. His hand threads through her hair; his limp fingers occasionally catch in her curls. 

"I believe," he says finally, voice low and deliberate, "that I'm still trying to figure out what that reason might be." 

He shifts slightly—not his body, which remains still—but a faint lift of his shoulders, the only movement he can offer. It's enough to bring his face closer. His breath is warm against her skin.

"Though lately," he murmurs, lips brushing her forehead, "I have some theories."

The implication in his words makes her cheeks warm. 

"What about you?" he asks after the silence between them has stretched comfortably. "Any life-altering moments I should know about?"

Talia tenses slightly, not expecting the question to be turned back on her. Just like her – or maybe because of her own habit – he’s also not pushed her much about her past, though he’s picked up from offhand comments that it isn’t as white bread as she likes to pretend. She hesitates, and he notices, his hand pausing in her hair.

"You don't have to tell me," he says, giving her an easy out.

She considers taking it like usual, changing the subject, but there’s something about the way he’s let himself be soft with her tonight. It feels like it deserves more than her usual deflection.

"I had a daughter," she says, the words coming out in a rush, as if she might lose her nerve if she slows down. Then she falls silent, her breath catching.

Of all the things he was expecting, that one wasn’t even on his radar. But he tries not to show it. Instead, Noah waits, his hand resuming its halting movement through her hair. When she doesn't continue, he asks, "When?"

Talia shifts, resting her chin on his chest to look at him. "She's nine now." The words feel strange in her mouth—both familiar from her private thoughts and foreign being spoken aloud.

"Do you see her?" Noah's question is gentle, without judgment.

Talia's eyes drift to a point somewhere beyond his shoulder. "It's an open adoption. I get pictures. Letters." She swallows the lump in her throat. It doesn’t make sense to feel emotional. It isn’t fair. Because in the grand scheme of things, it ended up being the best thing for everyone involved. Yet her eyes still sting whenever she’s mentioned. "Her name is Eliza."

Noah's hand moves to trace the curve of her spine with his knuckles, trying to offer comfort without saying anything contrite or overwrought. "That must be hard," he says simply.

"Yes." The single word contains multitudes. "And no." She shifts again, restless now, and sits up slightly, drawing the sheet around her. "It was the right choice. I was nineteen."

When she falls silent again, Noah doesn't immediately fill the space. He watches her, giving her time. His hand finds hers where it rests against the mattress. He can’t squeeze it or feel it, only see it. But she can – and she does. 

"I've never told anyone I've dated," she admits after a long moment. "It's this... enormous thing that happened, that shaped everything about who I am, but it's invisible."

"Is that why you work with kids?" Noah asks after a long moment of silence. He, too, knows what it’s like to try and fill an unfillable void. 

A moment of surprise crosses her face, as if she hadn't expected him, in a matter of minutes, to make the connection that it’d taken her years to make. "Maybe," she says. "Probably. Though I didn't realize the connection at first."

She looks down at their joined hands, then back to his face. "I was afraid to tell you. People make assumptions, judgments. Or they get uncomfortable and don't know what to say."

"I understand something about that," Noah says with a hint of wry humor, his eyes briefly glancing toward the bulky wheelchair next to his bed.

Talia follows his gaze, then looks back at him with a small smile. "I guess we both have our before and after moments."

Noah tugs gently on her hand, coaxing her back down. As she settles beside him, he shifts just slightly, shoulders tilting in that familiar, deliberate way that signals effort more than motion. 

“It’s late,” he murmurs, suddenly aware of the time in a way he hasn’t been all night. “I should probably get off my back.”

Talia lifts her head, catching the quiet in his voice, the way his eyes hold hers just a second longer. Then she moves, pushing back the covers, rising to her knees beside him.

“Okay,” she says gently and with an easy smile – of course it’s easy now that the heat is off her for a moment. “Let’s do it.”

He doesn’t need to say more. He can’t help much, not really. But she’s done this with him once before, earlier, awkward and careful. Now her hands move with more certainty.

She starts at his far shoulder, slipping one hand beneath it and the other across his chest. His body is solid under her touch, heavy. She braces, then rocks him gently toward her, just enough to roll his torso. One leg follows with a slight drag of fabric against the sheets and she reaches to adjust it, then pulls a pillow in behind his back for support.

Noah exhales slowly, the tension in his face easing once he’s settled on his side.

She smooths the blanket back over him, then curls in close, resting her head in the crook of his shoulder. His arm rests loosely around her waist, the weight of it more passive than holding, but still anchoring.

"Tell me about her," Noah says quietly after a moment. "Eliza."

The name in his mouth makes Talia's heart constrict. "She likes horses," she says after a moment. "And space. Her last letter said she wants to be an astronaut veterinarian."

Noah's laugh is gentle. "Ambitious."

"Just a bit." Talia smiles, her finger tracing idle patterns on his chest again. "She has my eyes. Her father's smile." The words come easier now. "She's happy. That's what matters."

"And you? Are you happy?" Noah's question is soft but direct.

Talia considers this, feeling the solid warmth of his body against hers, the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath her hand. "I'm getting there," she says honestly.

It’s strange to say it out loud after so many years of keeping Eliza’s existence so close to her heart. But now, in this moment, actually sharing it with someone who fundamentally understands what it means to have life suddenly split into two distinct chapters – even if their chapters are vastly different – that’s new.

She feels him press a kiss on the top of her head. They lie in comfortable silence, and eventually Talia lets her eyes drift shut.

"Noah?" she whispers after a while.

"Mmm?"

"Thank you for asking about her. Most people wouldn't.”

He kisses the top of her hair again. "Thank you for telling me."

Talia's breathing begins to slow, her body growing heavier against his as sleep approaches. Noah watches her, his eyes tracing the contours of her face in the dim light. Just as he thinks she might have drifted off, she speaks again, her voice thick with approaching sleep.

"You know what I think?" she murmurs.

"What's that?" he asks softly.

"I think maybe this is it." Her eyes flutter open briefly and she’s surprised to see he’s tilted his head down to look at her. Her brown eyes meet his green ones. "Maybe this is the reason.”

Something shifts in Noah's expression – surprise, followed by a tenderness so raw it makes Talia's chest ache. He lifts his hand, slowly, deliberately, led by the flex of his wrist more than the fingers themselves. His hand is curled, fingers mostly limp, but he brings it to her cheek with quiet intent. The backs of his knuckles graze her skin first, and then, with careful control, he angles his wrist just enough to let the soft edge of his thumb brush across her cheekbone. He doesn’t say anything. Neither of them do.

Eventually sleep begins to claim them both. Before she drifts off for real this time, Talia's fingers find their way back to the Saint Christopher medal resting against his skin. "I'm glad your mom gave you this," she murmurs, "even if you're not religious."

Noah smiles in the darkness, his hand covering hers where it rests against the medal. "Me too," he admits. "Though if you tell her that, I'll deny it entirely."

The last thing Talia remembers before drifting off is the sound of his quiet laughter and the steady rhythm of his heart beneath her palm—the most sacred thing she's felt in years, religious or not.

Will You?

 Alice wakes up to breakfast. 

The sounds and smells of sizzling bangers and percolating coffee fill the small flat. She lies there for a moment, assessing whether or not the smells wafting in from the kitchen are going to make her puke before opening her eyes.

The morning light is soft. The sky is still pale blues and inky purples. It must be early. Figures. She always wakes up at an ungodly hour when she drinks too much. She tries sitting up, and is pleasantly surprised her head isn’t spinning. Gingerly, she swings her legs over the side of the bed and stands. Things are good until she bends down to retrieve her dress from last night.  

Summer Friends

 Our campsite is the last in the row. This means we’re the farthest from the waterfront, but the closest to the bathrooms and showers. My mom keeps saying that as if it’s a good thing, but I’d rather be able to see the lake. The bathrooms and showers are in an ugly beige-colored building, so it’s not like it’s a pretty view we’re stuck with for the summer. And, sometimes, when the wind blows, it kind of smells. 

The little red tent also leaks. We found that out last night. So Dad and Georgie took the car and went in search of a Walmart. Mom strung up a laundry line between two trees behind our tent and hung all of the sleeping bags on it. She and Dad laughed that our campsite looked like something out of The Beverly Hillbillies, then explained that it was an old TV show. I don’t know anything about it, but as I look around at the other campsites – many of which are filled with RVs – our setup looks shabby. 

“This is what camping is all about!” Mom says, coming up to me and wrapping her arm around my shoulders. “Things going wrong, having to think on the fly, adventure…” She smiles and nods towards the lake. “Want to go find some while Dad and Georgie are away working?” 

I grin and lift up my shirt to show my bathing suit underneath. “I changed while Dad was looking through the guidebook for the nearest Walmart.” 

“‘Atta girl.” She grabs some bottles of water from the cooler and asks me to grab our towels and then we’re on our way. Even though it’s early morning, the path to the lake is already crowded with people lugging their stuff to the beach just like us. When we’re almost to the beach – just two campsites away – three boys come bounding out of a giant, pristine, blue and white RV. They’re carrying frisbees and a football and one of them – the youngest, who looks about my age – has a small cooler slung across his shoulders. It hangs down to the middle of his leg and hits him with every step he takes. The other boys race ahead and he falls into step with us. 

“Are those your brothers?” Mom asks, making conversation, probably trying to make him feel less awkward about walking the rest of the way with two strangers. 

He nods, then makes a face. “They always make me carry the heavy stuff because I’m the youngest.”

Mom laughs. “Funny. Riley here does the same thing to her little sister. How about that?” 

Until now she’s been walking between us, but she smoothly steps out of line and around to the other side of me, so that now me and the boy are side by side. I look up at her, horrified and terrified as only an eleven-year-old girl who desperately wants no one to look at her but also wants cute boys to notice her can be. 

The boy looks at me like he’s waiting on me to say something, but I’m not sure what he’s wanting, so instead I point at the cooler. “Do you want help?” 

“Sure!” He lights up like no one has ever offered to help him before, and stops abruptly in the middle of the path and starts disentangling himself from the cooler strap. With a smile, my mom reaches out for our towels, then gives me a discreet thumbs up before she continues on to the beach. It can’t be more than fifty feet, but as she walks away, it feels like she’s left me stranded in the middle of an ocean, and I try not to panic and remember how to talk. 

There are actually handles on either side of the cooler, which I hadn’t noticed before, and he picks one up and points to the other one for me. I pick it up and we start walking. “I’m Isaac.” Before I can say anything, like my name, he goes on, “And your mom said you’re Riley? That was your mom, right?” 

I just nod in answer to all of his questions. He smiles a little, like he thinks that’s funny. “How long are you guys here?” 

Unfortunately, he’s phrased this question in such a way that I can’t just nod. I don’t know if that was on purpose or not, but if it was, it’s kind of clever, and that makes me smile – just a little. 

“We’re here all summer,” I tell him as we step onto the sandy lake beach. We stop for a second, looking around for our families. I spot my mom spreading our towels out near the pier, a respectable distance from where his brothers are standing at the water’s edge playing with the football. “How about you?” 

“Same!” His response is enthusiastic and accompanied by a smile. I smile back, a little shyly. Something about his response makes me feel like this won’t be the last time I help him lug this cooler from the RV to the beach. 

*****

Our campsite is six campsites from the end of the row this year. We’re farther from the bathrooms, but we can still see more of that building than we can see of the lake. Mom keeps saying we’re “moving on up” in a sing-song voice, and then her and Dad break out into some song about “moving on up to the East Side.” They never get further in the song than that though before they start laughing – or before Georgie and I hurriedly ask them to stop singing! before someone sees or hears them. 

Someone like Isaac from last year. We’ve been here four days already and I haven’t seen him or his family’s RV yet. But there are still a few empty RV hook-up spots, so I’m holding out hope that I’ll see their blue and white RV or his cheerful grin popping out of somewhere soon. 

Our tent is in much better shape than last year. It hasn’t rained at all yet, so we’ve been sleeping with the storm flap open every night, Dad pointing out stars and constellations, telling us their names and stories until we fall asleep. After last night I’m not sure how much of what he’s been telling us is true though, because when Georgie pointed to what he’d already told us was the North Star, he said it was also called Betsy, which is Mom’s name. 

We’re on our way to the beach and he and Mom are walking behind us, carrying a cooler between them, while I’ve got the towels and Georgie’s shouldering two camp chairs. The chairs are awkwardly big for her and she’s kind of struggling, but I’d already called dibs on the towels, so she’s stuck with them. 

“Need some help?” a familiar voice behind us yells loudly over the rumble of an engine. As one, we all turn around — Mom, Dad, Georgie, and I — to see Isaac hanging out the window of his family’s RV, waving at us like a maniac. A second later he’s out of the RV and running towards us. 

“Sure!” Mom jokes, and acts like she’s going to hand him her half of the cooler, but when he starts to actually take it, she laughs and waves him off. 

But Georgie seizes her opportunity and hands not one but both the chairs to him. As soon as she’s free, she yells “Thanks, Isaac!” and takes off running towards the lake beach towards her own friends. 

With zero hesitation, Isaac throws an arm around my neck in greeting. As he leans forward to hug me, the chairs swing around and hit me and cause me to drop the towels on the ground. 

“Isaac!” I grumble, stepping back to pick them up. 

“Serves you right,” he laughs, beating me to it. Now he has the chairs and the towels. “Making your little sister carry the heavy stuff.” 

By this point, Mom and Dad have dropped back to talk to Isaac’s parents, who are still idling in the RV in the middle of the road, trying to get to their campsite. Isaac’s older brothers, Joshua and Matthew are evacuating the RV, too. They run past us in a rush, and one of them snidely whisper-yells something that sounds like “Have fun with your little girlfriend!”

I look at Isaac in horror and confusion and hope—the last of which is downright silly since I haven’t seen or talked to him since last summer. 

Two bright red spots have appeared on his cheeks and the tips of his ears are red. But then he laughs — and there’s only a slight hint of nervousness to it — and does something that shocks me: sticks up his middle finger at his brother’s retreating back. 

I immediately look over my shoulder to see if any of the adults caught his transgression. But they’re all still chatting. Isaac’s dad has even turned the RV off; it’s like they’ve settled in for a nice visit, right there in the middle of the road. Adults make no sense. 

“I can’t believe you just did that!” I tell him as we start walking towards the beach. 

He laughs. “We’re in middle school. You’ve never flipped someone the bird?” 

“Absolutely not.” 

Isaac turns thoughtful. “Maybe because you’re the oldest.” 

I cock my head in confusion. 

“Joshua taught me,” he explains as we get to the sand. His brothers are by the pier, standing on the edge of a group of girls in bikinis. They’re way older than me, like Isaac’s brothers’ ages, but they still make me feel uncool in my shapeless t-shirt and shorts. “Because Matthew’s always being a jerk to us because we’re younger.” He grins and shoves me with his shoulder, making me stumble a little on the sand. “Keep making Georgie carry the chairs, I bet she’ll flip you off eventually too.” 

“Georgie’s nine,” I remind him and start walking away from the pier, towards the rocks by the forest instead. “Besides, I’ve never even done that. I doubt she has either.”

Isaac cocks one eyebrow, smirking disbelievingly. At what, I don’t know. “Maybe I’ll teach her then.” 

“Don’t you dare!” I can’t tell if he’s joking or not, so I laugh to make it sound like I’m not actually yelling, just in case he is. 

But he ignores me, still smirking. “Hey, Georgie!” 

As soon as the words are out of his mouth I yell “No, Georgie! Don’t do it!” 

My little sister, already way cooler than either of us, turns once, gives us the same stop look that she and I give Mom and Dad when they start singing, and turns back to her friends. 

Isaac laughs off her disdain as he sets up my parents’ chairs. “Want me to teach you?” 

He asks the question like it’s a super secret handshake. Like pointing my middle finger at someone isn’t something I could possibly figure out on my own, which is both insulting and silly.

I still think it’s rude. Mom would kill me if she caught me; and Georgie would run and tell her the second she saw if she caught me in the act. So after a few glances to make sure no one is looking, I roll my eyes and flick my middle finger up at him. 

“There you go!” Isaac says with a belly laugh as he pats me on the shoulder. I imagine he lets his hand linger there for just a little bit longer than he should…or maybe it isn’t my imagination at all. 

*****

Our campsite this year is solidly in the middle of the row. You can’t see the bathrooms at all from where we’re at. You still can’t see the lake, but it still counts as an upgrade in my book. The primitive camping campsites — tent campers, like us — are on a first come, first served basis. You reserve the spot at some point in the year, but you don’t get your assignment until you arrive. Mom keeps saying the fact we got this spot is a miracle considering how late we were getting to the lake this year. The season started two weeks ago. Every time she says it, Dad shoots her a pained look. They’re bent over and driving in the final stakes of the tent – both of them, even though it’s definitely just a one person job – when I hear Dad say in a low, strained voice, “Stop talking about miracles, Betsy.” 

A lump suddenly forms in my throat. I’ve spent the morning laying with my sleeping bag spread out on the grassy area beside our tent, wanting to be near my parents, in their sphere, but not hovering. But now I just want to get away. 

I start walking at a fast clip towards the lake, when a familiar but also different – deeper, somehow – voice to my left stops me and makes me turn towards it. “I was beginning to think you guys might not show up this year.” 

Isaac’s sitting at a card table underneath the awning of the RV, sorting what looks like Magic The Gathering cards, and grinning at me like he always does. That smile is the same, but so much is different. His hair, which has always been neatly cut and styled, is a little longer, curling gently around his ears. There’s a small piece of toilet paper stuck to his chin; I’m not sure why. He’s wearing a tank top and it’s weird to see that Isaac’s shoulders and arms look, if not defined, at least more defined than I remember them looking last year. He started  high school this year, and he suddenly just seems so much older than me, even though the difference is only a year. 

Before I can say anything, the door to the RV opens and his oldest brother, Matthew, who’s in college now,  comes out, followed by a girl. Matthew leans over and plucks the piece of toilet paper from Isaac’s face, laughing. “You don’t need that.” He balls it up and flicks it at Isaac, hitting him square in his very bare and hairless jaw. “Hey, Riley.” 

I wave in greeting. Matthew and his girlfriend announce they’re going to the beach to meet up with their parents. I wait until they’re gone before I deadpan ask, “So what’s wrong with your hair?” 

He reaches up and runs a hand through it, mussing it. “You don’t like it?” 

I quirk my head at him. “I think you kind of look like that guy from Lost.” Mom and I have been obsessed with Lost since it started a few years ago. “Sawyer.”

“I’ll take that.” He actually looks quite pleased with that comparison. He reaches under the table for a tin box and pushes the cards into it, even the ones he’s already organized. “And I’ll just finish these later.” 

When he stands, I realize he’s already in swim trunks. I smile a little while he puts his card box back in the RV and grabs us each a towel. “Why are you just hanging out in your swim trunks?” 

“Why aren’t you in your bathing suit?” He counters as he locks the RV and then we start walking towards the beach. “We’re at the lake! It’s summer!” 

The idea of putting on a bathing suit is extremely unappealing. I feel like nothing fits me right these days. My chest and hips have gotten bigger, which Mom keeps telling me is good, but it doesn’t feel good. It just feels like everything I wear doesn’t fit. 

I don’t explain any of this to Isaac though; I just shrug instead. “It doesn’t really feel like summer,” I admit after we’ve walked most of the way in silence. 

Isaac frowns, and I realize that’s an expression I’m unused to seeing on his face, even though we’ve been summer friends now for three years. He leads us over to the area near the rocks, where it’s quieter, and spreads out the towels. I look around and see that my parents and Georgie have made it down to the beach, and they’re setting up camp near the pier, not far from Isaac’s family.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, sitting down and looking up at me. I’m still standing, and I shake my head. “Okay…” He rubs the back of his neck, a little nervously, like he’s trying to come up with something else to say. “Do you want to hear how Joshua’s an asshole and trashcanned me on my first day of high school?” 

That makes me laugh out loud, which he takes as a yes. At some point in his story, I find myself sitting down and scooting closer. He asks me what I’m looking forward to most about starting high school this fall, and as I’m trying to figure out my answer, he leans back and casually puts his arm behind my back and on the other side of me, just barely touching my back, like he’s loosely and subtly trying to put his arm around me, but not sure if I’m okay with that. 

I lean into it, closing the small distance between our bodies. If only summers could always be just like this. 

*****

Our campsite this year isn't the lakefront. We’re back to having a great view of the bathroom, but that’s because the bathroom is just a smaller room ten feet from the bed. Mom’s room is at the very end of the hallway. It’s one of the farthest from the nurse’s station, but that also means it’s the closest to the elevator, so it’s easy to slip in and out of without attracting too much attention. For the first few weeks of summer, there’s a steady stream of visitors and the room is always busy and bustling, full of laughter, stories, and life.

By the end, it’s just Dad and Georgie and me.

*****

Our campsite this year is prime real estate. I didn’t even know they allowed primitive camping this close to the RVs, but apparently they do. I don’t know how he managed to do it with everything else going on, but Dad managed to book our campsite the second they opened for the summer. He said he just wanted this summer to be better than last. So he made sure that the first thing we see every single morning is the teal blue of the lake, the rocky beach, the pier. No RVs blocking the view, no beige outbuildings. Just nature. Just summer. 

As amazing as this spot is, it somehow still has its drawbacks. We might not be able to smell the bathrooms, but we’re downwind from a lot of the RVs, and I’m willing to bet that there’s a reason the campground discourages tent campers from camping next to the Winnebagos and Airstreams. 

“Mom would love it,” Georgie says when I bring this up to her one day. We’re sitting at the edge of the pier, swinging our legs, people watching. Neither of us have been very social this summer. Georgie has distanced herself from her usual group of friends, while my only summer friend and his entire family have been conspicuously absent. 

“What’s that?” I ask, still hoping that one of these days I’ll see Isaac, even though we’re only here for another week. I would never admit it to anyone, but his absence this summer somehow feels like more of a gaping hole than Mom’s does. 

“The irony of it all.” Georgie just learned about irony at the end of the school year, and she’s been ascribing it to literally any situation she can since then. “That this is the year we finally got the good campsite.” 

I laugh and imitate her warm, cheery voice. “‘The first year without me and they camp like royalty!’” 

Georgie laughs so hard she snorts. “If only she knew the tent was still leaking.”

I wrap my arm around her shoulders, holding her tight, as we laugh some more. 

*****

Our campsite this summer is back amongst the plebeians. I doubt our location really has anything to do with it – or at least it isn’t the only factor – but we all seem happier this year. Georgie is back in with her friends, which means she gets up at the crack of dawn and heads down to the beach. Dad and I hardly see her, except for dinner, which we eat together every night as a family, something we didn’t even do with Mom, but that we started last summer. 

“That’s what you girls should be doing,” Dad tells me as he gets ready to go on a bike ride. Without Mom to guide him, he floated listlessly for a little while, but now he’s picked up some good, solid hobbies he can do solo, which makes his next words funny. “Summer’s all about friends.” 

I give him an exasperated look at his implication that I either don’t have friends or need to spend more time with my friends and less by myself. He holds his hands up in mock surrender. 

Georgie has her gaggle of little friends – all of whom have like a million times more confidence and comfort in their bodies than I do, despite being three years younger than me – and Dad has his bicycle and I have…well, I’m not really sure what I have. But I’ve already spent three days just hanging around the campsite, reading and listening to my Discman, and I’m kind of bored. 

So, I pack it all up, grab a towel and a bottle of water from the cooler, and head to the water. 

Not that I expect to see it, but I still keep an eye out for the familiar blue and white RV. No luck though. Halfway to the beach I see an oversized black and red RV that looks like it’s sitting way too close to the ground. There’s someone sitting at a table under the awning, but they’re looking down at their lap, so as I get closer, I look down too. I’m honestly not all that interested in making pleasantries with a stranger. 

I’m barely a foot past the monstrosity of an RV when I hear, “Two summers is all it takes to forget about me, huh?” 

Heart beating fast, hope swelling in my chest, I spin around on my heel. 

“Isaac!” Only after I’ve squealed and started running towards him do I realize my reaction was probably over the top and immature. But it’s too late now. Besides, he’s smiling, though it isn’t as bright as I remember it being, so maybe he didn’t think it was as corny as it felt to me. 

He’s almost completely unchanged. His hair is still on the longer side and he still has no traces of facial hair. But his chest has filled out, and it looks like his shoulders have broadened or become more defined or something. He has that same look that all the jocks at school have, vaguely athletic and fit without trying too hard. 

But there is one noticeable difference. It brings me up short when I’m right in front of him, about to throw my arms around his neck and give him a hug, but freeze.  It’s rude. I know it’s rude to stare. But I just can’t help but stare at the empty space where his left leg should be. 

He looks down too and rubs the stump of his leg, which ends just above the knee, and is partially visible in mesh basketball shorts.  It looks strangely squishy as he rubs it. When he looks back up, smiling wryly, trying to seem unbothered, the tips of his ears are red and two bright spots have appeared on his cheeks. 

“Is this why you weren’t here last summer?” If the situation were reversed, I have no doubt that Isaac would have asked it gently. But I lack his finesse. My question is blunt. 

He nods. “It happened like two days before we were supposed to drive up here.” 

We’re silent for a moment, neither of us sure how to proceed. I’m still standing really close to him, and when I realize that, I bend down to give him the hug I originally intended to. “Want to talk about it?” 

“Eugh…” He sounds like he might take me up on it, then stops at the last second and shakes his head. “Not yet.” 

I nod and stand back up. “I was going down to the beach.” 

That’s obvious by what I’m carrying, but I’m not really sure what else to say. Truthfully, I’m not used to having to make conversation with Isaac. It usually just happened. It always felt effortless and natural. But the two summers between us are like a chasm. 

A strange look flashes across his face–a mixture of hesitation, indecision, and uncertainty–but a moment later it’s gone and he’s nodding to himself, like he’s convincing himself that he’s doing the right thing. 

“Hang on a second, and I’ll come too.” He smiles, although it’s a little tight, and I return it, and step back out of his way. I expect him to reach for crutches and stand up, but then he reaches between the table and the RV and drags a sporty looking wheelchair around to in front of him. 

I’m confused for a moment until he uses his hands to push his hips and butt up and scoot to the edge of his seat, then puts a fist in the seat of the wheelchair and the other on the edge of the chair he’s sitting on, and lifts his body into the air. The stump of his left leg hangs and swings limply once it loses contact with the chair, then lands on the seat of his chair with a plop as he finishes the transfer. His right leg is stretched out in front of him, the ankle turned in on its side. He uses his hands to pull that leg up, pulling back at the knee to make sure his foot is positioned just right on the footrest. 

When he finishes, he looks up at me, and his face is carefully blank. I realize that he’s waiting on me to say something first. 

“Wow.” At the moment, that’s the best I can come up with. As soon as I say it, I can tell it’s not exactly the right response, because he smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. So I quickly add, “What a shitty couple of summers we’ve had.” 

That makes him laugh–like actually laugh. “Whoa. Did Riley Green just curse?” 

Without missing a beat, I flick my middle finger up at him. I try to keep a straight face, but after about two seconds, I fail, and start laughing. Then Isaac’s laughing too, and it feels so good to be laughing together again, that I don’t notice he’s reaching for my hand until he’s holding it.

Despite everything, I think this may be the best summer yet. 

*****

Our campsite is the same as it always is. There’s a recurring event on my Google calendar that pops up every April 1 – the date the campground starts to accept reservations and hand out permits – to book the campsite. It isn’t the best spot. There’s no view of the water. It’s not even in the same area of the campground that we used to stay as kids. But it’s easy to pull the RV into and it’s right beside the paved trail that eventually leads to the lake. 

Dad and Georgie and her family came up two days ago. He brought that old red tent and announced he planned to pitch it in the miniscule patch of grass behind our RV and have a real camp out with all his grandkids. The kids are all about it. Of course, it hasn’t rained yet, but that would probably only add to the adventure. With any luck, they’ll want to camp in the tent for the rest of their lives. The entire RV left to me and Isaac? Now that’s an idea I could get used to. 

It’s early in the day. The campground is still mostly silent, save for the hum of generators. Isaac and I are walking down the paved path to the beach. I’ve got five camp chairs criss-crossing my back and his lap is loaded down with the Yeti cooler and a shit ton of towels. 

“I feel like people got up earlier when we were kids,” I remark as we get to the beach. It’s the Fourth of July today, so we’re here extra early to stake our claim on a spot. But there’s nary a soul on the beach. We were clearly overzealous. 

“Yeah, and I feel like I don’t remember my parents carrying any of this shit for us when we were kids,” he answers from behind me as he pushes slowly across the sand. 

“No, your brothers made you carry it all,” I laugh as I drop the camp chairs and then go back and take the cooler from him. With the lightened load, he’s able to move easier and faster. His right leg bounces from the uneven terrain of the sandy beach, but the stump of his left is still covered by the mound of towels. “I can still see it right now: Matthew and Joshua racing ahead, Isaac left behind with the chairs and coolers.” 

“Good thing you and Betsy came along when you did.” He smiles and leans forward, bracing himself by grabbing the pushrim of one of his wheels, and grabs two of the camp chairs, then sits back up and starts taking them out of the bags to set up. 

I snort. “I know! What would you have done without me there to help lug all the stuff to the beach everyday that summer?” 

Isaac looks up at me and smiles, looking at me tenderly. He’s kept his hair long, although it’s streaked with gray and it’s starting to thin. There are new lines on his forehead, and I’d never tell him, but some of the old wrinkles look deeper. Looking down at him has long since become normal, but I remember the first few summers we knew each other, how I had to look up at him because I’ve always been short and he’s always been lanky. So much has changed since that day, but the boy I’ve crushed on since the summer I was eleven is still there. 

I smile back, then lean down for a kiss as he says, “The best part of every summer has always been you.”