Meet Me at the Lake
: Chapter 18

I was hunched over Will’s sketchbook, my nose inches from the page, staring at the drawing. It must have been well past midnight. Will stood beside me, stretching.

For years I’d escaped notice. I sat in the back row of lecture halls. I partied, but not too hard. I had only a few close friends. I waited to make a dramatic hair transformation until after classes had ended. I dated someone whose boisterousness let me fade into the background.

I didn’t want attention.

Deep down, I suspected something was wrong with me—that I had unearthed a core of rot at seventeen, and I was worried if someone looked too closely, they’d see it, too. I diligently covered my mistakes with economics classes and good grades and shifts at Two Sugars and Sunday phone calls with Mom. I was never late to any of them. Aside from the occasional joint, I was the picture of responsibility. And when I felt the cold trickle of my future running down my neck, I put on my headphones and I went for a walk. I disappeared into the veins of the city.

But for some unfathomable reason, I let Will sit across from me and scrutinize. I let him see.

And, yes, I liked how he made me look—the mysterious curve of my mouth and the arch of my neck—but it was more than that. There was no question the person Will had seen was beautiful—he hadn’t found a rotten core.

“Can I have it?” I asked.

A small smile answered me first. “It’s all yours.”

I watched him stretch a little longer. “The way you move,” I said, not sure how to describe it. “You’re kinda graceful? And your posture—it’s very good.”

Will opened his eyes. “My posture’s excellent.”

He smirked, then sat on the chair, absently ruffling his damp hair, sending it in all sorts of fascinating directions. “My grandma’s got a thing about posture.” He smiled. “And table manners, handwashing, walking on the outside of the sidewalk when one is escorting a young lady.”

I laughed. “Aha. It’s all coming together. Did you spend a lot of time with your grandma growing up?”

He nodded and rubbed at the spot on his chin where his scar was. He seemed to hesitate before he spoke again. “My sister and I lived with her for a few months after Mom left.”

“Your dad was having a hard time?” I guessed.

“We all were. But”—his eyes searched my face—“I guess I had the hardest time.”

I blinked. “You?” Will seemed so together.

“Me.”

I thought of the comment Eli made at the bar, about Will being emo.

And then I could see it clearly. “You were mad at her,” I said. I knew all about being angry at a parent.

Will looked away for a long moment. “I was fucking furious.”

I could feel my heart racing, like it was trying to break through my ribs and reach out to his. I know you, each thump said. You’re like me. I wanted to leap off the bed and throw my arms around his neck. “What did you do?”

“I picked a lot of fights. It was dumb, but it was the only thing that could shut my brain off.”

I stared at the scar on his chin. “Is that how you got it?”

He nodded. “I got jumped by a few older kids walking home from school after mouthing off one too many times. It was only two stitches, but it was enough to send my grandma flying into action. I guess my dad didn’t know how to deal. Annabel and I stayed with her until the end of the school year, and for the summer. I got a lot of lectures about responsibility and choosing what kind of person I wanted to be.”

“And that worked?” None of my mother’s talks were enough to put a stop to my antics when I was a teen.

“I didn’t know who I wanted to be, exactly, but I knew who I didn’t.”

“And who was that?”

Will twisted the ring on his finger. I could barely hear him when he said, “My mother.”

“Your mother?” I repeated, surprised. “In what way?”

“In every way. Selfish. Critical—”

I cut him off before he went on. “You’re not like that.”

“I can be. We’re a lot alike,” he said. “I left like she did. I look like her. Think like her.”

I thought of how calmly Will had spoken to his sister earlier today. How he seemed to know when to ask questions and when to stay quiet. How he let me fall apart at the art gallery and then cheered me up after. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re any of those things.”

We watched each other. The air felt thick. “It’s worth a lot,” he said in a low voice.

I moved to the edge of the bed and leaned toward him, lightly pressing my index finger to his scar.

“The way you drew me . . . it’s like you saw something I wasn’t sure was there. I don’t think a selfish person could capture someone like that—could see other people the way you do.”

Will’s gaze moved down my face and then he reached out, touching his finger to my chin, same as I had done. He slanted his head.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He raised his hands. “It’s nothing. It’s not my place.”

“What do you mean, it’s nothing? What do you mean, it’s not your place?” I felt feral. Whatever it was, I wanted it to be Will’s place.

“I just think . . .” He lowered his palms. “You don’t want to go home and work at the resort, so don’t. You want to be here. You should stay.”

I ran my nails over the inside of my wrist. “Everyone is expecting me to go back. My mom would kill me. Sometimes she will literally say stuff like, The day you become the resort’s manager will be my proudest moment. I can’t do that to her.”

Will’s hand covered mine, putting a stop to the scratching. I looked down at his fingers.

We stared at the red welts on the inside of my wrist. “You don’t really seem like the kind of person who goes along with what other people want.”

I chewed on the inside of my mouth.

“Am I missing something?”

I nodded slowly.

He ducked to meet my eyes. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

I looked at Will and nodded again. I wanted Will to know me. I wanted to tell him everything.