Jake
Ifinish cleaning the kayaks and drag them up the shore. I saw Em take off on her bike about thirty minutes ago. Toby told me she’s gone to see Rob, and the thought of it, of her and him in the same sentence let alone the same room, doing whatever it is they’re doing, makes me slam the lock down so hard on the chain that it catches my thumb.
“Shit!” I yell, shaking out my hand and cursing some more under my breath. I kick the nearest kayak, forgetting I’m barefoot. “Shit,” I say, hopping now on one foot while waving my hand in the air.
“Don’t take it out on the kayak. It’s not the kayak’s fault Emerson has terrible taste in men.”
I turn around. Toby is leaning against the door, watching me.
“Sorry,” I grumble. Then I shake my head. “I don’t know what I was thinking—taking this job. It was stupid.”
Toby doesn’t say anything—he probably agrees with me.
I take a deep breath, glancing at the water, back at the kayaks, at the sign on the door saying LOWE KAYAKING CO., and then I take hold of the bottom of my T-shirt and strip it off over my head. “I’m done,” I say.
I push past Toby into the store and walk over to the counter where I’ve stashed my bag. Giggling alerts me to the fact that there are customers in the store. I turn around. Two girls are over by the swimwear section. They can’t be older than fourteen, and they’re staring at me wide-eyed, nudging each other in the ribs. I turn back around, blood pounding, and reach inside my bag for a fresh T-shirt.
Toby is suddenly in my face. “You lied,” he says.
“What?” I say, pulling a Boston College T-shirt on over my head and trying to ignore the girls in the corner who are now whispering frantically between themselves.
“They didn’t Photoshop you.”
I grab my bag and head straight for the door.
“Don’t quit,” Toby calls out after me.
“Too late,” I answer.
I jump in my car. If Em’s gone to see Rob (don’t think about it, don’t think about it), then that means she won’t be home, so now’s the perfect time to go speak to her mom and tell her I’m quitting. It was stupid of me to ever come back here. What was I expecting?
* * *
On the way to Em’s I pass by my old house. I hit the brakes and crawl past, noting the swing set on the lawn. The new owners have painted the veranda a vile green color. A pang of nostalgia punches me hard in the gut at the sight of the place, but it’s tainted, like most of my family memories are now. Pulling up in front of Em’s house a few minutes later makes me feel even sadder, bringing with it another wave of anger. Or sadness. I don’t know what it is, only that it feels as if fire ants are marching beneath my skin.
Em’s house looks as worn as Mrs. Lowe. The paint is peeling, the gutters need clearing out, and the mailbox stands at a drunken angle. I climb out of my car—a Prius rental I picked up in Seattle—noticing with a twinge of guilt that Em’s mom is still driving the same car she had when Em was a kid: a beat-up Ford. Her dad’s truck is nowhere in sight. Hopefully, he’s out. I’m not sure I want to see him again or what I’d say if he answered the door.
I knock, but no one answers, and I’m about to give up and get back in my car when the door finally swings open.
Mrs. Lowe looks flustered, as well as surprised to see me. “Oh, Jake,” she says, her hand moving instinctively to smooth down her hair. “Hi. What are you doing here?”
“Um,” I say, words deserting me. Yeah, I should have planned this better.
“Here, come in, come in,” she says, and ushers me inside with a distracted smile.
I feel more comfortable standing outside on the veranda, but I can’t say no, so I follow her inside and wait for her to shut the door behind me.
“Is something the matter?” she asks. “Emerson isn’t here.”
“Oh, um, no,” I say. “I just wanted to tell you that I can’t do the job anymore.”
Her face falls. She looks at the ground, then back up at me, her blue eyes piercing right through me like a pair of knife blades. “You’re quitting?”
Oh man. She sounds just like my coach. I take a deep breath and blow it out. “Not exactly,” I say. “I just . . . I’m not sure it’s such a good idea after all.”
Mrs. Lowe studies me for a moment and then pats me on the arm. “Come on in and have a cup of coffee, Jake.”
“I . . . ,” I say, glancing over my shoulder at the door. “I don’t know if I should.” I don’t want to be here when Em gets home.
“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Lowe says from the kitchen, where she’s already reaching for mugs. “She won’t be home until six.”
I cross the threshold into the kitchen and stand there, hovering, looking around. There’s the table I used to sit at with Em when we were toddlers, pressing out cookies, while our moms stood leaning against the counter drinking tea. There’s the refrigerator that used to be covered in our finger-painted masterpieces. There’s the ceramic flowerpot Em painted for her mom for Mother’s Day. There’s the back door that I put my hand through when I was ten and Em slammed it in my face. I still have a jagged scar running up the inside of my arm from the twelve stitches I needed as a result.
Most of the scars on my body were given to me by Em, I realize now. I’m not sure why that fact makes me smile, but it does. They’re like war wounds, but all from battles that I wanted to lose.
“Sit down, sit down,” Mrs. Lowe says, ushering me toward the table.
Feeling awkward and too big for the kitchen, I pull out a chair and sit down.
“You’ve gotten so tall,” Mrs. Lowe says, smiling at me fondly.
I squirm a little under her gaze. I wonder what she really thinks of me? Of my family? She and my mom were best friends—they met at the doctor’s when Em’s mom was pregnant and I was six months old—but now they don’t talk. There’s so much I want to say and ask her, but I can’t seem to find the right words.
Mrs. Lowe busies herself with making tea and I stare around at the kitchen feeling awkward. A cabinet door is hanging at an angle. Where’s Em’s dad?
“I’ve been keeping up with all your news,” Mrs. Lowe says.
I look up sharply. She has?
“How are you finding Boston?”
“It’s good,” I say, running my thumbnail over the groove in the table where Em once tried to carve her name with a butter knife. She got to EMERS before her mom discovered her and grabbed the knife from her hand. My finger traces out an invisible ON.
“And top of the draft prospect list. That’s great, Jake.”
I give her a wan smile.
“Your parents must be so proud of you,” she says, opening the refrigerator and reaching in for the milk. Is she fishing for information?
“Yeah,” I mumble. “I guess.”
“How’s your sister?”
“She’s okay. She just finished tenth grade.”
“And your parents are still in Toronto?”
I nod.
“And your grandmother?”
“She passed away a few years ago.”
I watch Mrs. Lowe pouring out the tea and I wonder how they managed to stay in Bainbridge after. How did Em cope? My face suddenly blazes.
If I were any kind of a friend, I would know the answer to that.