The Wrong Kind of Right

The lake looked different than I remembered. Grayer somehow, like even the water knew this summer wasn't supposed to happen this way. I hauled my suitcase out of the trunk, wheels catching on the gravel driveway, and stared up at the Cole house — same wraparound porch, same crooked mailbox, same ridiculous amount of nostalgia I hadn't asked for. Four years since I'd last stood here, and it hadn't changed at all. I was the one who'd changed. Or maybe I hadn't, not really — I'd just gotten better at pretending. "You planning to stand there all day, or should I start charging rent?" I turned. Ethan stood on the porch steps, arms crossed, looking exactly like his voicemail greeting had sounded — clipped, a little annoyed, entirely unbothered by the fact that I hadn't seen him since his sister's graduation party. He looked older. Not in a bad way. In a had actual adult problems now way. "Nice to see you too," I said, dragging my suitcase up the steps past him. "Your mom said I could use the guest room." "She mentioned it." He didn't move to help with my bag. Of course he didn't. "Just so we're clear — this isn't a vacation. I've got the boatyard all summer, and I don't have time to entertain anyone." "Good thing I didn't ask to be entertained." Something flickered across his face — not quite a smile, but close enough that I almost believed I'd imagined it. "Guest room's the second door on the left. Bathroom's across the hall. Don't touch the thermostat." "Wouldn't dream of it." He disappeared back inside before I could say anything else, and I stood there a second longer than I needed to, staring at the space where he'd been. Great, I thought. Should be a fun summer. I didn't yet know how wrong — or how right — that would turn out to be.