watching. But the occasional older girls who come to the resort have a tendency to get a little goofy, too. And I wonder, sometimes, what good a summer fling really does the girls who are old enough to have them. What good is something so short-lived it’s practically disposable? Throw-away love. Maybe it’s okay for Todd or Greg, but I don’t get the point.
I’ve just started to hope, with everything I have, that Little Miss Girl Power won’t spend her entire vacation traipsing around after me, when she glances at the trail ahead of us and gasps.
“Look,” she says, pointing at the tattooed tree. At least, that’s what we’ve always called it here at the resort. And that’s exactly the way it looks—like the body of some old heavy metal rocker. Covered in hearts and letters. Some painted. Some carved with pocket knives. Every summer romance that’s ever played out at Lake of the Woods has been etched into the skin of the tree.
She’s just the right age to be infatuated with the idea of love. To maybe even be infatuated with the idea of heartbreak. I think that sometimes, heartbreak looks adult to little girls like this one. Same as lipstick or high heels.
I look at the tree even though I really don’t want to. And I find it, instantly, like I always do every time my eyes hit the bark: Clint & Rose. At the bottom, near the thick, gnarly roots that poke up out of the ground. As I stare, I can still feel the tiny glass bottle of red model paint I'd held in my hand while crouching to paint our names down there. God, I was younger even than Girl Power back then.
Rosie, Rosie, Rosie. I miss you …
“You all right?”
When I turn, I realize the girl’s dad, the runner, is staring at me, eyes filled with worry. Kind of rattles me, makes me remember the time when everybody was flashing me that look.
Two years ago. Hard to believe days can stack up so fast, but there it is, just the same: the accident was a little over two years ago.
Suddenly I’m thinking about Rosie’s room, and the paperbacks she’d leave open on her bed, spines cracked and broken so they’d lie flat. I’m thinking about her singing at Pike’s during the dinner rush, with the half-assed “band” she’d formed with Todd and Greg. I’m thinking about the little white Miata she drove too fast. I’m thinking about the way she wore her black hair in braids even when she was too old for pigtails. I’m thinking about how fantastic it was just to hold her hand.
I’m thinking about the funeral, too. About the way Greg followed me across the snow-covered cemetery, all the way to my truck. Watched me swat away every I’m so sorry that came my way. Watched as I told my parents I wasn’t going right home.
“What?” I snapped at Greg as I unlocked my driver side door. We were both still in our black overcoats. Uptight wool things our moms had bought, insisting we’d need them for special occasions, that we were getting to the right age for them. We kind of looked stupid though, not really even like ourselves.
“You think I’m gonna crack or something?” I shouted at him.
Greg shrugged, his hands hidden in his pockets. “I dunno, man. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not. Okay?”
“It’s okay to—”
“To what?” I yelled, the driver side door of my truck screeching open in the cold.
“To—I don’t know—want to—scream—or something. I’m just saying—if you want to scream—”
“I gotta go to work.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Work,” I said again. “Inventory. Pike’s.”
“We just buried your girlfriend,” Greg said. “You can’t tell me your parents—”
“I gotta go,” I said, climbing into the cab.
I flicked the radio on and drove through the winter streets until I hit Baudette. When I got to Pike’s, I parked two spaces over from my usual spot and unlocked the front door of the restaurant, even though I always used to come in through the back. And I tossed my coat onto the first table inside, even though I always used to keep it on the hook in Pop’s office. And I swore that everything would be different. Where I put my shoes. What I ate for breakfast. Where I went every weekend.
Because if I changed every single thing I did, wouldn’t that mean I had a different life? Wouldn’t that mean that I’d feel different, too? I