and take a swallow of Andrew’s wine. His eyebrows pull together, disapproving.
“The second thing,” he says as a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, “I’d like to give this a real try. You and me.”
My eyebrows shoot up. Okay. Here we go. This is it.
“I’ve been an idiot. I’ve already been planning our professional lives—why shouldn’t we share our whole lives with each other? After law school, assuming things go well, we can…get married.”
I choke, though I’m not sure on what. I thought we were going to talk about dating. Did he seriously just jump into a proposal? My mind is reeling, and my ears ring as if I’m underwater.
Andrew laughs, probably at my stunned expression. “I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that, but when you think about it…haven’t we practically been dating since eighth grade?”
“You sound like my mom,” I say with a laugh, rolling my eyes. The restaurant has gotten more crowded since we first arrived, and there’s a growing din.
He doesn’t return my attempt at humor. Instead, he shakes his head and says, “Why are you always so critical of her?”
I feel a twinge of guilt at his words. Last night I hadn’t even come down for dinner. I’m making my husband’s favorite, chicken divan. Husband! It’s such a joke. It has to stop.
Does Andrew need reminding that this whole summer wouldn’t have happened if Mom hadn’t invested so much in her delusion that Dad was coming back? For years, she’s been one person living in a relationship meant for two. She’s foregone opportunities, holed herself away in the hope—no, the expectation—that her fantasy life would materialize.
What was she thinking? You can’t build a future on that kind of delusion. I bet if Dad walked back into the house tonight and confessed his love for her, she’d be ready to just forget all that—
With a jolt, I look up at Andrew.
“Katherine?” he asks, leaning in. “Are you all right?”
Ohmygod. Oh. My. God! I’m my mother. I’ve been my freakin’ mother! All these years, I thought I was in a relationship with Andrew—maybe not consummated, but definitely a relationship. Wrong! I’d been in a game by myself, smacking the ball against a wall, without a partner.
Now, he’s shown up. He’s lobbing the ball back to me. It’s everything I’ve always wanted. I’ve been hoping, dreaming, planning for exactly this. And now I’m not sure I want to play anymore.
But that’s so stupid. Everybody wants to play this game. And this is Andrew! My Andrew. What the hell is wrong with me?
The answer comes like a voice in my head. Nothing is wrong with me if I just hold the course.
My phone is on the table, and I bump it with my hand. The screen flashes with a photograph of the lighthouse. Behind it is the lake, navy blue and laced with silver. There’s one small boat anchored in the bay. I took the picture on one of my first days on the island, back when I realized my phone was going to be nothing more than a camera until I returned to civilization.
My mind shatters into memories of a sad watercolor painting and a happily-ever-after story. I shake my head.
Even if I follow my own plan, I can’t have the fairy tale anymore. I’ve done too much damage to have that again. I can follow my own path, but I’ll have to do it from right here in Minneapolis. This is where I’m supposed to be, anyway.
But “supposed to” never felt so flat and empty.
I’m hungry for home, and that place isn’t here. It isn’t with Mom, or in my house, or at my school, or even in this city. It’s not even with Andrew. Home is very, very far away right now. And worse, I’m not sure home even wants me back anymore. Oh, God. Bennet. I never even said good-bye.
Andrew’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “Um, Katherine? Hell-o? I’m talking about our future, and you’re checking your phone?”
A ragged breath scrapes through my teeth, and I squeeze my eyes so tightly they threaten to disappear into my head. I’m about to ruin everything I’ve dreamed of, everything Andrew has planned for us. Can I dash all his plans and still hope he’ll forgive me? Can our friendship withstand this? Can it?
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“I need to say some things,” I whisper.
“Okay,” he says, drawing the word out.
“First. I love you.” I teeter like I’m balanced on the edge of a knife.