on the far end of the deck led to the rickety, narrow boardwalk that led to the beach.
None of us spoke as we kicked off our shoes, then walked down the boardwalk single file.
Tonight the silence seemed heavy with meaning and mourning. But actually we were always pretty quiet during our first visit to the lake. After the Pacific, so violent and crashy, the lake seemed so quiet that it always made us go quiet too. As a little kid I imagined that this water kept people’s secrets. Whatever you whispered here was safe. The lake would never tell.
As we stepped—one after another—from the boardwalk onto the sand, I realized that maybe I hadn’t completely outgrown that notion.
After we’d settled onto the sand (nobody had had the extra arm for a picnic blanket) my mother declared, “Dinner on the beach on our first night in Bluepointe. It’s a new tradition.”
Even though her voice caught on the last syllable and her eyes looked glassy in the light of the setting sun, she smiled.
I gave her my own damp-eyed smile back. It felt weird to be simultaneously so sad without Granly and so happy to be there in that moment. The smoky, charred corn was dripping with butter and the sand was still warm from the sun, which had become a painfully beautiful pink-orange. The gentle waves were making the whooshing sound that I loved.
When I’d finished my salmon and licked the lemony salad dressing from my fingers, I got to my feet. I scuffed through the sand, tiptoed over the strip of rocks and shells that edged the lake, and finally plunged my feet into the water. It was very, very cold.
I gasped, but forced my feet to stay submerged. The cold of the water felt important to endure for some reason. Like a cleansing of this very long day.
I glanced back at my family. Abbie was sitting with her legs splayed out while she gnawed on her cob of corn. Hannah was lying on her stomach gazing past me to the sunset. My parents were sitting side by side, both with their legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles, my mom’s head resting on my dad’s shoulder.
There was only one person missing.
My mind swooped to an image of Granly. If she were here right now, she’d be sitting in a folding beach chair. Maybe she’d sip a glass of wine while she searched the sky for the first stars of the night. Or she’d be efficiently packing the dishes up while she gossiped with my mom about old Chicago friends.
But then something surprising happened. Just as quickly as my mind had swooped to Granly, it swooped away again and landed on—the boy from the bookstore.
I wondered what it would be like if he were here on the beach with me. He didn’t seem like the goofy splashing-around-in-the-water type. But I could definitely picture him taking a long, contemplative walk along the lake. Or building a sand castle with me, with all the turrets carefully lined up according to size.
I wondered if he knew the constellations and would point them out as the night sky grew darker. Or maybe he didn’t like to talk much. Maybe he was more of a listener.
I tried to imagine what it might feel like to lean my head against his shoulder or snuggle into those lanky arms. And I remembered the way his face had lit up when he’d smiled at me for the first time.
But after his mom had brought him back down to earth, his face had tightened. His mouth had become a straight, serious line as he’d struggled with the receipt tape and perhaps reviewed a long to-do list of chores in his head.
It had not looked like a kissable mouth.
And those broad shoulders? It seemed there was enough leaning on them already. There was no room for my head there.
Even if there was, was Josh thinking about me in the same way?
Was he thinking about me at all? He didn’t even know my name!
I couldn’t stop repeating his name in my head. Josh. I loved the one-syllable simplicity of it. I loved the way it ended with a shhhh that you could draw out, like the soft sizzle of a Lake Michigan wave.
But I stopped myself from whispering the name out loud. If I did, I felt sure that I wouldn’t be able to get it—to get him and my does-he-like-me? angst—out of my head.
So instead I tromped back to my