Page 12 of Until Next Summer
“Seventeen,” I say, watching his brown eyes widen. They narrow again when he realizes I’m kidding.
“I just hate for you to lose momentum,” he says, dropping into his courtroom voice.
My father is the one who taught me the value of following a plan, and his plan for me does not include my taking two months “off.” But for the first time in my life, I’m not letting his opinion stop me.
“I’ve got it all figured out,” I say. “I’m starting the Water Tower project the week after Labor Day, and I’ve got two more clients lined up after that.”
“Yes, well, it’s still a long time to be gone.”
His mouth twists, and I’m reminded of his disposition every summer before I left for camp—somber and sentimental, hugging me extra tight and standing in the doorway a little longer before he said good night. It was as if time suddenly became tangible, and he could feel it slipping away. I assume he’s feeling the same way now. I reach across the table to cover his hand with mine.
“I’ll miss you, too, Dad.”
“It’s Aaron I’m worried about,” my father says with false bravado. “Eight weeks is a long time for a man to be on his own.”
This old-fashioned sentiment makes me cringe, but before I can think of a good retort about the patriarchy, Aaron says, “What’s eight weeks when you’ve got forever?”
My dad breaks into an uncharacteristically bright smile and catches Aaron’s eye. Are the two of them in cahoots? Having conversations about my life, our future, over thewater cooler? Did Aaron ask for my dad’s permission to propose?
I flash back to an image of a future without time off, without love, and the table starts to wobble. Or maybe it’s my chair.
It’s where we’ve been heading, yet the infinite nature of the word is overwhelming.Forever. My chest feels tight; it’s hard to breathe. Aaron says something and my dad replies. Their words sound garbled, like Charlie Brown’s teacher.
“You okay, babe?” Aaron asks. It’s like he’s talking to me from the other end of a tunnel. When I don’t answer, he lays a heavy hand on my leg. “Babe?”
“I’m good,” I say. And somehow, I manage to pretend that I am.
—
By the time our tiramisu arrives, my pulse has returned to normal. I’m able to enjoy the moment, and the dessert. Then it’s time to leave, and I squeeze my father extra tight and promise to send him a postcard every week. Assuming the canteen still sells them. If not, I’ll make my own the way we used to, cutting up boxes of cereal and writing messages on the brown cardboard interior.
Maybe we’ll do that for one of our weekly craft activities. Simple and sustainable. I mentally add it to the list I’ve been curating in a Google Doc. While I used to spend all my free time in the Arts and Crafts cabin, I haven’t touched a glue gun or colored thread in the decade since. Thank god for Pinterest.
“You were a million miles away tonight,” Aaron says, grabbing my hand as we walk down Ontario.
He’s not wrong, and I know every self-help book on the planet would tell me that the best way to deepen our relationship is to let him in.
“Sorry,” I say, giving his hand a squeeze. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
It’s a cop-out, but I don’t have the energy to unpack how it feels like we’re on different pages of different books. He’s talking to my father about our future while I can’t stop thinking about my past. Even if I tried to explain, I’m not sure he’d understand.
“Did you ever go to camp?” I ask.
Aaron shakes his head, and I’m disappointed, but not surprised. It shouldn’t matter that he’s not a camp person. I’m not one anymore, but it feels like I’m on the precipice of becoming one again.
Re-coming, not becoming.
Although I don’t know if it’s possible to reconcile the girl I used to be with the woman I am today. The woman Aaron is planning to spend forever with.
We stop at the corner of Michigan, waiting for the light to change, and I look at Aaron. Really look at him. He’s a good man, and he’d make a good husband. Is it the worst thing in the world if we have different priorities? Money does matter, and it affords us the life we live. So what if he doesn’t give me butterflies? It’s not like anyone else has, either.
Aaron catches me looking at him and leans down for a chaste kiss. I’m usually not a fan of PDA, but I lean into it, opening my mouth, desperate to feel something that will give me an answer to the question that’s been hanging in the air all night.
My response surprises Aaron, but he quickly recovers,pulling me flush against him, deepening the kiss. He doesn’t seem to mind the hordes of tourists around us; if anything, it seems to turn him on. He presses his erection against me, and I feel the flutter of something in my belly—but it disappears the moment I lock eyes with a woman staring at us. She blushes, but I’m the one who’s mortified. This is ridiculous. I’m too old to be making out in the street, chasing butterflies.
I pull away from Aaron, whose eyes are dark with desire. I may not know what our future holds, but I know I can’t leave him hanging like this when I’m about to leave for two months.
Pushing all the things left on my to-do list out of my mind, I slip my hand in his and say, “Let’s go back to my place.”
