Page 3 of Say You Love Me

My father loved the water. He loved this lake. Sometimes he would wake me in the middle of the night just to ask if I wanted to come here. He’d bundle me in the car and I would watch the stars with my forehead pressed to the window. I’d be in that state between sleep and wakefulness, the place where the surreal is tangible and reality feels more like a dream.

We’d laugh and talk as we strolled along the dock amongst the boats, pretending that one of them was ours. We’d sit on the shore and throw rocks, seeing who could skim theirs across the surface the furthest. We’d sit on the jetty and look up at the stars. I always thought we belonged here, that this little piece of the Earth was somehow ours.

So I come back here every year. I sit on the dock and dangle my feet into the water. I walk along the shores of the lake and watch the reflection of the lights dance.

And I think about him.

Tipping my head back, I look at the stars. They are brilliantly bright. Dad told me once that it was because someone had grabbed the fabric of the sky and pulled it closer to Earth.

The time that stands out most vividly in my memories was when I was nine. We snuck out of the house quietly, careful not to wake Mum, and Dad had driven all the way here, the radio crackling in the background. We stopped at the township on the edge of the lake, and he’d bought me a hot chocolate. It was winter and Dad made me bring one of the blankets from the car to wrap around my shoulders. He still let me put my feet in the water, though.

“Do you know what that one is called, Finity?” he’d asked me, pointing to a constellation.

I shook my head. The breeze played with my hair and it danced across my face. Dad reached over to tuck it behind my ear and I felt safe, cared for.

“Just look at it.” His voice was low and hushed, as though we were sharing a secret. “Tell me what you see.”

I stared and I stared but all I could see were the tiny pinpricks of light. I didn’t see any patterns or shapes.

Dad traced an outline against the sky. “There.” He turned to grin at me before looking back at the stars. “Do you see it now?”

I smiled and nodded, letting my eyes light up with the lie.

“I knew you would.” Dad wrapped his arm around my blanket-covered shoulders. “It looks like an orchid, don’t you think? It’s called the Phalaenopsis Blume Constellation.”

He leaned across me and pointed to another part of the sky. “And do you see that star there? The one that dances each time it changes color?”

I rubbed my eyes, trying to see what my father saw, but all I could see were little white dots. None of them changed color. None of them danced. Still, I nodded because it made my father smile.

“That’s called the Finity star.”

“Just like my name?”

“Exactly like your name. And do you know why it’s called that?”

I shook my head.

“Because there are no others like it. It’s rare. It’s special, just like you.”

And back then, I believed him.

It wasn’t until a few years later that I found out he’d made them all up. He’d imagined their shapes like he used to do with the clouds. There were no constellations called ‘Elephantis’ because they were in the shape of an elephant and no patterns that resembled a dove. There was no Finity star.

My father was a liar, but his lies made things better. So for that I forgave him.

Laughter echoes off the hulls of the boats and footsteps vibrate on the dock. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t belong. But I’m sitting next to a pillar, the shadows hiding me from the visitors, so I stay.

It’s a boy and a girl. A man and a woman. It’s hard to tell. The girl looks young, maybe in her late teens, but the man looks older. It’s something about the way he walks. Confident and strong. Shoulders pulled back, hands dug deep into his pockets. The girl is clutching onto his arm, staring up at him as though it hurts to look away. She stumbles, the heel of her shoe getting stuck between the slats of wood and he reaches out to steady her, but his smile is tight and his hands are hesitant. He doesn’t want to be here. Not with her.

Bare feet appear on the other side of the pillar and his toes curl around the wooden edge of the wharf. His pants are rolled up his calves as though he expects to get wet.

“Why are we here?” The girl hiccups.

The man sighs. It’s a long and slow breath, one that spells frustration. “We—” he emphasizes the word “—didn’t come here. I did. You just followed.”

The girl rolls her eyes and makes this sound at the back of her throat, dismissing his claim. “Way to break a girl’s heart, Hudson James.”

“You’re not a girl. You’re just Ava.”

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