Meet Me at the Lake

We only had five minutes to get to the station, and the streetcar was stalled. Whitney and I shoved our way from the back of the vehicle through the dense mass of bodies, mumbling half-hearted apologies before we stumbled out onto the sidewalk and took off.

“Hurry up, Whit,” I yelled over my shoulder.

Being late was not an option. There was one bus north that day, and while neither of us had said so, Whitney and her oversized suitcase needed to be on it. We’d spent three days together in my teensy apartment, and our friendship might not survive a fourth.

The sun crouched low in the sky, winking between buildings and glittering off glass towers, as we ran along Dundas Street, our sneakers pounding on the gum-pocked pavement. If you looked up, the glare was blinding, but at ground level, Toronto’s downtown core was cast in blue-gray morning shadow. The contrast was beautiful. The way the light bounced off the windows reminded me of home, a sunset shimmering on the lake.

I wanted to stop and point it out to Whitney. But we didn’t have a second to spare, and even if we had, I doubted she’d find anything magical about the sparkling skyline. I’d been trying to get her to see Toronto through my eyes for her entire trip, and I hadn’t succeeded yet.

We arrived at the coach terminal one minute late, but a long line of travelers stood beside the bus parked at Bay 9, looking various degrees of irritated. The driver was nowhere in sight.

“Thank god,” I breathed.

Whitney doubled over, hands on her knees. Strands of her thick chestnut hair had fallen from her ponytail and were stuck to her crimson cheeks. “I. Hate. Running.”

When she’d caught her breath, we checked that we had the right departure information and attached ourselves to the back of the queue. The station was essentially an oversized garage—a dark, dank armpit of Toronto. The air tasted of vending machine sandwiches, diesel fumes, and misery.

I checked the time on my phone. It was already after ten. I was going to be late for my shift at the coffee shop.

“You don’t have to wait,” Whitney said. “I can take it from here.”

Whitney and I had been best friends since grade school. She had a round face with hazel doe eyes and a tiny cherry of a nose that under most circumstances made her seem deceptively innocent. It was sweet that Whitney was trying to sound brave, but she was clutching her nylon purse to her middle as if it would be snatched away with any less vigilance.

At twenty-two, Whitney had never been alone in Toronto, not even for ten minutes, and while I knew she’d be safe, I wasn’t about to ditch her in one of the city’s dingiest crannies.

“It’s fine. I want to see you off,” I told her.

“Just think,” she said, bouncing on her toes. “Soon I won’t have to come all this way for us to see each other.”

It wasn’t a long drive—two and a half picturesque hours—but whatever.

I stuck on a smile. “I can’t wait.”

“I know you like it here.” She peered over her shoulder. “But sometimes I don’t get it.”

A sarcastic reply stood waiting on my tongue.

How seldom Whitney visited me during university was a sore spot. I wasn’t sure whether it was because our relationship hadn’t found solid footing since our big fight over my “self-destructive behavior” in senior year, or simply because she didn’t like the city. But each trip, it was clear she’d rather be in Huntsville. She didn’t say no to my suggestions, but she wasn’t overly enthusiastic, either. It wasn’t like her. Whitney was the ultimate yes and person—for her, any possibility for antics and adventure was good news.

“Honestly, I’d be happy eating bread and hanging out in your apartment for the next two days,” she’d said when she arrived this week.

Frankly, it pissed me off. My time in Toronto was running out, and there were so many things I still wanted to do. Whitney was supposed to be my wing woman. Instead, I felt like I was dragging her around.

“What’s not to get?” I said now, gesturing around the station with mock grandeur as a man horked on the concrete the next bay over.

Whitney cringed, then glanced down at her phone. “Jamie’s texting me. He wants me to give you a kiss for him.” Her nose wrinkled as she read his messages. “Kiss Fernie goodbye for me. Tongue allowed. Encouraged. Send photo. Winky face.”

I shook my head, fighting the upward curve of my mouth. Jamie was like a human Labradoodle—a happy-go-lucky, pleasure-seeking mop of golden curls. Hearing his name made me feel a little lighter. “My boyfriend said that? I’m shocked.”

“He’s dying to get you up there. We all are.”

I swallowed, then with relief spotted a man in a telltale navy uniform ambling toward the bus.

“Take your time,” one of the passengers yelled at him. “It’s not like we’re behind schedule.”

“I’m so excited we’ll be in the same place again,” Whitney went on.

I nodded, pushing the words out. “Me too.”

Four years of living apart from my best friend and my boyfriend: I should have been counting the seconds until we were reunited. I hadn’t seen Jamie since his surprise trip on Valentine’s Day. During the winter, he worked as a snowboarding instructor in Banff, but he’d been back at the resort since the May long weekend. I’d finished my final year of university—I should have been there with him. I should have packed my bags after my last exam in April. Instead, I talked Mom into letting me stay until the end of June so I could bum around the city until convocation, which was now a week away. I played on her sympathies as a business owner, telling her my boss was having trouble finding a barista to replace me.

The bus rumbled to life, and then the driver began tossing luggage into its underbelly. As passengers shuffled forward and the line dwindled, Whitney and I gave each other a long squeeze.

“Love you, Baby,” she said.

Growing up at a Dirty Dancing–style resort came with a Dirty Dancing–style nickname. “Baby.” I hated it. It didn’t even make sense—Baby was a guest.

I stood on my tiptoes and pulled her hood up, yanking on the strings to cinch it around her face. “Love you, too,” I told her. At least that wasn’t a lie.

Once Whitney had found a seat, I blew her a kiss and took my headphones from my canvas tote bag. I pressed play, letting Talking Heads drown out the bus engine and the ticking countdown that grew louder with each passing moment.

Nine more days until I had to go home.

—

My headphones were both my therapist and my invisibility cloak. Two Sugars was only a few blocks from the station—not far enough for the music to wash away my guilt or make me forget about the resort and the responsibilities waiting for me there. My past waited for me back home, too. The Huntsville High rumor mill was once powered by Fern Brookbanks gossip. Years had gone by, but I knew people still thought of me as That Girl—the one who’d gone off the rails. With any luck, the coffee shop would be busy enough that my mind would switch to autopilot by the time I pulled my tenth shot of espresso.

I walked east, jostling through the horde of tourists at Yonge and Dundas. I liked its tackiness—the concrete, flashing billboards and the double-decker tour buses—but I loved how there were people everywhere, and not a single one was looking at me. Every day, one hundred thousand people crossed the intersection, and in that madness, I was a perfect nobody.

I told people I was from Huntsville, but it wasn’t totally accurate. The resort was far outside town, on the rocky shores of Smoke Lake. Coming to Toronto for university felt like moving to the moon. I wished I could play space explorer forever.

I turned up my music, rolling my shoulders forward then back as the sun found my neck. The temperature was supposed to set a record high. Toronto was at its best in June. The patios and parks spilled over with unbridled early summer giddiness. In June, a hot day was a gift. By August, it would be a burden, and the city would reek of stewed garbage.

I’d dressed for the heat in a pair of frayed jean shorts, and a tank top under a short-sleeved blouse I’d found at Value Village. It was flowy and sheer and had a tiny brown floral pattern I thought was stylish in a nineties way—you could hardly see the yellow stain near the hem.

A row of metal newspaper boxes stood guard outside Two Sugars, and I grabbed an issue of The Grid, the free alt-weekly I liked best, before pulling on the door. It was locked. Confused, I yanked on the handle again, then pressed my nose to the glass. The coffee shop was my favorite place in the world, and it was empty except for Luis. The smell of wet paint licked my nose as soon as he opened the door.

“Why are we closed?” I asked, taking my headphones off and stepping inside. I stopped at the sight of a black-and-white painting covering one wall. “What’s this?”

“What’s this?” Luis pointed at my head.

“A trim.”

He snorted. “That’s not a trim. You cut off all your hair.” He smiled. “I like it.”

I tugged at one of the short strands at the back—it was barely long enough to hold between my fingers. I’d had it done after my last shift, before Whitney arrived. Considering my hair had been well past my shoulders, it was a big change.

“I don’t remember asking your opinion, but thanks,” I said. “So what’s going on in here?”

“You didn’t know about the mural?” Luis folded his arms across his impressive chest. Other staff members had come and gone at Two Sugars, but the two of us had worked together for three years.

“Nope.”

“Well, we have a mural now. Or we almost do.”

I looked around. The artist appeared to be missing. “And you and I are playing babysitter?” I guessed.

“One of us is. I’ve been here the last couple of days.” He pulled a small key ring out of his pocket. “It’s your turn.”

I stared at Luis. Spending hours alone with some random stranger, having to make conversation—the idea was almost more repellant than public speaking. “No,” I said.

“Yes,” Luis replied in singsong. “I’m going to the island. I’m meeting friends at the ferry in half an hour.”

I growled out a “Fine” and took the key, then threw my stuff onto a table and wandered closer to the mural. “So where’s our Michelangelo?”

“He went to grab something to eat,” Luis said. “He should be done by early afternoon, and then you can take off. We’re closed until tomorrow.”

I could survive a few hours. I had a joint in my bag and plans to smoke it in the alley after I was done. I wanted to walk through my city and back to my place in Little Italy.

“Do you like it?” Luis asked.

I studied the mural. The artist had made a fun-house version of Toronto’s skyline and waterfront. Everything was a bit distorted— the CN Tower was tiny, clutched in the claws of a raccoon. Toronto was getting off on itself lately, and this type of trendy city pride was everywhere: on T-shirts; on posters; even on my tote bag, which was designed with a map of Little Italy, its street names forming the neighborhood grid.

“I don’t know,” I said. “It seems kind of . . . basic?”

“Ouch,” a deep voice said behind us.

I turned around slowly.

Dressed in loose blue cotton coveralls was a guy around my age, holding a paper take-out bag. He was extraordinarily tall and held himself even taller. His mussed black hair fell just past his ears. His nose was a touch on the long side, but it suited him.

“This is our Michelangelo,” Luis said.

The guy’s jaw and cheekbones were angular, almost sharp. I didn’t know where to look, there was so much of him, and it was all very . . . nice.

“Your basic Michelangelo,” the guy corrected. I dropped my gaze. He was too pretty to look at directly. He wore a pair of tan work boots with neon pink laces.

“I usually go by Will.” He stuck out his palm. “Will Baxter.”

I stared at his large hand and then met his eyes. They were as dark as an oil spill.

“And you are?” Will asked after a moment, dropping his arm to his side.

I glared at Luis, irritated. Guys this hot were the worst. Cocky, self-absorbed, dull. Plus, he was tall. Hot plus tall meant he’d be completely insufferable. I bet the only thing this guy struggled with was finding pants that fit properly. Luis made a little wave as if to say, He’s fine.

“Fern.”

Will raised his eyebrows, asking for more.

“Brookbanks,” I told him, running my fingers behind my ear to tuck my hair in place, only there wasn’t enough hair to rearrange.

“Sorry to hear you think my work’s basic, Fern Brookbanks,” Will said with exaggerated cheer, “because I believe you’re stuck with me for the rest of the day.”

I gave him a tight smile.

“Well, kids, I’m gonna split,” Luis said. “Will, despite first impressions, Fern won’t bite.”

“Hey,” I said.

“I’ll see you Monday.” Luis kissed my cheek, then whispered in my ear, “He’s a doll. Be nice.”

I locked the door behind Luis, feeling Will’s eyes on the side of my face.

“What?”

“Tell me why you don’t like it.”

He took a muffin out of the paper bag, peeling off the parchment. My stomach gurgled. I’d made Mom’s pancakes as a special goodbye breakfast for Whitney, but that was hours ago. Will broke the muffin in half and held out a hunk.

“Thanks,” I said, shoving it into my mouth. Lemon-cranberry.

We turned to face the wall. Everything but the right-hand corner looked finished.

“The raccoon’s fine,” I said. When he didn’t respond, I peered up at him. He was better looking at close proximity. His bottom lashes were an exaggerated curve, as black as the lake at midnight. They were long and delicate, kissing the skin below his eyes, and the contrast with his splattered, saggy work gear was weirdly thrilling. I studied the mural again. “It’s not terrible.”

His laugh came out of nowhere, popping like a firework. It was delight made acoustic. “Tell me what you really think.”

“It’s just not what I would have chosen. It’s so different in here than it was six months ago.” My boss had decided the space needed “modernizing.” The beat-up cherrywood chairs were now molded black plastic. The turquoise walls had been painted white. There were no more Renoir posters.

I made the mistake of looking at Will again. The way he watched me with fascination made me uneasy. “Not a big fan of change?”

“I liked the way it was before.” I pointed to a corner by the window. “We had this old orange velvet armchair there, and all these Nigella Lawson cookbooks.” Hardly anyone looked through them, but Nigella was our thing. “There were wooden beads hanging over there.” I gestured to the doorway that led to the prep kitchen.

The wall Will was painting once had a large corkboard over the milk and sugar station, where people tacked flyers for piano lessons, missed connections, knitting circles—anything, really. Last year, one of our regulars proposed to his boyfriend by pinning up a sign that read, I love you, Sean. Will you marry me? He’d cut vertical strips into the bottom, each with the same answer: Yes.

“It used to be cozy in here. It’s like a totally different place now,” I said. “It’s so . . . stark.”

“I know what you mean,” Will said, brushing muffin from his chest pockets. There was a plain gold signet ring on his pinkie. “Every time I come back to Toronto, it’s changed a little. Sometimes more than a little.”

“You don’t live here?”

“Vancouver,” he said. “But I grew up here. And yeah, it’s always evolving. I don’t mind it, though.” He pushed a slice of hair off his face. “Whenever I’m home, I have the chance to get to know the city all over again.”

“How romantic,” I said, deadpan. But his words hit my bloodstream like an espresso shot.