Page 105 of Office Hours
“Only if you are.”
I think about it: his elegant yet comfortable home, my pile of thrifted mugs, the way his shampoo smells. I think about the future, and for the first time, I don’t feel panic. I feel the edges of happiness.
I slide over, crawl into his lap, arms around his neck. “I’d love to,” I say, and mean it.
He buries his face in my shoulder and holds me so tight I can barely breathe.
It’s not fireworks. It’s not a movie ending.
But it’s ours.
And it’s enough.
The drive northis the color of sunlight filtered through bug splatter and pine needles. The old Civic is packed to the roof with groceries, beach towels, the sort of optimistic gear you bring to cabins even though you know you’ll spend most of the time inside, tangled up in each other or hiding from mosquitoes. I’m the DJ, as always, but Liam sneaks in a playlist of his own—Wilco, Cat Power, a dash of Depeche Mode for the nostalgia. He sings along in a low, careful way that suggests he’s only half-trying, as if to remind me he’s more human than legend.
The lake cabin is not the horror movie type, nor the luxury Instagram sort. It’s weathered, lopsided, a structure that squats rather than perches. There’s a stone fireplace blackened fromdecades of woodsmoke, a fridge that hums so loud you can hear it from the dock, and floorboards that announce your location at all times. The nearest neighbor is visible through a fringe of birch trees, but only if you squint. The water’s so clear you can see minnows flickering in the shallows, and it smells like nothing except water—no gasoline, no runoff, just the endless, blank possibility of July.
We unpack, which is a joke, because neither of us brought more than shorts, swimsuits, and a few changes of underwear. I flop onto the musty sofa, while Liam inspects the kitchen like he’s about to host a reality show. He finds a box of pancake mix so old it expired during the Obama administration.
“You think it’s still safe?” he asks, shaking it so hard the cardboard bulges.
“It’s technically food,” I say. “That’s all you can ask out here.”
He grins, then stashes it back on the shelf. “Pancakes or death. Dealer’s choice.”
We make up the bed in the only bedroom—one of those foam-topped deals, more hammock than mattress—and spread our stuff around like a territorial claim. There’s no cell service, no WiFi, not even a TV; just a battered stack of New Yorkers and a chess set with three extra queens. I’m giddy. The world could end and we wouldn’t know for days.
The sun is still high, so we change into swimsuits and walk barefoot down to the dock. The boards are so hot I have to jog, but the lake is a fridge—ice shock, then a numbness that peels away every other sensation. I dive first, then surface and flip my hair back like I’m in a shampoo ad. Liam follows, wading inslow, arms raised in a parodic panic, then lobs a wave at me that nearly drowns my sinuses.
We float on our backs, watching the sky change colors by imperceptible degrees, and he tells me about the book he’s supposed to be writing. The publisher wants more sex, less philosophy. He thinks it’s a metaphor for his life.
“Maybe you should write under a pseudonym,” I suggest. “Then you could say anything.”
He smirks, “I already say what I want.”
We drift until the water chills us, then climb out and sit on the end of the dock, feet dangling. He opens a bottle of cheap wine with a shoe and a stick (city skills don’t matter here), and we drink straight from the neck, sharing it back and forth. It tastes like sour cherries and wood smoke.
He watches a loon land on the water, wings splayed, a little awkward. “I think they mate for life,” he says.
I snort. “Only because they never see any other loons.”
He laughs, but then gets quiet. “What would you do if you could do anything, anywhere? No limits.”
It’s one of those questions that used to fill me with dread. Now, I just let the silence be.
“Write, I guess. Or teach. Or write about teaching.” I think about it. “But honestly, just this. I’d be happy if the world was just this.”
My handsome boyfriend leans over, kisses my cheek, then my jaw. “Good answer.”
We watch the sky go gold, then lavender. Somewhere behind us, a squirrel shrieks at another squirrel, but out here, there’s room for even their pettiness. When the sun sinks, we wander up to the cabin, shivering from the wet.
He builds a fire—old pro, one match, no starter fluid. I make a meal out of crackers and deli cheese. We eat on the rug in front of the hearth, both of us cross-legged, knees touching. The wine is gone, but the heat from the flames is enough.
He pulls me into his lap, arms strong around my waist. I press my forehead to his, and we just breathe, sharing the space.
After a long while, he says, “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” It’s not cheesy. It’s a fact.
“Even better than winning the poetry fellowship?” I tease.
