The Deal We Struck [Wattys 2019]

[1] Soggy Kisses

The sun shone bright between the New Hampshire trees, and the crowds of people gave off an unbearable heat. But I, myself, was alone at the beach, friendless and unescorted.

I was planning an adventure back to my special cove, tucked away in the woods by the shore. No one could find me there besides the characters of Judy Bloom's imagination. She was my favorite author, a fair share of her books more than appropriate for the summertime.

I was going dip my feet in the glassy water, and feel the occasional waves collapse against my shin as a motorboat or water skier passed by.

I shimmied my way between two trees and disappeared into the underbrush. Tip toeing along the forest path, I made my way to the hideaway. After a five minute trudge, I stretched my leg high, to clamber onto my rock. I pulled my body over the ledge.

"Can I help you?" An unfamiliar voice startled my foot to slip. I yelped, as I slid down the side of the rock, into the cold pond. Drenched, startled, and annoyed, I resurfaced to face my invader. "You okay there?" He reached out a rough hand, offering me assistance back onto the rock. Regretfully, I accepted; his hand was warm to the touch.

"I'm fine." I spat, shivering in the dry air.

"Here," he tapped a spot on the rock, and held up the towel he was sitting on.

"I wasn't planning on taking a swim today," I remarked, accepting the towel. I removed my soaking tank top and jean shorts, and laid them out carefully beside me to dry.

"Looks as if you were," he gestured to my bikini.

"That's solely for emergency circumstances." I kept things vague, he was a stranger after all.

"Like what? Someone needs you to save them from drowning?"

"Something along those lines." I shrugged, glancing around. "My book!" I jumped to my feet, searching the surface of the water for Margaret. There it lay, about twenty feet offshore, pages melting.

"Old-fashioned." The stranger commented, gazing after the now not-so-hardback-book.

"Can't be an old fashioned reader when your book is lost at sea." I reminded him.

"touché," he agreed. I didn't reply, and allowed an uncomfortable silence to settle in the air. After a painful two minutes which felt like eons, he spoke: "You from around here?"
"Just a short paddleboarding trip away," I felt my left dimple concave.

"Nice. This side of the lake?" I could feel his eyes on me, but I refused to meet them.

"Yeah," I nodded, pursing my lips.

"I'm just across," he pointed to a small, red cabin, slightly tucked away behind a clutter of elms.

"Convenient," It was the only word that came to mind.

"That it is," again I had no reply. "I didn't catch your name?"

"Pembrooke," I wondered if I should give a stranger my last name, and in the end decided he seemed nice enough. "Pembrooke McCroy."

"It's nice to meet you, Pembrooke." He stuck out his hand for the second time. I shook it, reluctantly. "Dawson," he hesitated just as I did. "Dawson Wiley." I looked him up and down. He could've been 17, definitely not younger. "You from around here?"

"I just moved from New York City. How 'bout you?"

"Born and raised," he smirked. "You going to Berkeley Springs in the fall?"
"Yep," I was beginning to trust Dawson Wiley a bit more.

"That city name won't help you ease in around here," how helpful.

"What do you suggest I be called?" I finally met his eyes, mimicking his body language.