Devil's Lake

3 - Long Lost Friend?

I scramble down to my knees to retrieve my phone before lifting my eyes. A pair of dirty bare feet. Khaki torn trousers lined with mud. A loose fitting Renaissance-styled shirt over a thin but fit torso. I glimpse the man's face, shyly. Dark hair ends just above his shoulders, and a light beard lines his chin.

I stand back up slowly and stop breathing.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you." He has something like a French accent, but it sounds a little unusual. And he watches me, eyes me cautiously as if waiting for some reaction.

I say nothing. I don't even move as he continues to approach.

"I saw you pass out in the water. I wanted to make sure you were . . . "

My heart patters quickly in my chest. I think I'm too afraid to breathe.

He slows his walking. "I'm not going to hurt you if that's what you're worried about."

I shake my head instinctively, but his suggestion makes me worried. Images of girls alone in parking lots being abducted flood my mind. I'm sure I've seen security footage on the news of such things. Sometimes the girls' bodies aren't found, right? They're just presumed dead.

The stranger stops and puts his hands out.

"You don't remember me," he says. "Do you?"

He'd been the one standing on the rock before I passed out in the water, but . . .

"I mean from before," he says. "When we were kids."

I consider running, but where? I'm too shaken to go back toward the beach, and that's where the largest crowd is. Maybe I can get back into the car, lock the door, and—

"You're Alison Halse," he says. "You used to live on a farm off of Walnut Street."

I shoot a look at him. "Who—who did you say you are?"

He walks up beside me. "Philip Dussault," he says, giving me a little smile.

I feel myself blush. He really is too attractive. "Alright, okay," I say and fumble with my keys. "Well, it was nice meeting you."

As I turn to unlock the door, he leans his side against my car, just close enough to block my way in.

"We should hang out," he says. "Catch up. It isn't every day that you bump into a friend you haven't seen in nearly a decade."

"Um . . . "

"Have you had lunch?" he says. "We could go down to the Chateau and get a bite to eat. My treat."

My body starts to shiver.

"It'll be fun," he says. "Besides you still seem a bit shaken anyway. It'll give you – "

"I can't!" God, I'm overreacting!

"What's wrong?" he says.

And then something happens. It's hard to describe. There seems a gentle push in my mind, and out of my mouth plops the words, "I'm afraid of the lake!"

He looks at me, the smile leaving his face as a cloud momentarily blocks the sun. 

"Oh," he says.

Oh, God! Here comes the ridicule. "Uh, yeah," I say. "It's sort of a phobia thing. Well, not a thing. It's a phobia and not my only one. It's why I passed out in the lake. God, why am I telling you this?" I turn back to my car door. "I gotta go. Bye." God, could this interaction get any worse?

He doesn't get out of my way. He seems to consider saying something, but then just nods.

"Okay," he finally says. "Okay. Let's go somewhere else. How about the DQ on twelve?"