Chapter 1: My favourite time of the year
The asphalt shimmered, a wavy mirage of heat rising off the road that pointed east, toward the ocean. Isabella pressed her forehead against the cool window of her mother’s station wagon, watching the familiar pines blur into a green streak. Her brother Steve was arguing with their mom about the radio, his voice a comfortable, buzzing drone.
“Mom, come on. It’s a road trip. We need anthem rock.”
“We need my sanity, which requires neither Steve Perry nor your tone.”
Isabella tuned them out. In her chest, a familiar bird was beating its wings against her ribs. Cousins. She could taste the salt on the air already, or maybe she was just remembering it. That first glimpse of the weathered gray shingles, the groan of the screen door, the way the light fell in long, lazy rectangles across the dusty floorboards of the summer house. It was a liturgy. A promise.
Every year since she could remember, the countdown began in January. Days crossed off on a calendar, a slow tick towards this: liberation.
“You’re quiet back there,” Steve said, twisting around from the front seat. “Already dreaming about Fisher?”
“Shut up, Steve.”
He grinned, a flash of white. “Which one, though? That’s the real question.”
She didn’t dignify that with a response, turning back to the window. It was always one Fisher. It had only ever been one. Conrad. The name was a stone she carried, smooth and worn from constant handling. Her crush was a quiet, permanent thing, like the lighthouse on the point. Just there.
The station wagon climbed the final, sandy hill, and then the world opened up. The Atlantic sprawled, infinite and glittering, under a sky so blue it hurt. The beach house stood sentinel at the cliff’s edge, holding its ground against the wind and the years. The paint was a little more peeled, the porch a little more crooked. It was perfect.
The car crunched to a halt on the shell driveway. Before the engine was even off, the screen door of the house slammed open with a sound like a gunshot. Jeremiah burst out, a blur of sun-bleached hair and easy joy, his grin visible from space.
“You’re here!”
Laurel got out of the car and hugged Susannah, who had appeared on the porch wearing a flowing kaftan, her hands covered in clay dust. Jeremiah rushed past them and wrapped Steve in a bear hug, lifting him off his feet. The air filled with the familiar soundtrack of their voices, overlapping and warm.
Belly got out of the car smiling. “Hi,” she said, the word simple and full.
Jeremiah released Steve and turned to her. His eyes, the same Fisher blue but always brighter, wider, swept over her. “Look who came back all grown up,” he said, his voice softer. He pulled her into a hug that smelled like sunscreen and the particular cedar scent of the house. It was comfortable, brotherly. Steve called him over to help with the bags.
Then, time seemed to slow down when Conrad came out.
He moved differently. He always had. Where Jeremiah exploded into a space, Conrad seemed to absorb it. He stepped onto the porch, adjusting the cuff of his worn denim jacket, his gaze somewhere out past the dunes. His hair was fluffier, blonder against his tan. He looked older. Thinner in the face, the lines of his jaw more defined.
He looked up, sensing her stare. Seeing her smiling, he paused for a fraction of a second. Then he came down the steps, his hands sliding into his pockets. He stood in front of her, closer than Jeremiah had. The air between them felt charged, quiet.
“I liked you better with glasses,” he said, his voice low. His ocean-blue eyes traveled over her face, noticing she’d changed.
Her heart, that traitorous bird, was now a frantic thing trying to escape. She willed her voice to be light. “Too bad. I like me better without them.”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his mouth. He reached out and ruffled her hair, a gesture so childhood, so brotherly it sent a contradictory pang through her. She laughed, swatting his hand away, the tension breaking into something easier.
“I think it’s time for a Belly Flop!”
Steve and Jeremiah yelled it in unison, a battle cry from a thousand summers past. The spell shattered into motion.
Belly ran. A shriek of genuine alarm and delight ripped from her as her sandals slapped against the hot flagstones. She could hear Conrad’s footsteps behind her, closer, always faster. He caught her easily, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind, slowing her momentum to a stumbling walk. She felt the solid warmth of his chest against her back, his laugh a quiet vibration.
“No! Jer, help!”
Jeremiah just grinned, moving to flank her. Conrad shifted his grip, his hands going under her arms, lifting her slightly off the ground as Jeremiah and Steve each took a leg.
“Traitors!” she gasped, laughing so hard it hurt.
They carried her, a wriggling, protesting bundle, across the lawn toward the glittering turquoise rectangle of the pool. The old chant began, their voices merging into a single booming count.
“1, 2, 3!”
They threw her. For a suspended second, she was airborne, the sky and the house tilting wildly. Then the water hit, a cold, shocking slap that swallowed her scream. She sank, bubbles roaring past her ears, before kicking back toward the light.
She surfaced, sputtering. “Guys! I think I hurt my ankle.” She put on her best pained face, treading water near the edge.
Conrad walked over, his shadow falling across her. He looked down, his expression unreadable. Then he knelt, offering his hand. She took it, her fingers slippery and cool against his warm, dry palm.
And yanked with all her strength.
He had a mere second of widened eyes before he plunged into the water beside her with a huge splash. She shrieked in triumphant laughter.
When he surfaced, his hair was plastered to his forehead. He blinked water from his lashes, looked right at her, and grabbed her arm. Not playfully. Firmly.
“Conrad—“
He pulled her under.
The world went silent and cool. All she could see was the blur of his white t-shirt, the sun-dappled light filtering through the water. His hand was still on her arm. They hung there for a moment, suspended in the blue quiet, a strange, breathless parody of a dance. Her laughter was gone, replaced by a rushing in her ears that wasn’t just the water.
They broke the surface together, gasping. He released her arm immediately. He didn’t look at her again, just swam to the ladder and hauled himself out in one fluid motion.
She followed, She climbed out, dripping and suddenly chilled in the breeze. The warmth of the moment was gone, carried away with the pool water now dripping from her onto the thirsty stone.
Conrad was a dark shape already disappearing into the house, the screen door sighing shut behind him. Jeremiah and Steve were laughing by the diving board, their world untouched. Hers felt tilted.
She padded across the lawn, the grass cool and sharp between her toes. Each drop that fell from her hair and clothes felt like a period, marking the end of a sentence she hadn’t finished speaking. The summer house loomed, its open windows like eyes.
Belly pushed the kitchen door open. The air was cooler, smelling of lemon polish and the earthy scent of vegetables.
“Hi,” she said, smiling at Susannah, who stood at the counter dicing tomatoes, her hands moving with quick, sure cuts.
Susannah looked up, her face immediately softening. “Sweetheart.” She set the knife down.
Belly sat on a stool at the island in the middle of the kitchen, a small puddle already forming on the worn wood floor beneath her.
“You’re dripping water all over the place,” Laurel said without looking up from the newspaper spread before her. She pushed her glasses up her nose and headed toward the laundry room.
As Laurel passed her, Susannah caught her eye. She mouthed, silent and emphatic, “Laurel. She is gorgeous.”
Laurel glanced at Belly, a quick, appraising look. A small, private smile touched her lips before she disappeared down the hall.
“You have always been lovely,” Susannah said, turning her full attention on Belly. She leaned against the counter, her gaze warm and startlingly direct. “But oh my god, look at you.”
A self-conscious heat bloomed on Belly’s neck. “I think I look pretty much the same.”
“You do not look the same at all.” Susannah came around the island. She took Belly’s face in her clay-dusted hands, her thumbs gentle on her cheekbones. She studied her, the way an artist studies a canvas. “You’re growing up,” she whispered, her voice thick with a sudden, surprising emotion. “You’re in bloom.”
Belly smiled, a tight, fragile thing. Susannah pulled her into a hug. She smelled like turpentine and gardenias. Susannah has always had a way of saying things that almost makes me believe her, Belly thought, pressing her face into Susannah’s shoulder.
Laurel returned with a thick, terrycloth towel. “Your growing up should call your father and tell him we got in safely,” she said, draping the towel around Belly’s shoulders.
Belly frowned, pulling the towel tight. “Why don’t you tell Steven to do it?”
“Because I’m telling you.”
“He’s coming on the Fourth,” Laurel added, returning to her newspaper.
“He didn’t come last summer,” Belly said, the words out before she could temper them. A silence pooled in the kitchen, punctuated only by the steady tick of the wall clock.
Laurel turned a page, her movements precise. “That’s cause we’d just gotten divorced.” Her tone was flat, final, a stone dropped into water. She left no room for the ripples.
Belly looked down at her hands, knuckles white where she gripped the towel. She sought safer ground. “Where’s Mr. Fisher?” she asked, shifting her gaze to Susannah.
Susannah’s smile didn’t falter, but it changed, becoming something painted on for the occasion. She turned back to her vegetables, the knife clicking decisively against the cutting board. “He’s in London,” she said, her voice bright and brittle as glass. “For now, it’s the women and children.”
“I’m gonna unpack,” she said, her voice too bright. She slid off the stool, the legs scraping against the floor.
Upstairs, the hallway felt narrower. She pushed open the door to the room that had always been hers, the one with the faded seashell wallpaper and the window that looked out over the driveway. The air was still and warm, smelling of lemon polish and sun-bleached cotton. She dropped her duffel bag onto the quilted bedspread with a soft thud.
On the dusty white drawers sat a small, threadbare white bear with a faded blue ribbon. She smiled, a real one this time, and picked it up. The plush was matted from years of being held.
The door flew open and banged against the wall. Jeremiah bounded in, launched himself onto her bed, and made the springs groan. “I can’t believe you still have that bear.”
“I’d never throw him away,” she said, clutching it to her chest defensively. He was a piece of the summer, a piece of them. Throwing him away would feel like an admission that this could all end.
“Let’s swim before dinner. Please,” Jeremiah said, propping himself up on his elbows. His face was open, expectant.
“I can’t. I have to go with my mum to Whale of a Tale.” Her mom’s traditional first-night trip to the bookstore was non-negotiable.
“Man.” He flopped onto his back, staring at the ceiling fan. “I’ve been wanting to go in the ocean all day. But I’ve been waiting for you.”
The specificness of it, him holding off on a simple pleasure just to share it with her, warmed the cold spot the kitchen conversation had left. She smiled down at him.
“Please. Pretty please.”
“Okay, screw it,” she said, tossing the bear back onto the drawers. “Let’s go swimming.”
“Yes!” He was off the bed in a flash. “I’ll meet you outside.”
She changed quickly into her suit, threw a t-shirt and shorts over it, and grabbed a towel. Downstairs, Jeremiah was waiting by the side door, already in his board shorts, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
They crunched across the shell drive, the late afternoon sun painting everything in long, golden shadows. The air was thicker here, salty and sweet with beach roses.
“Did you know my dad’s coming up for the Fourth?” she asked.
“Cool,” Jeremiah said, his tone easy.
“Don’t you think it’s weird?”
“Not really. I love your dad.”
“Yeah, but they’ve only been divorced for like a year.”
Jeremiah shrugged, kicking a piece of shell. “Your mom doesn’t care.”
“Yeah, she’s the one who wanted the divorce in the first place.” Saying it out loud felt disloyal and true at the same time.
“I think if you don’t wanna be married, you shouldn’t get married,” he said, his logic simple and devastating. It was a Fisher trait, cutting through the fog with a blade of pure, uncomplicated clarity.
“Did you know my dad already has a new girlfriend?” The words tasted bitter.
Jeremiah stopped walking and looked at her. “What about your mom? She dating anyone?”
Belly kicked at the sand. "No.”
The dunes suddenly fell away, revealing the vast, breathing expanse of the ocean. The tide was coming in, waves rolling in long, smooth lines that collapsed into froth on the shore. The air was cooler here, heavy with the smell of salt and decay and endless possibility.
They stopped at the sand looking at the ocean. “I’ve waited all year for this.”
“Wanna race?” he said.
“No, no I can’t,” she said, pretending to adjust her towel.
“Oh, come on,” he said.
She ran suddenly. Jere dropped his towel, running. They ran into the water, the cold a shocking gasp against her ankles, then her knees. She pushed him. He fell with a splash. He got up and splashed her, a wall of water that soaked her hair and made her sputter. They laughed, the sound raw and carried off by the wind. He tackled her into the water. She screamed, laughing, as they went under together in a tangle of limbs and bubbles.
They surfaced, gasping and grinning. He kept an arm around her shoulders, treading water. "Told you you wanted to swim."
She shoved him away, but she was still smiling.
They swam until their fingers pruned and the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in washes of orange and violet. It was the same as every summer, and yet it wasn’t.