~Freshman Year~

Olivia

A moving truck is planted against the curb along the house beside ours. It's a regular sight these days. Although, this family stayed the longest. I actually didn't mind them much. They're older, retired. Wanted a small lake town life. Watch life slow down around them and just enjoy the day to day relaxation of a small town. No stress, no hustle and bustle.

The best thing about them? They kept to themselves. I talked to them all of two times over the last six months. I like those types of neighbors. The ones that have their own life to live and respect that you have yours. They don't pry, they don't linger, and they don't get involved. It's easy when people don't get involved.

The ones before them were the exact opposite. Always trying to have some type of neighboring buddy-buddy system. Like some lame monthly barbecue to "build community". If we wanted your company and nosy glances into our lives, we would have let you know.

Sam has always put on a smile and tried to play along, though. I think he's just trying to be a good businessman. The more people he pleases in this small town, the more people will rent supplies and equipment from his shop on the lake. He's good at that side of the business. The whole customer satisfaction thing. It's an area of growth for me. People are weird. I don't enjoy indulging the so-called quirks they possess.

Here's the thing about the house next door, it always seems to be back up for rent. It's like it's cursed. Ever since Max left five years ago, no one has been able to steadily take residence in it. Granted it's still owned by his mom. I don't know why they didn't just sell it and walk away. For whatever crazy reason I'll never understand, they kept it as a rental. A reminder that they left.

I swing my backpack over my shoulder and take a deep breath as I remove myself from the window. Looks like I'll be adjusting to a whole new family any day now. I can only hope that it's another keep-to-yourself couple and not the always curious neighbor type.

I make my way out the front door, stepping out into the morning air. The sun is already beating down, telling me it's going to be another hot one. Last day of summer, I wouldn't expect much less.

Glancing down at my bike, I pull it from its resting place against the wall and slide a leg over the top. Without wasting any extra time, I push off and head out to the lake. With the heat already building this morning, I can feel the sweat at my hairline.

I pull up to the back of the Snack Shack and lock my bike before heading inside.

"Hey, Charlie," I call as I grab my name tag from the back counter. Charlie has been here since the beginning, always ready to serve me my favorite shake on a bad day, but his presence has slowly dwindled now that Sam has taken on more of a prominent role. He's become more than just Sam's uncle over the last few years. When Sam has to work late, Charlie is usually the one to make sure I'm fed. They say it takes a village, something I never truly felt I had until recently.

"Hey! Look, we got a new lifeguard and Jordan isn't in today. I'm going to have to spend most of the day with him. You good here?"

I've been working nearly every day this summer, something most fourteen-year-olds aren't doing to occupy their time. I could run this place in my sleep. Not to mention the rental shop that Sam managed to add on. The very one he uses those people skills of his to draw in a steady crowd for. That being said, it's fair to say it's been doing well. It was also his idea to add a lifeguard to this section of the lake.

Our town may be small, but it's slowly been growing. Word is getting out about the quiet lake town with killer views.

"You really need to ask?"

He smiles. "Knew I could count on you, kiddo. I'll just be right out there by the lifeguard stand. Holler if you need anything."

I give him an awkward thumbs up then turn to start organizing the items on the front counter. Next, I step out and brush off the picnic tables beside the small shack and prop open the umbrellas. It's still early. I won't see anyone for another hour or so, so I reach under the counter to pull out my journal.

Writing has become more and more of an escape for me. A place where I can unload the dark and bright realities that circle my life. A lot has happened over the years. My mom being ripped from my life still yanks me from my sleep some nights. Those are the nights I find myself outside, lingering by the fence and listening to the soft sound of the pond next door. I guess the one bright side of it being a rental is that pond goes untouched. It's maintained, kept clean, but never changed. And its steady flow is what still brings me comfort when the memories full of demons come lurking in the night.

The fact that it's been five years, five years since various strangers leisurely walked the halls of my home causing deep levels of fear, and I still can't seem to find peace in a good night's sleep, tells me just how scary my life had gotten. I always knew it was dark. I knew it wasn't right. But I never understood that I wasn't supposed to be living that way.

But that was my life. That was my reality, and at that time, I was okay with it. I just wish it didn't still haunt me. I wish it didn't still fill my pages with endless words of pain and fear. I wish the happier moments since then could brighten the dense pages before it.

The doodle of a sunflower catches my eye first. My fingers drag down the page, a smile pulling at my lips. I remember that entry. It was a good entry. It was the day Sam walked into the house with a sledge hammer.

My mom had been gone for two months. Max was out of my life, his vacant house widening the empty spot in my chest. I missed my mom. I missed my friend. I felt like everywhere I looked, pieces of their memories were laughing at me.

And then Sam entered my life. He was trying so damn hard to get me to smile. To try to bring some type of light back.

He waltzed right into the kitchen, hammer slung on his shoulder as he looked right at me and said, "I think it's time this place gets a face lift. What do you think? I'm thinking new counters. We can redo the floor. I laid some flooring for my parents two summers ago. I think you and I can get it done in a week. What do you say?"

That house, the way it was, was littered in memories. The dark spotted carpet, evidence of spilled drinks or other remnants she left behind scarred into the floor. I looked up at him without hesitation and asked, "Can I pick out the floor?"

"Of course. But first, we need to rip it up. And obliterate this counter. What do you say? You want the first swing?"

Swinging that hammer was the best feeling I had had in months. It was freeing, letting everything fall from me. The anger, the pain, the memories that leached my thoughts. And after the house was literally in shambles, broken pieces scattered across the ground, I grabbed my notebook and I wrote. I wrote all night. And I continued to write as the house began being rebuilt. As all the pieces were swept up, placed back together. Until the house became ours.

"Excuse me?" A deep voice causes me to jump, pulling me from the warm memory as I slam my notebook closed. "Can I get a vanilla milkshake?"

What the hell? Who in their right mind would be getting a milkshake at ten thirty in the morning? And vanilla of all choices.

I place my journal down and stand from my seat. Shock lodges itself into my throat and my heart literally stops beating.

It's him.

I must look like a complete idiot because that smile on his face seems to widen, just like my eyes as I stare back at him.

I don't get lost for words too often. Even in uncomfortable situations, it's usually my words that cover up the real emotion beneath the surface. But this right here, looking at the one boy I ever let in, the one boy who betrayed that trust so many years ago, has all the words fading fast.

"Hey, Liv," he finally speaks.

Those two small words seem to jolt me right back to reality. "What size?" I ask, Max's eyes pulling together in question. "The milkshake, what size?"

He nods once, his eyes glancing behind me to look at the sizes. Like he doesn't remember there are only two of them.

"Large," he states.

"Whipped cream?"

His eyes drop, a small breath leaving him now. "Come on, Liv. Really?"

"Olivia," I correct him. Okay, I'm being cold. It's been five years, and honestly, my life is actually a lot better now. Took some time to get here, but I'm here. And by some miracle, I'm actually in the realm of happy. But it didn't always feel this way. There was a lot of time I spent feeling completely alone, abandoned. And Max was the very reason for that.

"Yes, I'll take whipped cream," he answers, pulling out his wallet.

I take this moment to look at him. Really look at him. He's changed, grown. I mean five years will do that to you, but it's more than just the physical changes. Those are noticeable too though. He's taller, like a lot taller. He's filled out, the small glimmers of muscles beginning to be built. His hair is a bit shorter, cleaner. I like it.

But he's different in other ways too. He's more confident. I can see it in the way his shoulders stay pulled back, in the way he isn't afraid to make eye contact, and that he's here.

When he slides me a ten my fingers just barely graze his. I wish I could say nothing happened in that touch, that it was just an innocent brushing of fingers. But the instant zap that jolts through my arm and straight to my heart sends my head spinning. What the actual heck was that?

"Listen," he begins, his voice dropping into that lower tone people take when they're about to present you with an apology.

I don't know why my heart tenses at knowing what he's about to say but everything in me goes cold, like I'm still that same little girl watching as her world crumbles to pieces. "I'm on break," I blurt out, untying my small apron and placing it on the counter before I'm reaching for my notebook and bolting from the tiny building.

Am I coward? Probably. But my chest is all tight and my hands are clammy. I feel a lot like I'm standing in that hallway again, looking naively at the one person I've ever let in, truly let in while my misplaced trust laughs beside me.

I need to feel the relief of air. I need to feel like I'm not confined to that same school hall, like I'm not still drowning in the way I used to be. It's why I escape to the end of the dock, to the very place I've always escaped to. I know he'll follow me, but at least here I can breathe.

When I hear his footsteps behind me, I cling to the strength of the words scrawled within my notebook, to the version of myself that isn't afraid to let everything out.

"Why are you here, Max?" I ask, closing my eyes and taking a deep inhale as I feel him sit down beside me.

When I slide my eyes open, I realize he's not alone. A lot like my notebook, the safety net of his guitar now rests beside him. There's a warmth that floods my chest in knowing he still plays.

"My dad retired from the league. They wanted to come home. To Lakeshore."

I don't know if that spark in my chest is excitement or fear, but I feel it igniting. It's gaining momentum and carving a path across my gut. "What exactly does that mean?"

"I'm home. For good."

I nod slowly, shifting my eyes back out to the lake and clinging to the pages within my lap.

"I'm starting at Lakeshore High tomorrow. My dad got the coaching position there. So I'll be playing for him."

I shift my gaze from the lake, watching as his words fall short at my sudden movement. The moving truck...the empty house next door...

He catches my eyes, holding onto everything that swims between us, every unsaid word somehow coming to light without a sound. He grips his guitar, knowing exactly where my thoughts have landed.

He's always had a love for basketball, but there's a light in his eyes when he plays that guitar. It's a light not many people get to embrace in their life. But I also know what basketball means to him. It's more than the sport itself. And it's a concept he never seems to want to face.

"What are you writing?" he asks, breaking the steady silence and offering an out from the direction we were headed. When all I do is offer a look, he laughs. "I know, I know. Written words are meant to be private," he repeats the words I shared with him all those years ago. "Except for books," he continues, "magazines, newspapers, blogs, really all social media platforms."

I can't help but laugh now, and the way his eyes bounce over to mine, almost as if he didn't expect to make me smile, has my chest feeling a bit warmer.

"Okay, so most words are shared freely," I admit. "But that doesn't mean that's how it should be. I think people share way too much."

"Maybe." He shrugs. "But I think they just want to be heard."

I let his words fall over me. My eyes leave his as I process the meaning behind what he's saying. There's so much unspoken depth behind them. Taking a breath, I let my fingers pull against the notebook in my hands before bringing my eyes back to his. He's changed and yet he's still the same boy who sat beside me on this dock all of those years ago. And it's that boy who has me continuing. "I think the ones who truly matter, are listening even in the silence."

"I'm sorry, Liv," he quickly says. "I should have never promised you that I wouldn't tell anyone. I knew I couldn't keep that promise even as I was making it. I just...I–"

"I know," I admit, cutting him off. "You did what you had to."

"But I did it all wrong," he says. "I should have talked to you first. I should have explained why I had to tell. I shouldn't have let it blindside you."

"Max," I say, stopping him from continuing. Because the truth is, as mad as I was, as hurt as I was, I see now why he did what he did. And as much as I want to stay mad at him for betraying my trust at a time when I so desperately needed someone, I know that I can't. "I know you did what you thought was right, and I know why you did it. I really do. But you have to understand, that world I was living in was the only world I knew. It was my home. And however screwed up it was, it was mine. Having someone step in, deeming it unfit based on one short glimpse...I don't know, I just felt so small in that moment. Like my life was beneath everyone else's."

His hand finds mine, landing against my fingers. I don't know why I flip my palm at his touch, letting our fingers properly intertwine, but there's warmth in his presence, comfort in his touch.

"I never saw you as less, Liv."

"I know," I whisper. "It took me a while to see that. To see what my life should look like. To understand that strangers showing up randomly at my house wasn't normal, or safe. But it was still all I ever knew. When Sam stepped in, it went dark for a bit. I had to navigate something foreign, figure out what my life was supposed to be. When the path you've laid out for yourself is ripped from you in an instant, it takes some time to find your footing again. And it did take time. But I'm getting there."

"So, then Sam..."

"There was no default option for me when my mom was removed from my life," I fill in the missing pieces for him. "I didn't have a family member who could step up and take me. Sam isn't legally family. But that didn't stop him. I don't think it was easy, but he managed to become my foster parent." What I don't say is that ever since my mom left, she hasn't tried coming back. She hasn't fought to be my mom again. I don't even know where she is, how she is.

"I'm so sorry, Liv. For the way it played out, for the role I had in it all."

"You don't need to keep being sorry, Max. You were a kid. We both were. I don't think either one of us were ready to face something like that."

"But I shouldn't have left you to face it alone. I should have been there for you just as you were for me."

"You didn't have a choice. People leave. It's not a foreign concept to me."

His hand tightens in mine, and I can't quite seem to sense if it's a feeling of comfort or anger that has him flexing within my grasp. "We always have a choice, Liv. And leaving isn't the same as walking away."

"Maybe," I admit.

"Look, I should have called or wrote or done something. Anything. But do you think, maybe, there's a path somewhere in there where you and I can be friends again?"

"I think that path never went away," I say quietly, almost on a whisper.

As our eyes cling to one another, desperately holding on for answers, neither one of us move. We just sit together, letting the words of this very moment swim around us, rooting us in place.

"So," I jump back in, pulling my hand from his as it clings back to my notebook. "Are you going to play that thing or what?" I ask, pointing to the guitar at his side.

His eyes drop, giving me the comfort of space that I crave. He reaches for the guitar, placing it in his lap. "Are you going to read me a passage you've got trapped inside that thing?" he asks, looking down to the death grip I have around my notebook.

That smile he always seems to be coaxing out of me begins to curve across my face. "Not today." I shake my head, pulling the book against my chest.

"But maybe tomorrow?" he questions, letting it sit in the air between us as he reaches out to tuck my hair behind my shoulder.

There's something in that gaze of his, in the way his hand lingers for just a moment. It's like he's pulling back the veil I've used to hide behind.

"Maybe tomorrow," I whisper.

And then he plays. I watch as the emotion of the moment, the hope for what's to come, and the promise of tomorrow laces through his fingertips, pulling through the chords as the sounds emanate around us. Just as they always have.