Because he’s the only person who truly knows me now.
The drive is mostly silent,except for the sports radio that Hunter pretends to listen to. I sit with my hands in my lap, the window rolled down an inch so I can taste the cold. Minneapolis outside the car is a patchwork of melting snow and exhaust. Every time we stop at a light, I count the number of people I see wearing puffy jackets and weird, knitted hats—usually four or five, sometimes more. The city feels like it’s holding its breath.
We get to Lake Harriet and park at the southern lot, which is half-empty and scattered with little piles of dirty snow. The wind comes off the water sharp and fast, stinging my cheeks, but I like it. I want to feel awake, to know I’m really here. Hunter helps me out of the car, fingers brushing my wrist, then shoves his hands in his pockets.
There’s a paved path that rings the whole lake. In spring, people come out to run or push strollers, but today it’s just us and some geese. The birds are everywhere, pecking through the grass, honking at each other, leaving slick green trails in the snow. I laugh the first time one squawks, loud and rude, but the sound is weirdly comforting. Geese have no past, no future. They just eat and poop and honk and never worry about memory loss.
We start walking. Our shoes crunch on the gravel, and every few yards there’s a patch of slush or a puddle from the thaw. I sidestep one, but Hunter just stomps through, like he needs to feel the cold even more than I do. I wrap my arms around myself and watch the light move on the water, the way it shifts from gray to blue and back with every gust of wind.
For a while, neither of us talks.
It’s not awkward, exactly. Just silence. Like if we open our mouths, the whole world will come pouring out, and yet we don’t know what to say.
The air is full of little sounds: branches creaking, ice shifting on the shoreline, the far-off hum of a snowblower. There’s an old wooden dock up ahead, slick with wet leaves, and I’m drawn to it. I want to go to the end and stand where the lake is the only thing between me and sky.
I move off the path and step onto the dock. It rocks under my weight. I go to the edge, toes right at the lip, and look down. The water is flat and dark and glassy, with patches of ice still floating near the shore. My breath comes in a cloud, then vanishes.
I close my eyes.
A flash: I’m in the water. The lake is green and cold. I’m swimming, or trying to, but I’m not alone. There are voices—loud, urgent—and someone’s hand on my arm, pulling me up. My chest is tight, my heart pounding. There’s a scream, or maybe it’s just the sound of my own lungs trying to work. I break the surface and suck in air, and the world explodes in light and sound and?—
I stagger, almost slip.
Hunter’s there in two strides. He grabs my arm, steadies me, then keeps his hand on my elbow. His grip is strong and careful, like he’s holding a fragile thing that could shatter if he pushes too hard.
“You good?” he says, low.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
He doesn’t let go.
I stare at the lake. The water is beautiful. I want to be afraid, but I’m not. I want to jump in, just to prove that I can. I want to strip off my coat and dive, let the cold burn through everything until there’s nothing left to remember.
Instead, I just stand there, letting the wind whip my hair across my face.
After a while, Hunter pulls me back. We walk the rest of the loop in silence, his hand on the small of my back, thumb moving in slow circles.
“We almost lost you there for a sec,” he says in a low voice.
“No, I’m okay,” I reply brightly. “I was never in danger.”
Hunter shakes his head. When we get to the car, he opens the door and helps me in. His fingers linger at my waist, and he looks at me for a long time before he shuts the door.
I watch him walk around the hood, his jaw like granite, his eyes narrowed against the sun. For a second, I think he’s going to say something because he has something on his mind, but he just gets in and starts the engine.
The drive home is quiet.
But the memory of the lake follows me all the way back to the penthouse. A deep, cold ache that’s half warning, half promise.
I think: If I go back to that water, I might remember everything.
Or maybe I’ll just let myself sink.
Back at the penthouse,I pretend the world is only glass and blue and gold, and that nothing strange happened at the lake. Hunter’s quiet, weirdly so, as he unlocks the door and ushers me inside. The place feels emptier than before, like a stage after the play is over. My boots click on the tile, the echo chasing me through the living room.
I’m still wearing the white sweater from this morning. The sleeves are too long, swallowing my hands. I go to the window, lean my forehead against the cold. The city glows below: a million tiny lights, none of them real, just signals bounced off satellites and reflected back. I close my eyes, press harder, wishing the cold could sink all the way in.
I don’t hear Hunter come up behind me, but I know he’s there. I feel the heat of him, the way his breathing changes the air.