At the Water's Edge Read Free Page A

social communications class I took in college.
    Our teacher Mrs. Kissinger, on whom I had a raging, silent crush, filmed us while we talked about ourselves for a few minutes. When she went over the videos in class, teaching us about body language and what it revealed about a person, she basically skipped my segment, stating that, in all her years of conducting this experiment, she’d never come across someone as non-verbally uncommunicative, the way I sat stock-still, my hands slipped safely underneath my thighs.
    Nobody ever noticed.
    A whistling sound outside shakes me out of my reverie, followed by Kay’s deep voice. “Knock, knock.”
    I step outside to find her on my porch, moist hair drawn into a tight ponytail.
    “Tonight’s my weekly drinking night at The Attic. I was wondering if you felt like tagging along. Reconnect with some folks from way back when.” She’s wearing dungarees, split low at the sides, over nothing more than a tank top.
    Flummoxed, I push a strand of hair behind my ear. “Thanks, but not tonight.” Or ever.
    “Are you sure, Little Ella? You look as if you could do with letting your hair down a bit.”
    I give her a well-practiced smile. The exact same one I used for years on everyone I knew. It even works on myself sometimes. “Maybe next week,” I lie. “Still settling in and all that.”
    A scrunch of the lips and a dip of the head, and she’s gone, her hands tucked deep in the front pockets of her dungarees, like a farmer leaving his field after a good day.

CHAPTER THREE

    The rain starts coming down hard around three in the morning. Loud pelts—like stones being thrown at high speed—coming down without mercy on the wooden roof above me. Having lain awake through many a rain storm in my youth, I know this one, just like any bout of summer rain, will pass by morning, leaving the lake and its surroundings aglow in a new, lighter clarity at dawn. Nevertheless, any hope of sleep soon escapes me. Which is fine, because I have all of the next day to do nothing.
    Have you considered that, on top of everything else, you might be suffering from burnout? Dr. Hakim asked in our first session. I thought he looked smart in a well-worn way. Brown tweed jacket with patches over the elbows. Intelligent, dark eyes behind rimless glasses. One slim leg slung over the other.
    Doing nothing is the cure. Accepting emptiness. Learning to exist in the quietness between bursts of activity. It’s harder in the dark of night, nothing or no one around but memories I’m trying to erase. Out of nowhere, a shot of worry makes its way through me. I hope Kay made it back safely from the bar, before the rain came. She doesn’t strike me as the type to be foolish enough to drive after too many beers—but really, I have no way of knowing.
    I grab my phone from the night stand and touch it so it lights up, more for illumination than anything else. I hold it in front of me and make my way to the kitchen, where I pick up a glass of water, before heading to the porch.
    Clouds cover the moon, and the darkness, pierced by rapid, splashing sounds, is almost complete around me, making the screen of my phone glow brighter. Automatically, my thumb goes to the e-mail application, but I removed all work-related accounts before I left Boston. I only have one personal account installed on it, but there are no new e-mails since I last checked before going to bed.
    To kill time, I go on Facebook and search for West Waters. A small smile tugs at my lips as I click ‘like’ on the page. I scroll through a few comments Kay has left in response to other people’s, and click on her profile. My thumb hovers over the ‘Add Friend’ button. Why not? As always, my brain comes up with many reasons not to, but I’m curious to see what hides behind the privacy settings Kay has enforced. A flick of the thumb is all it takes. Friend request sent.
    Two seconds later, the red circle indicating a notification lights up at the top of my