The garden is tended meticulously, fertilized and watered and pruned, more gorgeous now in mid-spring than ever.
Always before I leave, I find a rose, one that’s already fallen to the ground. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Wilted and brown-tinged, they’re still lovely. I carry it down to the lake and try to spot Emmett’s lone figure meticulously slicing through the dark water. Sometimes, when the moon is full and bright, I see him right away. His heavy arms swing up and out of the water, over and over, as rhythmic as a metronome. Other nights, when the sky is black, I’m left with my imagination. I wonder how he does it on those nights, how he’s still able to cut across the lake and not end up lost, veering around in circles. I’ve watched him confidently cross enough times now that it doesn’t worry me anymore when he disappears. He always comes back.
On the bright nights, when the moon is full enough for me to clearly make him out, I walk all the way down to the dock and sit down to watch him. I relax, leaning back on the wooden boards, enjoying the view of the towering pines that rim the west side of the lake. I only stand to leave when I see his figure growing larger on his return journey.
But on the dark nights, I’m more cautious. I don’t linger as long. I leave him his rose right on the edge of the dock so he can’t miss it before I sneak back up into the school. It’s a secret that’s fun to keep, and I wonder what he thinks of the roses. I don’t stay to watch him find them. I imagine he peels himself up and out of the lake, water sluicing down his face, drops sliding down his chest. I know from watching him that first night that he gulps for air when he first gets out, barely able to catch his breath. It’s no easy feat to cross that lake once, let alone twice. I imagine him wiping his hands down his face, shaking off the water. Then slowly his gaze drops down to the rose. A bright yellow, a spotty pink, a faded white, a bloody red. Each night it’s something different. I wonder what he does with them, if he notices them at all.
On tonight’s wander through the garden, I find a bloom that’s the color of peach sorbet, and its lingering smell is just as sweet. I toy with the soft petals as I walk down to the lake. I’m slightly earlier than usual, so I’m cautious as I approach, worrying that Emmett might not have begun his swim yet. He’s never caught me watching him. If he finds out it’s me leaving him the roses, the mystery’s gone, the fun is over. More than that, I worry what he would assume about them. They might seem like a proclamation of love, but they aren’t. They’re just innocent roses that would otherwise stay forgotten in the garden.
I slow my pace as the water comes into view, and I hug the edge of the forest to be sure I have a place to duck and cover if I need it.
When I look at the dock, I misstep and nearly trip.
Emmett isn’t alone.
Tonight, he’s brought a girl down here with him, and they aren’t merely sitting and talking. They’re lying on the dock, and Emmett is on top of her. The shadows make it hard to see what they’re actually doing, if they’re clothed or…
She arches up, her head tilting toward the night sky, and she looks like she’s in ecstasy, like a statue I saw in the Louvre last summer. The moment my grandmother saw me eyeing it, she turned me away and called it crude. I peered back though, trying to figure out what she was so offended by. The sculpture was so beautiful to me. Love so blatantly on display should never be made to feel dirty.
I step forward, and a twig snaps under my shoe. I suck in a breath and freeze, but neither of them look up. Emmett is too lost in her.
His hand disappears into her bikini bottoms, and I feel something squeeze my chest, an emotion I first mistake for anger.
I’m not angry though. Emmett is so much older than me. Of course he has girlfriends, or at least girls he sometimes kisses. I’ve seen him with them around campus. It’s not all the time. He doesn’t seem to flaunt his relationships like the other guys in his group. Emmett is either more discerning than your average eighteen-year-old boy, or he’s better at keeping his activities concealed behind closed doors.
I truly don’t mind the fact that I’m being confronted by him and another girl. They’re getting more into it now. I should leave. It’s wrong to be here watching them, but my feet feel like lead weights.