I pedal along Greene Street, the warm wind in my hair. Although it’s a typically hot August evening, there’s something in the air—a subtle cooling, a smell of freshness, like after a rainstorm—that hints at the September to come. It happens every summer: the first curled leaf you see lying on the sidewalk, the first night you don’t need to sleep with your air conditioner on. I always feel a tug of sadness at these signs; I never want the summer to end. I resent the passage of time.
But now, as I park my bike outside the bank, that usual sense of despair doesn’t rise up in me. It’s been a tumultuous summer, a summer of surprise and change. An amazing summer, yes—but difficult. So, a part of me welcomes the calm coolness of the approaching fall, the shift in seasons. There are things to look forward to.
I smile to myself as I cross the street toward the river, my camera in hand. My loose hair swings down my back, feeling pleasantly wild and messy, and my flip-flops thwack against the sidewalk. My “lucky” dress swishes against my legs; I still think of the dress as new, even though I got it back in July.
July. I stop at the riverside, reeling. Was it really only last month, on my birthday, that I found out the truth about Dad—that my life fractured? In some ways, it feels much closer—like it all occurred yesterday. But in other ways, that moment of discovery seems to belong to another life.
It’s almost sunset; the sky above the Hudson River is a pale, pearly pink. The water, streaming past, looks gray, as always. When I bring my camera to my eye, though, and look through the lens, I can catch shades of peach and blue and green, a whole host of colors, shimmering in the waves.
“I’d forgotten how lovely the Hudson is,” Dad had said when he was here, earlier this week, standing beside me in this same spot. “It’s easy to get caught up in the romance of Provence, but there’s plenty of beauty here, too.”
I’d nodded, thinking of sunflower fields and cobblestone streets. Provence and Hudsonville seemed to represent two different kinds of beauty. One wasn’t necessarily better than the other; they were just different.
As I take pictures of the river, I recall Dad’s visit. He’d come for four days, and stayed in the Marriot near the mall, renting a car so he could drive back and forth to the house to see me. Unlike his visits past, there were no fleeting lunches and calls of “Bye, sweetheart!” as he dashed off. No. Instead, we’d sat and talked for hours over burgers at PJ’s Pub. We’d taken long walks up and down Greene Street, and wandered through the campus. We’d meandered around the mall, and went for drives.
On Tuesday night, Mom had even invited Dad to the house for dinner, shocking me. But Mom had become more open, once she saw Dad was making an effort. Also, she was now officially dating Max, which seemed to raise her spirits in general. And I was very slowly getting used to that new reality.
I’d been anxious about Dad coming over for dinner, but there wasn’t as much hostility between my parents as I’d feared. They were both mellower, eating Mom’s meat loaf and catching up while Ro meowed at the three of us from beneath the table. We’d felt, somewhat, like a family—dysfunctional, yes, but still, a family. I’d hoped that things would be easier, now that the secret was out in the open. Although Dad did not speak of Vivienne, or Eloise, in front of Mom, and I was grateful for that.
When he and I were alone, he did try to answer most of my questions—and I’d had a ton. About Eloise, about Vivienne, about Dad and Mom, and the painting, Fille. It wasn’t like every answer he gave me was satisfactory; often, it hurt to hear the truth and sometimes, he dodged certain topics, saying things like, “You’ll understand when you’re older,” which made me groan.
And it wasn’t like, when we said good-bye on Wednesday afternoon, before he drove off to the airport, I felt we had perfectly healed what was broken. We hadn’t. I wasn’t sure we ever would. How can you recover from a shock like that?
But, standing in the fading golden sunlight now, I can feel some of the scars of the summer scabbing over. I can feel the promise of a new beginning. I take another picture.
My heart flips over and I spin around, careful not to drop my camera.
Hugh Tyson is standing behind me, hands in his pockets, his gray-green eyes bright behind his glasses. He nods once toward my camera, and then again at the river.
“I bet those are some good pictures,” he tells me in his slightly raspy voice, giving me a small smile.
I wish my cheeks wouldn’t flush, but they do. “Thanks,” I reply, nervously shifting from one foot to the other. I wonder if there will ever come a time when I’m not somewhat nervous around Hugh Tyson. But then I think about how far I’ve come; after everything that has happened this summer, I’m so much braver than I used to be. “Hey, that photo you posted on Instagram yesterday was great,” I add, glancing up.
I still use Instagram to spy on Hugh a little. But mostly, ever since I uploaded my pictures on there the day after my birthday, I’ve used the app as a way to study photography. I’ll try out different filters on my photos, and I follow other photographers’ accounts. Some photographers have followed me back, and I’ve gotten lots of comments on my pictures—especially on my self-portrait in the broken mirror. It’s made me feel proud.
The other thing about Instagram is that I’m friends with Eloise on there. Friends is a strong word for what Eloise and I are right now, of course. But I feel as if I’m getting to know her, bit by bit. She doesn’t post too often; she’s put up some pretty pictures of Dad’s garden—the rosebushes, the red barn, the pool. Yesterday, she posted a shot of a train—she was returning to Paris. They all were, I guess. I’m curious to get a glimpse of her life there; I still want to see Paris one day.
“The photo of Central Park?” Hugh is asking me. “Oh, thanks—I saw that you ‘liked’ it.” His cheeks redden a little, too, which makes my pulse quicken. “It’s good to be back from New York City, though,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I enjoy going there for a few days to see my cousin, but I always end up missing Hudsonville.”
His gaze strays to me, and I bite my lip, trying not to fidget too much, or to read too much into what he’s saying. He said he missed Hudsonville. Not me. Right?
“Where are you headed now?” I ask him, before I can let my what-if? imagination carry me too far off.
Hugh gestures across the street. “Between the Lines, before it closes. I wanted to pick up some books for school.”
“Oh,” I say, thinking of school. The start of junior year is close, less than three weeks away. Again, I expect to feel my standard wave of dread, but it doesn’t come. Instead, I feel a little tingle of excitement. “I’ll go with you,” I add impulsively. I haven’t been inside Between the Lines in ages, not since I bought my guidebook for the South of France. That guidebook now sits in my room, on a shelf, having served its purpose.
“Cool,” Hugh says, biting his lower lip as he smiles at me.
I step forward, my camera in hand, and cross the street with Hugh. Our elbows brush together, and my stomach jumps. We walk past Better Latte Than Never, and I peer inside, seeing Ruby at the counter in her brown apron, busy at the espresso machine. I could stop in after I’m done at the bookstore to say hello, but there’s no real need. We’re supposed to picnic in Pine Park with Alice and Inez this weekend, anyway.
Automatically, I reach down and twist my woven bracelet around my wrist; I’ve been wearing one, instead of two, ever since the day after my birthday. And it’s felt comfortable, and natural, like a solid decision does, I guess.
Hugh and I stop outside of Between the Lines. Right in front of us, hovering in midair, a firefly has lit itself up.
“Wow, look!” I say, pointing at the sudden spark, feeling like a little kid.
Hugh’s eyes are also widening with childlike wonder. “Yeah, a lightning bug!” he says.
“Lightning bug?” I echo, cupping my hands to try to catch the firefly. Ruby and I used to chase after them with Mason jars when we were younger, but they always managed to escape. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard it called that before.”
“It’s kind of a poetic name, isn’t it?” Hugh asks, and I nod, watching as the firefly dims and then brightens again. It is like a little piece of lightning, a little piece of magic, brought down to earth.
Finally I manage to catch the lightning bug between my cupped palms and it hovers there. Then I open my hands and release it, watching as it drifts away, to freedom, switching itself on and off again—dark, light, dark, light.
I wonder briefly if the lightning bug was a sign. But of what? I’m not sure if everything always needs to be a sign. Sometimes things can just be.
I let out a contented sigh. Hugh reaches for the door handle, but before I turn to go in, I glance back at the river. The sun is starting to sink down, into the horizon. The breeze blows my hair across my forehead, and I feel a kind of electricity in the air.
“Hang on?” I say to Hugh, holding up my camera. “I want to take one last picture.”
“Sure,” Hugh says, releasing the door handle and coming to stand beside me. He grins. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt the master at work.”
I laugh and roll my eyes as I prepare to take the photo. But something about Hugh’s teasing compliment, and the nearness of him, and the dazzling quality of the sunset, makes me fumble with the camera in my hand. It slips from my grasp, and I gasp—
“Whew,” Hugh says, reaching his hand out just in time to catch the Nikon before it hits the ground. “Careful, there.”
“Careful,” I echo, a little dazed. I’m aware that, while Hugh was in the process of saving my camera, he reached out his other hand and put it on my arm.
We are suddenly close to each other, so close that I can see the birthmark next to his right ear, and I can study the shape of his full lips. So close that I can almost imagine feeling his heartbeat against mine.
Hugh is looking at me in an intent way, and I’m not sure if it’s the electric August night, or the sunset, or the firefly. Or the fact that I had the summer I did. But suddenly anything seems possible. Something surges in me, a newfound courage, and I find myself tilting my face up, and—
I kiss him.
I kiss Hugh Tyson.
His lips are soft and warm, at once familiar and new. He kisses me back, in earnest, one hand moving up from my arm and along my neck and into my wild hair. I close my eyes and let myself take in how wonderful this feels.
Then we both pull apart, and we are both blushing, and I’m relieved that we are equally flustered and surprised and giddy. My heart is thudding in my ears.
“That was, um, to thank you,” I improvise. “For, you know—the camera thing.”
I reach out to take my Nikon back from Hugh, and he gently closes his hand around mine.
“Thank you for that thank you,” he teases me, smiling.
We stand there, grinning, holding hands on the sidewalk. I don’t want to let go of this moment. I wonder if I should take a picture. But no. I will remember.
Slowly, I turn and start to open the door to Between the Lines, still holding Hugh’s hand behind me. I don’t know what will happen between the two of us. How can I? I don’t know how things will turn out with Ruby, either. Or with Dad, or Mom, or Eloise. I don’t even know what will happen tomorrow. If I’ve learned anything this summer, it’s that nothing can be predicted, or planned.
I smile, and my heart lifts as I step into the bookstore.