Page 8 of Romantic

“It was quite the triumph,” she says wistfully. “I suppose it went to my head. I should have known you weren’t up for midnight swimming.”

“I can’t leave Pepper all alone. Plus, we’re getting up early to get her home in time for school.”

“My mom and Elinor would be happy to have Pepper stay here, but I get it.” Annie stands up and begins stacking plates. “It was silly of me to even ask.”

“May I carry those for you?”

“No, I’ve got it,” she says, a hitch in her voice as she hurries up the steps and into the house, the screen door slamming behind her. I continue gathering up dishes, uneasy. Annie went from happy to sad so fast.

“Nice job!” Pepper says sarcastically.

“What?”

“Annie just asked you out, and you shot her down.”

“What? No, she wasn’t asking me out. She’s going with a group of friends. I would know if she were asking me out.”

“Dad,” Pepper shakes her head sadly, “sometimes you are such a guy.”

“His person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn for the hero of a favourite story.” —Sense and Sensibility

2

Annie

I hang back as my friends laugh ahead of me on the shaded path to the swimming hole. Normally, I find walking in the woods at night deliciously scary, but tonight I’m too busy marinating in embarrassment and rejection to feel frightened by the random snap of twigs and flutter of branches.

I did it. I asked Brandon out, and he turned me down. And honestly, I’m shocked and hurt. I thought he liked me, and now I’m reevaluating every small moment together. It’s possible I imagined everything. I do have an overactive imagination.

And oh! I blush to recall how ridiculously flirty I was tonight. I kissed him!—on the cheek, which admittedly would be no big deal if it were almost anyone else. But it was Brandon. I respect him more than any man I know. And yeah, maybe he’s not the dashing hero I imagined for myself growing up, but there’s something about his steady nature and quiet presence that I find surprisingly appealing. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that lately it’s dawned on me that he’s also incredibly good-looking—in a rugged mountain man way. I still worry about him being a widower—how am I supposed to compete with his beloved dead wife? But ultimately, I had decided that Brandon is worth the risk. Too bad that risk didn’t pay off.

I was just so certain that he liked me—that’s why I’m cringing. Did I really think that all I needed to do was show a little interest and he’d snap to attention? How could I be so conceited?

What would a guy like Brandon see in me anyway? Why would he like a part-time waitress who’s still trying to figure out what she wants to do with her life? Yep, I must have imagined it all. Just like I made up stories about the possum in the sycamore tree and the raccoons living under the carriage house. This week I let my imagination run wild. I dreamed about swimming in the river with Brandon. We’d swim together in the moonlit waters. He would be playful; he’d let down his guard and stop masking all his feelings. And when he saw I was cold and shivering, he’d give me his sweatshirt to keep me warm. And then he’d wrap his arms around me, and we’d kiss under the blue moon. I imagined the moment so many times, it was beginning to feel inevitable. It’s mortifying how confident I was that Brandon would kiss me tonight.

And now I feel dumb. My blissful mood during the dinner party is a distant memory. I’m tired and chilly, and honestly, the thought of jumping in the river sounds miserable. I can hear my friends splashing in the distance, but I just want to be home, asleep in my warm bed. Maybe Brandon had a point. Maybe I’m getting old and boring like him. For some reason, the thought makes me unbearably sad. I’m another year older, which isn’t exactly a bad thing. But I really thought I’d have my life sorted out by now. I indulge in a silent cry, watching the silver water meander through the dark woods.

The trail opens up, and I spot my favorite flat rock along the water’s edge. Out of the trees, the night is not as dark, with a full moon and the water twinkling back its silver light. It’s all so lovely in a melancholy way—it suits my mood. I sit on the cold rock, hugging my knees, and serenade the moon.

“Blue moon . . .” I begin. “You saw me standing alone . . .” I’m enjoying my solo performance. I’m leaning into my bruised feelings, and with the water rushing nearby, no one can hear me. Something about singing always soothes my soul.

As my heartache lessens, my head clears a little. Perhaps I’m being oversensitive. Brandon just said no to swimming. He didn’t outright reject me. As I sing the last verse, I feel a surge of hope. When I finish, I stand up and do a silly bow to the river.

“Bravo!” A voice calls out from the woods behind me. A man steps out of the shadow only a couple of feet away, clapping.

Startled, I stumble on the edge of the rock and fall backwards into the cold, cold water.

I realize several things at once. I’ve twisted my ankle; I’m flailing in an icy river; and I wish I’d stayed home. It’s not deep, but the water is swift, and I can’t seem to find my footing. I panic. As I try and fail to climb out, I can’t help but think, this just might be how I die, aimless and loveless.

Just then a hand clasps my waist. “I’ve got you!” says the unfamiliar voice. “You’re safe now.” In no time I’m sitting on the muddy shore, shivering but alive. I take a deep gulp of air.

“Are you okay?” asks my rescuer.

I nod, still catching my breath. I’m so relieved to be out of that river. I try to stand up. “Ow!!!” I yelp. The pain in my ankle is worse than I realized.

“What’s wrong?”

“My ankle,” I whimper. “My friends are just down river.”