Yet if Summer had been four or five years old when Iseya’s wife had died...then Iseya had been shut inside himself for twenty years, now.
And maybe Summer was reading too much into it, thinking a few psychology and education courses gave him any insight into the workings of a distant man’s mind...
But he wondered if Iseya even knew how to find his way out, anymore.
Or if he was trapped inside himself.
And completely alone.
Summer sighed, rubbing his fingers to his temples. “I’m an asshole.”
“Language.”
“I’m twenty-five.”
“And I’m still your mother, and this is still my house.” She reached across the table and curled her thin, papery fingers around his wrist; her skin was cooler than he remembered, and brought back that pang, that quiet unspoken fear, the entire reason he’d been willing to take a job in the town he’d once been so desperate to escape. “You didn’t know, Summer. Now you do. It’s up to you what you do with that information.”
“Yeah...yeah. I know.” He smiled and caught her hand, squeezing it in his own. “I’ve got to think for a bit, but... I think I know what I need to do, in the end.”
“What’s that, dear?”
“I,” he said, holding her hand just a little tighter, as if he could give her his warmth to hold and keep, “am going to do something brave.”
And he couldn’t think of anything that would take more courage than walking up to Fox Iseya...
And apologizing to him flat out.
Fox sat on the shore of Whitemist Lake and watched the sun rise over the spires of the school.
The mist always made sunrise at Albin Academy a strange and silvered thing, when the thick blanketing layer of fog rose almost to the treetops and captured the sun to glow strange and ethereal about the edges. The mornings tasted cool as rain, and every blade of grass around him clung on to condensation like dewdrops, soaking it into his slacks. At times like this he often felt as if the threshold between one world and the next had somehow blurred. And if he looked hard enough, stared deep into the clouds weaving tendrils through and about the trees...
He might somehow see through to the other side.
But this morning there was nothing to see but his reflection, as he looked down into the water and watched the ripples spread while, one at a time, he plucked up clover flowers from the grassy shore and tossed them in. If he followed with the legend of Isabella of the Lake, he was supposed to weave the clovers into a crown for her to wear, down in the watery deeps.
Yet this morning, his mind wasn’t on Isabella.
It was on Summer Hemlock, and yesterday afternoon’s bizarre encounter.
Whatever had possessed such a shy, timid young man to actually kiss him—him, of all people?
And why, for just a moment, had something sparked inside him when he had neither needed nor wanted such things for nearly twenty years?
You are a case study in denial, Fox.
That was what the grief counselor had told him, a decade ago.
Then again, she’d also told him he was a pain in the ass, considering most psychotherapeutic methods didn’t work on someone who knew them by heart.
He plucked up another clover flower, its stem cool and crisp against his fingers as he began tying a delicate knot—only to still at the faint sound of footsteps at his back, rustling in the grass. Probably one of the boys; they liked to make wishes in the lake, throwing flower crowns down to Isabella and asking her for better grades on their midterms or for one of the students at the public school one town over to go out with them. Fox prepared himself to shut away behind the mantle of authority and excuse himself, drawing silence around him like a cloak.
Until a soft “Hey” murmured at his back, and Summer Hemlock sank down to the grass at his side.
Fox stiffened, eyeing Summer sidelong—but as always, Summer wasn’t looking at him. He never looked at anyone, and not for the first time Fox wondered just what had ingrained that particular behavior. That fear. For Fox direct eye contact had other implications, ones few around him understood...
But Summer seemed to be carrying some weight on his shoulders, that bowed his head and kept his eyes downcast.
Summer settled with one leg drawn up, draping his arm over it and leaning back on his other hand. He still wore the same close-fit T-shirt and jeans as yesterday, albeit as rumpled as his hair, and an odd, quiet little smile played about his lips even if it hardly reflected in pensive blue eyes that looked out across the lake as if he, too, could see something in the mist.
Fox looked away, letting the clover flower fall to the grass and leaning on his hands. “Mr. Hemlock,” he greeted. “I presume, since you’ve not changed your clothing, that you returned to fetch your personal effects.”
“No,” Summer answered quietly. “I came to say I’m sorry.”
Fox arched a brow. “For...?”
“You know what.” That smile strengthened, strangely cynical and self-mocking. “But you’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?” Summer turned his head toward Fox, almost but not quite meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry for kissing you yesterday. I’m sorry for not asking first. I’m sorry for crossing your boundaries. And I’m sorry for running away.”
“I hardly expected you to be so forthright.”
“One brave thing per day, right?” Summer let out a breathless, shaky laugh. For all that he had grown into an athletic young man, there was a softness about him, a gentleness, that made every laugh, every gesture a thing of uncertain sweetness. “This was my brave thing. Apologizing to you. I’ll figure out what tomorrow’s is. And Monday’s...if I still have a job.”
Fox realized he’d been watching Summer—the way his lashes lowered to shade the oddly deep blue hue of his eyes, the nervous curl of square, strong
