The truth is, within five minutes of pushing away from the shore, Peter has made his way to the forefront of my mind, because my arms and shoulders are already burning from exertion, and Miles can only paddle about twice before he has to pause and wait for me to catch up.
The dark horizon has only just started to soften as light bleeds along the top of the water, and I already know this was a huge mistake.
We’d been planning to do a six-mile loop around a small island in the bay, where the more adventurous locals—people like Miles and Petra probably—like to camp.
Tucked back in the bay like this, there’s no real current or waves to contend with, not like there would be in the lake proper, but I’m still woefully underprepared.
“You can go ahead,” I call across the water.
Miles laughs. “Why would I do that?”
“Because I’m pretty sure I’m actually moving backwards,” I say.
“It’s water,” he points out. “In every direction. There’s nowhere to be. Unless you’re serious about catching up with Keith and Gladys.”
“I have neither the intention, nor the emotional capacity, to do that,” I say.
“Then let’s chill,” he says. “There’s no rush.”
“Well, if that changes, feel free to ditch me.”
“Yes, Daphne, if something changes, and I need to escape a freshwater shark, I’ll paddle my little heart out and leave you for dead.”
“Are there really sharks in the lake?” I ask.
“I’m offended you’d even ask that,” he says.
“Someone’s got to defend Lake Michigan’s honor, I guess,” I say.
“Why not me?” he agrees.
We paddle slowly, parallel to one another, the gradually lifting sun painting everything in pinks and golds.
“I know it’s a cliché,” he says after a minute, “but being on the water always does feel like what I imagine church is for some people.”
“I get that,” I say. “Out here, you’re small and there’s no one else around, but you’re not lonely. It’s like you’re connected to everyone and everything.”
“Exactly,” he says. “And you remember to marvel. It’s so easy to forget how incredible this planet is.”
I throw a glance his way. “I think you’re pretty good at the daily marvel.”
“Sometimes,” he says, then, “You are too.”
I snort. “I’m more of a cranky pessimist and we both know it.”
“You moan every time you eat,” he says. “I don’t think you’re as pessimistic as you think.”
I flush, reroute the conversation neatly: “I think as a kid, the library was the thing that made me marvel. I never felt lonely there. I felt so connected to everyone. Honestly, I think it also made me feel connected to my dad.”
There it is, a hideously embarrassing truth dropped right into the middle of a conversation. A fact I’ve never admitted aloud.
It might be an oversimplification, but it’s the truth: “He’s why I love libraries.”
“Big reader?” Miles guesses.
I laugh. “No. He just never planned his visits ahead or had any money, so he’d blow into town and take me there to check out some books, or do an activity or whatever. So when I was little, I really associated them with him. It felt like ‘our thing.’ ”
“Are you close?” he asks.
“Not at all,” I tell him. “He’s lived in California for a long time now, and his visits are unpredictable. Doesn’t come when he says he will, shows up when you’re not expecting him. But he was a really fun dad when I was a kid. And the library trips felt like this amazing gift, specifically from him to me, you know?”
Like he alone had the key to anything I wanted to read.
“My mom never had time to get over there, and I was kind of terrified of the school librarian, so once I got old enough, I’d just walk over to the local branch after class and Mom would pick me up when she got off work.”
He grins. “A good librarian makes all the difference.”
I angle myself toward him. “You joke, but it’s true.”
“I’m not joking,” he says. “If you’d been my librarian, I would’ve read a lot more.”
“Because I would’ve told you audiobooks count?” I say.
“For starters,” he says. “Also I would’ve wanted to impress you.”
My face tingles. “Julia’s great,” I say.
“She is,” he agrees. “She’s the best.”
