Meet Me at the Lake

“She loved me. So much.”

“Of course she did,” he whispers into my neck, pressing a kiss there. “She was your mom.”

It was just a dream.”

“No,” I croak. “It was real. My mom.”

He kisses me, and it’s slow and lush and as sweet as a lemon drop

ut summer doesn’t last forever.

It’s weird how much I love it,” I say.
But the words in my head say something different. The words in my head say, It’s weird how much I love you.

No. It’s . . .” I wanted to explain how it felt as if no one had really seen me before that moment, but all I came up with was, “It’s me.”

Will leaned down, bringing his face an inch from my neck, and inhaled deeply. “You smell like sunshine,” he said into my ear.

I missed my mom, too. So much. The older I got, the more I seemed to miss her.

Just sitting beside him makes me want to crawl out of my skin. Or onto his lap.

while people want to express their sympathy, there’s a limit on how much suffering others can tolerate.