The heat of late July lingered in Willow Creek like an embrace that refused to loosen. Cicadas hummed in the trees, the air carried the faint scent of pine resin and sun-warmed grass, and the lake shimmered beneath the fading light as though it were holding on to every last color of the day. Clara had always thought the lake was more alive in the evenings, when the daytime noise died down, leaving only the lapping of water against the shore and the occasional splash of a fish breaking the surface.
She sat cross-legged on the dock, toes skimming the cool water, her damp hair dripping down the back of her shirt. Ethan lay stretched out beside her, one arm bent under his head, the other dangling casually over the edge of the wood. He had been quiet for a long time, which was unusual for him. Usually he filled silences with teasing remarks or plans for their next adventure. Tonight, though, he just stared at the streaks of pink and orange bleeding across the sky as if he could hold them in his gaze and keep them from fading.
"You're quiet," he finally said, breaking the hush. His voice was softer than usual, carrying none of the mischief that so often colored his words.
Clara shrugged, watching a ripple of water spread from her toes. "I'm just thinking."
"About leaving?" The question was too direct, but Ethan had never been one for careful wording. Clara hesitated, then nodded. "Maybe. A little."
He skimmed a small stone across the surface of the water, watching it bounce three times before sinking. "You're excited, though. About college. About… everything that comes after."
"I am," she said quickly, almost defensively. "It's just… a lot. Sometimes it feels like I'm standing at the edge of something huge and I can't see the bottom. What if I don't land right?"
He turned his head toward her, eyes catching the last light of the sun. "You will. You always do."
Her chest tightened. She wanted to laugh at the certainty in his voice, but it was impossible. He meant it. Ethan always believed in her, even when she doubted herself. And that was the problem, wasn't it? He believed she could fly, but he wasn't coming with her. "What about you?" she asked, trying to shift the weight of the conversation. "What's on your mind?" Ethan rolled onto his side, his face only inches from hers. The closeness made her pulse stumble. "That I don't want things to change," he said simply.
Her breath hitched. She wrapped her arms around her knees and looked away, at the slow darkening sky. "Things have to change. That's life. People grow up. They leave. They…" She swallowed hard. "They move on."
"Not everything has to change." His voice was steady, but underneath it, she heard something raw, almost pleading.
For a moment, she let herself believe him. For a moment, she let herself imagine a future where she could go away and still come back to him, where distance wouldn't matter and time wouldn't weaken the bond they had always shared. But the thought was fragile, like a glass ornament, and she was too afraid to hold it for long.
Ethan sat up abruptly, restless, as if the stillness of the evening suddenly suffocated him. "Come on."
She blinked. "What?" "We're making memories, right? Isn't that what you said? That this summer has to be worth remembering?" Clara narrowed her eyes, suspicious. "Yes… but what exactly do you have in mind?" He grinned, the heaviness vanishing as quickly as it had come. "You'll see. Get up." Before she could protest, he tugged her to her feet. His hand was warm, roughened from working at his uncle's shop, and the sudden contact sent a jolt through her. She didn't let go even after he started leading her down the dock and back toward his truck.
The pickup rattled and groaned up the dirt road that wound toward the hill overlooking the lake. Clara leaned against the open window, letting the night air whip across her face. She could taste the faint tang of dust in her mouth and smell the sharp green of the pines. When they reached the top, Ethan cut the engine and the sudden silence pressed around them, broken only by the chirp of crickets and the occasional distant bark of a dog down in town. The bed of the truck was already spread with old blankets, the kind his mother kept in a trunk and never cared if they got dirty. Clara climbed in first, settling back on the fabric, and Ethan joined her, lying close enough that their shoulders brushed. Above them, the stars began to prick through the darkening sky. "You ever think about what's out there?" Clara asked, tilting her head toward the endless sprawl of constellations.
"All the time," Ethan said. "But I don't need to go looking. Everything I want is right here."
Clara's breath caught. For a heartbeat, she thought he meant her. The warmth in his voice, the way his gaze lingered, it all suggested it. But then he went on, and the spell fractured. "My family. The shop. Willow Creek. This place… it's home."
Clara turned her eyes back to the stars, her chest tightening with a mix of frustration and longing. For her, Willow Creek had always been a cocoon she was desperate to break free from. For him, it was the roots that grounded him. They were looking at the same stars, but dreaming of different futures. Still, lying there with the quiet hum of summer night wrapping around them, she allowed herself to imagine something impossible. A world where she could chase her dreams without losing him. They talked for hours, about everything and nothing—the time Ethan broke his arm falling from the oak tree, the first time Clara snuck out past curfew, the strange names they gave to the stray cats that wandered through town. Every laugh, every memory wove another thread between them, delicate but undeniable.
When Ethan finally drove her home, the streets were silent, the houses dark except for the porch lights left on for straying teenagers. He walked her to the steps, the gravel crunching softly beneath his boots. Clara lingered, unwilling to break the night just yet. His hand brushed against hers, deliberately this time, and he didn't pull away. For a moment, they stood like that, joined only by the lightest touch of skin, hearts pounding as if the whole world might tilt if either of them moved.
"Goodnight, Clara," he said, his voice low and rough. Her throat tightened. She wanted to say stay. She wanted to say don't let this end. But all that came out was a whisper. "Goodnight, Ethan."
He gave her hand the faintest squeeze before stepping back into the shadows. She watched him until he disappeared, the ache in her chest sharper than ever.
That night, as Clara lay in bed, staring at the ceiling with the summer heat pressing against her skin, one truth refused to leave her: this wasn't just another summer. This was the one that would change everything.