By late July the heat had turned heavy, pressing against the windows of every house in Willow Creek. The town had slowed to the rhythm of fans, iced tea, and radio static. Lila Bennett spent most afternoons at the art supply store on Main Street, pretending to sort brushes while watching dust drift in the sunlight.
Noah Blake came by sometimes, driving the same blue truck, the same dented door. He never said much, only leaned against the counter and asked if she had started drawing anything new. She always said no, even when her fingers were stained with graphite.
“You should show someone, you know,” he said once.
“Why?”
“Because you see things the rest of us don’t.”
He had that way of saying ordinary things like he meant them. She’d learned to look away first, before her heartbeat gave her away.
One afternoon he parked outside the store and called through the open door. “You want to drive up to the lake?”
She hesitated. “Now?”
“It’s too hot to stay in town.”
“What about work?”
He grinned. “You’re not actually working.”
He wasn’t wrong. She locked the register, grabbed her bag, and followed him out. The truck’s seats were cracked with age, the dashboard sticky from the sun. They drove with the windows down, wind rushing in, the radio murmuring something soft and slow.
The road curled through fields of yellow grass. The sky looked endless, the kind of blue that made her chest ache. For a long time neither of them spoke.
When they reached the lake, the air cooled by a few degrees. Pines leaned over the water, shadows stretching long. Noah killed the engine, and for a moment there was only the sound of insects and the slow lap of water against the shore.
“Still the same,” he said.
“You expected it to change?”
“Everything does.”
She watched the ripples move across the lake. “You ever miss it?”
“Sometimes. Not like I thought I would.”
They sat on the dock, feet dangling above the water. The boards were warm against her palms. A dragonfly hovered between them before darting away.
“You ever wonder what would’ve happened if you hadn’t left?” she asked.
“All the time,” he said quietly. “But wondering doesn’t change it.”
The sunlight shifted; the water turned gold. Lila traced circles on the wood, her reflection trembling in the surface. “You look at this place differently now,” she said.
“Yeah. It looks smaller. But it feels more real.”
A gust of wind rippled through the trees. He reached up, brushed his hair back, and smiled at her like it was still years ago and nothing had changed at all.
They stayed until the sky softened into orange. A heron crossed the far end of the lake, its wings catching the light like folded glass. Noah threw a small stone; the splash broke the stillness, spreading rings that reached their toes.
“College wasn’t what I thought,” he said.
She glanced at him. “What did you think it would be?”
“Louder. Bigger. Like it would swallow me up and make sense of everything. But it’s just noise. You finish classes, work shifts, try not to think too hard.”
“And here?”
“Here everything’s quiet enough that you have to.”
She smiled faintly. “That’s why you keep leaving.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I come back because I miss it.”
A cloud passed, dimming the water. He leaned back on his elbows. “What about you? You ever think about leaving?”
“Sometimes. Then I remember I wouldn’t know where to go.”
“Anywhere.”
“That’s not the same as home.”
The word hung there between them. The air smelled of resin and sun-warm metal. For a long moment, neither spoke.
When they drove back, the horizon burned pink and violet. The truck rattled over the bridge, the tires humming like a heartbeat. Lila rested her chin on her arm, watching the fields blur past.
At the edge of town, he slowed. “Want to grab something to eat?”
“I should get home.”
“You sure?”
She nodded. “Mom’s making dinner.”
He pulled up in front of her house. The porch light flicked on automatically. They sat there, not moving.
He said, “I forgot how the air smells here after the rain.”
“It always smells like this.”
“Yeah. Guess I forgot myself too.”
She looked at him, meaning to laugh, but the sound caught in her throat. His gaze held hers—steady, uncertain, searching. Then he smiled, small and careful.
“See you tomorrow, Lila.”
“Night, Noah.”
She stepped out, the heat from the road rising around her legs. The truck idled a second longer, then rolled away into the dusk.
Inside, the house was dim and quiet. Her mother hummed in the kitchen, a melody half-familiar. Lila went to her room, the sketchbook still in her bag. She opened it, meaning to draw the lake, but her pencil began tracing the curve of his hand instead.
When she finally stopped, the page showed nothing but motion—lines that looked like wind, or waves, or something leaving.
Outside, the sky darkened to indigo. Crickets started their chorus. Somewhere down the street, a truck door slammed. She didn’t look out the window this time.
She just sat, listening to the sound fade, until all that was left was the hum of summer and the slow beating of her own heart.
The next morning the heat returned, thicker, slower, as if the whole town had slipped underwater. Lila woke to the hum of cicadas outside her window and the faint sound of Jake shouting somewhere near the garage. She lay still for a while, replaying the way Noah had said her name the night before, how it had felt too familiar to be safe.
When she came downstairs, her mother was already setting out breakfast. “Noah’s helping your brother fix that boat again,” she said. “You could take him some water.”
Lila pretended not to hear, but she filled two bottles anyway. Outside, the air shimmered. She crossed the yard, her sandals kicking dust. Noah was crouched beside the boat, grease on his hands, sunlight cutting through his hair.
“Morning,” she said.
He looked up, smiling. “Hey, artist.”
“Don’t start.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She handed him the bottle. “You’re going to melt out here.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Jake climbed out of the boat and wiped his forehead. “She’s all yours, man. I’m done for the day.” Then to Lila: “He’s been at it since sunrise.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Noah said. “Too many thoughts.”
“About what?” she asked.
He shrugged. “About what comes next, I guess.”
She didn’t know what to say, so she sat on the grass beside him. The smell of oil and lake water filled the air. His arm brushed hers when he reached for a wrench. Neither of them moved away.
“Remember the summer we tried to sail this thing to the island?” he said.
“We didn’t even make it halfway.”
“Still counts.”
“We almost drowned.”
He laughed softly. “Details.”
Jake called from the porch. “Lunch in twenty!”
“Got it,” Noah shouted back, then leaned against the hull, exhaling. “You ever feel like time loops here? Like every summer just replays itself?”
Lila plucked at a blade of grass. “Maybe it does. Maybe we never really left.”
He looked at her then, his eyes steady, unguarded. The sound of the cicadas swelled until it felt like the whole world was humming between them.
That afternoon they drove to the farmer’s market on the edge of town. The air smelled of peaches and dust. Noah bought a paper bag of plums and handed her one. She bit into it; juice ran down her wrist.
“You always did make a mess of things,” he teased.
“You always said that.”
“Because it’s true.”
She nudged him with her shoulder. “You’re impossible.”
“Only with you.”
They wandered past rows of stalls, the sun hanging low over the hills. A band played somewhere near the gazebo, the same song that used to play on the radio when they were kids. She didn’t say anything, but he started tapping the rhythm against his thigh.
“Still remember the words,” he said.
“Of course you do.”
He grinned. “You used to sing along.”
“I was twelve.”
“Didn’t stop you.”
The sky was turning the color of honey when they walked back to the truck. He tossed the bag of fruit onto the seat and climbed in. The air smelled of sugar and heat. For a while they just sat there, windows down, the sound of crickets filling the silence.
“You ever think about what happens when summer ends?” she asked finally.
“Every day,” he said.
“And?”
He turned to her, eyes darker now. “I try not to.”
The words stayed with her the whole drive home. Even when he dropped her off, even when the truck disappeared around the bend, she still heard them, low and unfinished, like the echo of something that refused to fade.
That night she couldn’t sleep. The moon hung above the roof like a silver bruise. She opened her sketchbook and tried to draw the sky, but all she could see was the reflection of the lake, and the way his smile had looked when he said her name.
Outside, somewhere far off, the blue truck started again, its engine a heartbeat she couldn’t silence.
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