Page 8 of Sawyer

As I exit, I look for the flyer that interested Ivy and based on placement, I narrow it down to one of two. The first was posted by the Rec Center and advertises a new yoga class for couples.

Well, I think,unless her shithead Juneau boyfriend (Sorry. Fiancé. Gag.) is planning to join her in Skagway for some hot yoga, it must be the other.

On a pale-yellow sheet of paper, there’s a hand-drawing of a cabin, a horse, and two teenagers in old-fashioned costumes kissing in a field. Beneath the drawing, it reads:

AUDITION FOR SKAGWAY’S WINTER PLAY: WUTHERING HEIGHTS!

A NEW STAGE ADAPTATION WRITTEN AND DIRECTED BY BRUCE FRANKS!

Fraternal Order of Eagles. October 20. 7:00pm.

Only one tear strip has been removed.

Voila,I think, tearing off a second strip and shoving it in my back pocket.We have a winner.

Although I’ve never readWuthering Heights, my mother was a huge fan of Emily Brontë. The book spine at home is dark blue with gold lettering. I’ve seen it sitting on the shelf my entire life and never thought to give it a chance. Maybe now I will.

As I load the dozen grocery bags into the bed of my truck, I take a moment to process the facts that: 1. Ivy Caswell is currently in Skagway, and 2. She may be here long enough to audition for and perform in a play. That I greet this information with a pure and undeniable burst of pleasure in the general vicinity of my heart makes me hate myself a little.

I hoist myself into the driver’s seat and bang the steering wheel with my fist. It’s hard enough not to pine after Ivy Caswell when she’s one of the ten thousand people walking around Skagway every summer day. How the hell am I supposed to ignore her when she’s only one of a thousand locals?

I shouldn’t bepiningafter her.

I shouldn’t evenlikeher.

But having a complicated past with someone binds you to them in ways you don’t necessarily want or like. And that’s how it is with me and Ivy.

As children, we would run into one another at least a few times every summer—at a summer camp in which we were both enrolled, at the Fourth of July festivities in town, at a BBQ in someone’s backyard, or at a church picnic. She was just oneof those seasonal locals woven into the fabric of my life. And without fail, we’d find each other at each and every one of those events. Her freckled face would break into that sweet, gap-toothed smile at the sight of me, and I can only imagine my face returned the favor. We’d stay hip to hip for the whole afternoon or evening, playing hide-and-seek, dunking each other in someone else’s pool, eating hot dogs laden with bright yellow mustard, and hugging goodbye with gusto when it was time to go.

When we hit our teen years, Ivy got a job at the Kozy Kone, and I barely recognized her the first time I stopped in. Her freckles had disappeared, covered by some kind of thick, skin-colored makeup. Gone were her red pigtails, replaced by a shoulder-length bob I hated. With shiny silver braces fixing that beloved old gap in her teeth and pert boobs swelling under a light blue T-shirt, she looked like a different person.

We exchanged awkward hellos, all that blessed easiness from our shared summers suddenly lost. She made me a vanilla cone with chocolate sprinkles, but avoided my eyes as she passed it across the counter. It tasted so bitter, I threw it in the garbage on the way home and avoided the Kozy Kone for the rest of that summer.

The following year, I’d grown into my six-foot tall frame, and the pimples I’d sported the summer before had cleared up. I was still awkward around girls—even those I’d known my whole life—but right around April, I started counting the days until I could visit Ivy Caswell at the Kozy Kone. I would be smoother and more confident this year. I’d remind her of the friendship we’d cherished as children.

Her hair was longer that summer—wavy and wild, falling down past her shoulders. With her braces gone, her smile was perfect. And the little boobs that had so flustered me the summer before werewomanlynow. They werebreasts. And I’mnot going to lie—the desire to touch a girl’s breasts or even just toseethem—was never far from my mind.

Luckily, she didn’t catch me gaping at her chest as I stood in line waiting for my turn. I had raised my gaze to hers just in the nick of time.

“Hi! Welcome to the Kozy—Sawyer Stewart!”

I recognized her smile, even without the gap. It was Ivy. Ivy, my favorite summer friend.

“Hey, Ivy.”

“Hey.”

She’d licked her bottom lip, then bitten it with her straight white teeth. Running a hand through her hair was just about the sexiest thing I’d ever seen a girl do. I felt a surge of blood to my cock.

Fuck. No. Not that.

“Hey,” I’d murmured again, my excitement and lust surging forward without my permission, like a runaway train on greasy tracks.

She’d giggled at my discomposure. “Wanna place an order? Vanilla? Chocolate sprinkles?”

Somewhere in the fog of my lust, it occurred to me that she’d remembered my order from the one time I’d stopped in last summer. My heart throbbed with tenderness.

“Y-Yeah.”

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