Page 1 of Hot Monster Summer

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Lily

The rental listing said “quaint lakeside cabin perfect for soul-searching and solitude.” It neglected to mention “dilapidated shack that might collapse if you sneeze too hard,” or “located approximately eight million miles from civilization.”

But it’s perfect.

Nothing but me, thecheerful chirp of woodland creatures, and a whole lot of time to find myself or lose myself, depending on the hour and alcohol intake.

Just me, this questionable cabin, and more emotional baggage than a reality TV contestant.

Thirty years old and starting over.

Again.

I kill the engine of my ancient Honda and stare through the bug-scummed windshield at my home for the summer.

The cabin sits about twenty yards from the shoreline of a lake so blue it looks photoshopped. The kind of blue that should come with a side of tequila, not a remote wilderness address and a strict “no parties, no pets” clause.

The lake is way too big for my doggy-paddle skill set to cross, but cozy enough to see across to the opposite bank. The whole thing is framed in by trees that lean out like they’re protecting it, or daring someone to disturb the peace. The narrow strip of sandy beach is dotted with smooth, sun-bleached driftwood.

As for the cabin...

The structure itself is… well, rustic is the polite word. It's made of weathered gray wood, has a slightly tilted porch, and has windows that have seen better decades. But the setting is undeniably gorgeous—dense forest behind, glittering lake in front, and not another human in sight.

“Welcome toHot Mess Summer: Hermit Edition,” I mutter, grabbing my duffel bag from the passenger seat and making my way to the front door, digging in my pocket for the key the rental agency mailed me.

The lock sticks, requiring a precise combination of jiggling, cursing, and threats before finally giving way with a reluctant groan. The interior smells like pine, dust, and something vaguely… briny? Like ocean water, which makes no sense for a freshwater lake.

“Hello?” I call, though I know there shouldn’t be anyone here. Just my trauma-induced paranoia checking in. “Any axe murderers or vengeful lake spirits present? Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

The cabin remains silent.

One main room with a kitchenette in the corner, a door leading to what I assume is the bathroom, and a ladder up to a loft sleeping area. A worn sofa faces a stone fireplace.

Rustic ’70s charm cranked to eleven.

I drop my bag and flop onto the sofa, sending a cloud of dust into the air.

New low unlocked: making out with dust bunnies because they’re the only action I’ll see for three months.

I sneeze, then groan. “Lily, you’ve officially hit rock bottom. Nowhere to go but up, right?”

“I don’t mind the rustic, dilapidated charm… but a little dusting before the new tenant shows up wouldn’t hurt!” I yell, because it’s not like I can call them. No cell reception, remember?

“It’s just three months. You can do anything for three months.”

That’s my new mantra. Three months to heal. Three months to forget ‘The Betrayal’—three months to focus on me.

After some dusting, I haul my suitcases inside and begin the process of making this old place feel like a temporary home.

I stock the refrigerator with the groceries I picked up at the last town I passed through—mostly comfort foods and enough boxed wine to question my liver’s future. I make the bed with fresh sheets I brought, set up my laptop on the small desk by the window, arrange my collection of paperbacks on the bookshelf, and set up my easel and paint gear.

My “Healing Girl Summer” plan is simple:

Swim in the lake every day

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