Chapter 4: The Boathouse

On Saturday morning Whitney found Isak alone in the lodge hallway and asked if they could talk.

I know because I was coming around the corner with two paper cups of coffee.

"I'm late for my girlfriend," he said, and walked straight toward me.

He took one cup out of my hand, and I took his free hand, and we kept walking.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Anywhere that isn't a hallway."

We went out the side door and down the slope to the lake.

The morning was gray and cold, and the water was flat as a plate.

At the edge of the property stood a boathouse with a cedar roof, and he opened the door and pulled me inside.

It was dim in there, and it smelled like wet rope and old wood.

Canoes hung on racks from the rafters.

A row of orange life jackets hung on pegs along one wall.

He shut the door and leaned his back against it.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I couldn't stand there another second."

"You're shaking."

"I'm not."

I took the coffee out of his hand and set both cups on an upturned bucket.

"Isak."

"I am a little," he said.

I put my palms flat on his chest, over the gray wool.

His heart was going hard under my hand.

"Did she say something?"

"She said she wanted to explain." He looked at the ceiling. "I don't want her explanation. I wanted it thirteen months ago."

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