Before I Forget by Tory Henwood Hoen - 44

I am attempting to apply mascara when Max arrives that evening. I haven’t put makeup on since I moved to Catwood Pond, but suddenly I feel motivated to look as good as I am able. Next, I dab lipstick on and then rub most of it off, leaving just a soupçon of color on my lips. Carl has agreed to hang with my father for the evening, and when I get downstairs, they are chatting with Max. All three of them turn to look at me, and I notice that their response is different from what I’m used to. I wonder if I’ve forgotten to put pants on, but when I look down, my jeans are right where they are supposed to be.

“You look so beautiful,” says my father, suddenly emotional. I didn’t realize that the change in my appearance would be extreme enough to elicit tears, and I suddenly wonder if I should be making more of a daily effort.

Max smiles at my father’s earnestness, and then meets my eyes. “I agree. You do.”

“Oh, well, thank you,” I say, slightly embarrassed, but also impressed by the ease with which Max seems to be connecting with my dad. After a few minutes, we say our goodbyes and walk down to the boathouse. Rather than go back to the Locust Inn or to Lorne’s, we’ve opted to have a picnic on the water. We hop into our boat, with me at the back so I can operate the motor. Max pushes us out of the boathouse as I stand to pull the starter cord. The engine rumbles and quickly dies. I try again. It rumbles and dies. Max watches with interest, but has the good sense not to try and save the day. On my third try, the motor finally catches and roars to life, and Max gives me a confident thumbs-up, as if he never doubted me. As we accelerate and begin to plane, the wind whips our hair and I start to relax. Part of me feels like a teenager who is sneaking off to do something illicit; another part of me feels like a tired parent who is finally getting a night out. I have to remind myself that, somewhere in between those parts, I am also a young adult who has a life to live. As I push the engine to full throttle, I suddenly feel very clear about who I am and what I want—in this moment at least.

“That’s where Gemma wants to build her wellness center,” I yell, pointing to the Seavey camp. We cruise by so Max can take a look, and then I swing us toward the west bay. As we approach the little island, I slow down and eventually cut the engine. We drift the last few yards, and Max stands to catch hold of the rocks before guiding the front of the boat toward the inlet where we park. I roll up my jeans and hop out into the shallows to tie us up while Max grabs the picnic bag and uses a tree as leverage to pull himself up onto the shore.

The sun casts a coral light over the pond, and as we settle onto the rocks, it intensifies into an orange fireball that seems to protest as it sinks behind the tree-lined ridge, like a child fighting bedtime.

As Max unpacks the contents of his linen tote bag, I have to ask: “How many of these bags would you say you own?”

Max furrows his brow, as if running the numbers. “There are at least three hanging in my mudroom. And those are just the ones I use to stuff other bags into…”

I smile, glad we’re in agreement about the overabundance of tote bags in the world.

“So I don’t know,” he continues. “Anywhere between fifteen and a trillion? But who can say?”

“That sounds right.” I smile again and take notice of the spread that Max has laid out: three types of cheese, charcuterie, figs, raspberries, cornichons, two kinds of bread, local honey, a jar of Dijon. “You went all out. I was expecting a bag of potato chips.”

“Well, you underestimate me,” Max says, opening a bottle of wine and pouring it into two carved-wood tumblers.

I look at him, his hair mussed from the boat ride, his thumb bandaged in what looks to be a homemade splint, and I think he might just be the most attractive man I’ve ever seen.

“Cheers,” he says. “To standing your ground.”

Our eyes meet as we sip, and the quiet settles around us. In the distance, the loons are calling to each other, as if playing a game of Marco Polo. But aside from that, it feels like Max and I are completely alone in the world.

“So how does it feel now that the dust has settled?” he asks.

“You mean turning Gemma down? No regrets.”

He gives me a gentle high five, and I let my hand rest against his for an extra beat before pulling it back.

“I mean, I wouldn’t mind having $100K in the bank. But not if it means digitizing my father.”

Max shakes his head and laughs. “There must be more straightforward ways to make a living.”

“You’d think,” I say. “But it sounds like Gemma is hellbent on proceeding with her plan. Can you imagine? Two dueling oracles, on opposite shores of Catwood Pond?”

“It would make a good movie.”

“Hollywood, here I come,” I say. We stare at the near shore, where a lanky heron takes slow steps through the shallows. “Honestly, I have no idea what I’ll do with myself once … well, when my dad doesn’t need me anymore. I’ve never really had a clear direction, career-wise.”

“Who does?”

“My sister. And my mom. And it seems like you do. How did you choose … is it arborism?”

Max smiles. “Arboriculture. It’s a mouthful. I don’t know that I really chose it. I kind of just grew into it. I knew I wanted to work outside. I’m interested in conservation, so I think I always wanted a job that landed somewhere in between being a scientist and wielding a chainsaw.”

“Seems like you found it.”

“I started out working in landscaping, and clients were always asking us for recommendations for arborists. So when I was ready to start my own thing, I became one. But it was never a grand plan. I just followed my gut and did the next logical thing.”

“But you like it?”

“I love it. I get to work for myself, choose my own jobs, set my own schedule, spend more time with trees than people.”

“Heaven,” I say, recognizing him as a fellow introvert.

He reflects for a moment. “Now that I think about it, I did love climbing as a kid. I was always up a tree. So maybe it was predetermined.” He refills our tumblers. “What about you? What did young Cricket like to do?”

“I was obsessed with animals. Always wanted to be a veterinarian. Which is a bit hard when you’re a college dropout.”

He shrugs as if he’s not so sure, and the self-deprecation that has always been my defense mechanism suddenly feels childish. Maybe I’ve been holding on too tightly to the version of myself that’s a failure. I wonder what it would be like to give myself a fresh start.

The sky has darkened, and just a few violet streaks of cloud remain above the horizon. Max lies back on the blanket we have spread over a large slab of rock, and after a moment, he gently pulls me down beside him. I can feel my heart thud as he kisses me, and I wonder how long it has been since I felt like this with someone. For a moment, Seth flashes through my mind, but I have to admit: this is even more intense than whatever I felt that summer. The audacity of teenage-hood has given way to something more considered and powerful. Max touches me with both patience and intention, taking the lead but also inviting me in. He pulls the strap of my tank top to the side and kisses my collarbone. I can feel the heat of his skin, and I lift the bottom of his T-shirt up, letting him pull it the rest of the way over his head. As things intensify, we shift positions on the sloped rock, laughing as we try to find our equilibrium.

“You’re amazing.” Max exhales.

“You should see me when I’m doing this somewhere other than a rock,” I say.

He laughs and pulls me on top of him, creating a buffer between me and the hard surface beneath us. “Is that better?”

“Much.” I look down at him, tracing my finger along his chest. I can feel him respond, and for a moment, I can’t believe this is really happening. All of my selves begin to chatter—with anxiety, excitement, disbelief—and do their best to hijack my thoughts. But as Max guides my body in a smooth, confident rhythm, I melt into the moment and let myself go.