I couldn't sit still. My parents had gone about their usual routine — Father in his study with the newspaper and his endless calls, Mother instructing the staff on some trivial detail about linens for the summer house — and I was meant to be studying. But my books sat unopened in front of me, words slipping away the second I tried to focus.
All I could see was Emma's pale face from last night, the way her father had stood in the doorway this morning telling me she was sick, too sick to see me. Too sick for me to do anything but stand there like an idiot, nodding, promising I'd come back tomorrow.
Tomorrow felt like a lifetime away.
So I slipped out. I didn't say where I was going, and no one bothered to ask.
The path into town was quiet, the kind of quiet that presses in on you until your own thoughts are too loud. I tried to picture Emma, better by the time I returned, laughing again the way she did when she teased me. But the image wouldn't come. All I could see was how pale she'd looked the last time I saw her, hair damp from the lake, shivering in my arms.
The town sat only a mile away from the lake, one long street lined with squat brick shops. The butcher, the bakery, the greengrocer, the little bookshop with its bell over the door. The record store where Jack had already wasted half his money on cassettes he played too loud.
Normally, I found the place dull compared to the city, but today it seemed alive in a way that tugged at me. Everyone here belonged. They nodded to each other, stopped to chat, carried bags filled with the week's shopping.
Emma's family belonged here, too. They had roots in this town. And we — my family — we were going to tear them up.
The thought burned in my stomach.
I slowed outside the bakery, the smell of warm bread curling through the air, and leaned against the window. My father's words from this morning still echoed in my head:
"Sacrifices must be made for progress."
What if I could change that?
I thought of Emma's dad, steady, quiet, the kind of man who didn't waste words. He'd lost his job because of men like my father. Because of families like mine. If I couldn't stop Father, maybe I could help in other ways.
But how?
I ran through ideas as I walked — half-baked ideas, desperate ideas.
I could ask Father to give him work at the firm. But the image of Emma's dad in a suit, sitting behind a desk in the city, felt ridiculous. He belonged outdoors, fixing things with his hands.
I could give them money myself. I had some saved — birthday gifts from relatives, bits of allowance I never spent — but it wasn't enough to keep a family afloat, not for long. And Emma's dad was too proud to ever take charity.
Maybe I could speak to the men who'd come to the house, the ones in suits who whispered behind the oak door. Tell them they were wrong. That there was more to those woods than land to sell.
But even as I thought it, I knew how it would end. They'd laugh in my face. To them, I was just a boy.
Still, I couldn't do nothing. Not when Emma's future was crumbling right in front of her.
I pushed open the door of the bookshop, the bell jingling overhead. Dust hung in the air, catching in the light from the tall front window. The place smelled of paper and ink, a little musty but comforting.
Behind the counter, Mrs. Fisher peered at me over her glasses.
"Morning, young man. Looking for something in particular?"
My throat tightened.
"Something for… a friend."
Her eyes narrowed, but kindly.
"Girlfriend?"
I flushed hot, ducking into the nearest aisle. The shelves towered above me, crammed with spines of every colour. I let my fingers drift over them, thinking of Emma. She wouldn't want something flashy, nothing she'd feel she had to hide. But maybe… maybe something that could remind her I saw her. Really saw her.
On a low shelf, tucked away, was a slim book of poetry. The cover was plain, but when I flipped it open the words leapt out at me — about woods and rivers, about ordinary things that carried weight if you looked closely enough.
Emma would like that. She noticed things no one else did.
I bought it, Mrs. Fisher giving me a knowing smile that only made my ears burn more, and I stepped back into the street.
The book was light in my hands, but it felt heavier than anything I'd ever carried. A promise, almost. That she wasn't alone in this. That even if I couldn't fix everything, I'd try.
I wandered past the record shop, the post office, the little park at the end of the street where children shrieked and swung from the metal bars. My feet carried me without thinking, back toward the lake, back toward the woods where I always found her.
But not today. Today I couldn't.
I had to wait.
Tomorrow, her father had said. Tomorrow I could see her.
I clutched the book tighter, the words inside burning against my palm, and made myself turn for home.
All the way back, my mind spun with impossible ideas — writing to my grandfather to intervene, stealing the land deeds and hiding them, standing in front of the bulldozers when they came. I knew they were foolish, boyish thoughts. But beneath them was something sharper, truer: I wasn't going to let Emma disappear from my life without a fight.
Not when I'd only just found her.