We sail for about an hour. Jake’s house is already indecipherable from the rest of the shoreline. It would take the whole day to paddle back, so we’re committed at this point. Realizing this, I open a fresh notebook and start writing about how we ended up in the middle of the lake.
I’ve still written a lot since graduating high school, but not to finish pieces or publish anything. I either write on fishing boats — essentially expanded log books — or in notebooks around bonfires. I love writing descriptions of whatever’s around me and noting down lines or bits of dialogues from conversations I have. As I’m writing descriptions of the canoe and the lake and Claire sleeping in the hammock bed, I think maybe this could be something serious, a tale from my life that I could turn into a book. This isn’t the first time I’ve made a rash decision, but it’s an impulsive move that’s suddenly woken me up to the fact that a lot of change has been stewing beneath my skin for a while. I’m not going back out West, not ever, and I’m never going back East either, not after what happened at Jake’s, which is fine — Claire’s the only one I wanted to reconnect with anyway.