Many Summers Ago

The cicadas were louder than usual that afternoon. Or maybe, Theo just hadn’t heard them in a while. He sat on the old dock, toes skimming the surface of the lake, where the water shimmered like polished glass. The scent of pine and sunscreen clung to the air, and behind him, the screen door of the cabin groaned with age every time it swung open.

He hadn’t been back in almost fifteen years.

The lake looked smaller now. As a boy, it had felt endless—an ocean tucked between the trees. He and Jordan used to believe it was magical, that it whispered secrets if you listened long enough. They’d dive off the dock every afternoon, race to the buoy and back, laughing so hard they’d forget to breathe.

It was those moments when Theo remembered how beautiful everything was—how alive it all felt. The hot summer sun beat down on their backs as they buried their faces in old towels, the ones that always smelled faintly of lake water and fabric softener left too long in the sun. The scratchy cloth rasped gently against Theo’s scalp, grounding him in the moment. The dock creaked beneath them, weathered by a hundred summers, but still holding steady.

He collapsed into the faded plastic chair, the seat warm from the sun, its legs wobbling slightly on the uneven boards. And there—right there, with the whole lake shimmering behind him—was Jordan.

His dark brown curls clung to his forehead in wet spirals, heavy from the swim, glistening under the high afternoon sun. Droplets of water rolled down his shoulders, tracing the lines of his collarbone, catching on the soft dips of his skin before falling to his chest and stomach, where they flittered like little stars. His skin, bronzed from days out in the sun, was marked with the pale stripe of his shorts and the occasional freckle. He looked effortless, like he belonged to the lake itself—untamed, sun-kissed, free.

Theo remembered thinking, even then, how unfair it was that someone could look like that without trying. But more than that—he remembered the ache in his chest, that kind of aching that doesn’t feel like pain, but something slower, warmer, more confusing. Something that would linger long after the sun set and the towels dried stiff on the dock.

It had been the summer of their seventeenth year when everything changed.

Theo still remembered that July storm—how the clouds darkened and the sky cracked open like a warning. “This is a bad idea,” he said to Jordan. His friend simply laughed, placing one hand on his shoulder and gripping it firmly before looking into his eyes, saying, “Then it’s the perfect kind.”

There was a glint in his eyes—recklessness wrapped in something gentler, something that always made Theo’s heart skip in a way he refused to name. Before he could respond, Jordan was already climbing into the rowboat, movements quick and easy, like the storm above them was nothing more than background music to whatever adventure he had in mind.

Theo hesitated at the edge of the dock, watching lightning flash in the distance. The air felt electric, not just with the coming rain, but with the weight of something unspoken between them. Something that had been building with every half-glance, every accidental brush of hands, every night they stayed up talking too long under the night sky.

And still, he followed, and they were off.

As they went further into the lake, the water became violent, crashing into the boat. Panicked, Theo grabbed onto the edge, eyes darting between the angry waves and the dock, which was now so far away he doubted they would be able to make it back.

Jordan, on the other hand, seemed more excited than ever. Hollering with glee, he stood up, reached his arms into the sky, and looked up at the clouds, letting the rain kiss his face.

Seeing this, Theo remembered rolling his eyes before saying, “You’ll tip us.”

But Jordan didn’t tip the boat. He jumped. Vanishing under the churning surface with a splash, only to reappear seconds later, grinning like a maniac.

“Come on!” he yelled.

Once again, Theo hesitated. Something had twisted in his gut—a flicker of dread he couldn’t explain. He knew that once he jumped, there was no going back. So he didn’t.

Everything after that was a blur. Theo only vaguely remembered trying to pull Jordan back onto the dock, only for him to be yanked into the lake. Something about “a good swim”, he remembered hearing.

Later that night, Jordan kissed him.

They were both sitting on the dock, still damp from their swim, and looking out onto the lake. The water was now much calmer, black with only the reflection of the moon shining on its surface. Their laughter-filled conversation had long since died out, giving way to a silence that was more understanding than oppressive.

The kiss was brief. It felt more like a question than a statement. And at the time, Theo didn’t answer. He didn’t know how. And as Jordan pulled back and turned away, the silence felt too heavy to bear. “We should probably get back,” he muttered, standing up. His friend didn’t say anything, only nodded in response. They then packed up in silence and left the lake as if nothing had happened.

Now, at twenty-five, Theo traced the edges of that memory like a scar under his shirt. He’d spent years wondering what might’ve been different if he’d just jumped. If he’d kissed back.

Just then, a soft breeze rustled the trees, and from the cabin behind him came the sound of a car door closing. He turned.

Jordan was older now, but his eyes were the same.

“You made it,” Jordan said.

Theo smiled. “I thought it was time.”

They simply stood there, two silhouettes in the golden hush of late afternoon. No more storms, no more waiting.

Just the lake, and the summer, and all the time left to answer the questions they once ran from.