Episode 2: The Lake ( POV AVERY)

The morning after Dante came to my room, I woke to rain. Not the gentle kind that whispers against windows, but the hard, vertical rain that turns the world into something to wait out. I lay in bed listening to it, counting the seconds between thunder, until his knock came at 8:17.

"You alive?" Same question. Different tone—softer, like he was checking something he'd already decided.

"Unfortunately."

He opened the door. No hoodie this time. Just him, in jeans and a thin shirt that showed what boxing had built, what his mother leaving had carved. He held two mugs, steam rising, the smell cutting through the rain's metallic edge.

"Robert and your mom left for some couples thing," he said. "I made coffee. Real coffee. Not the shit Robert drinks."

I sat up, took the mug, burned my tongue on the first sip. He watched me wince, almost smiled, didn't apologize.

"Plans today?" I asked.

"Lake," he said. "If the rain stops. If you want."

"If I want," I repeated. The phrase felt foreign. For months, I'd been told what I needed—therapy, fresh air, a new start. No one had asked what I wanted.

"I want," I said.

The rain didn't stop. We went anyway.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^

He drove with the windows up, the defroster fighting condensation, the world outside reduced to watercolor smears. I watched his hands on the wheel, the scars white against his knuckles, the way they tightened and loosened in rhythm with the road.

"Your mom," I said. Not asking. Offering space for him to fill, or not.

"Left when I was ten." Flat. Practiced. "Packed a bag while I was at school. Note on the kitchen table. 'I need to find myself.' Never found me, apparently. Never came back."

I thought of my father. The way he'd left too, just slower, just more visible, letting us watch him disappear cell by cell.

"My dad didn't leave a note," I said. "Just silence. At the end, he couldn't speak. I sat there, holding his hand, waiting for something. Last words. Wisdom. Anything." I paused. The rain drummed harder. "He just breathed. Then didn't."

Dante's hands tightened on the wheel. Not dramatically. Just enough that I saw the tendons shift, the scars stretch.

"That's worse," he said. "The note. At least you know she chose to go. At least you don't wonder if she wanted to stay."

"Do you wonder?"

"Every day." He glanced at me, quick, away. "Every day I wonder what I did. What I didn't do. What I could have been to make her want to find me instead of herself."

The road curved. Trees thickened. The rain began to thin, not stopping but losing conviction, the way grief does before it returns.

^^^^^^^^^^^

The lake appeared without announcement. Gray water, gray sky, the horizon erased. Dante parked on dirt that was becoming mud, turned off the engine, sat still.

"I haven't brought anyone here," he said. "Since her."

I didn't ask why he brought me. Didn't want to know the answer yet, whether it was trust or need or the beginning of something that would trap us both.

We walked to the dock through wet grass, our shoes darkening, the cold finding our ankles. The wood was slick, silvered, ancient. We sat at the edge, feet dangling, not touching the water but close enough to feel its cold rising.

"She taught me to skip stones," he said. "Here. That day, the last day, she showed me the wrist flick. Three hops if you do it right. Four if you're lucky." He picked up a stone, smooth, flat, examined it like evidence. "I skipped seventeen that afternoon. Waiting for her to come back from the store. Seventeen, and she still wasn't home."

I watched his hands. The way they held the stone, familiar, angry, gentle all at once.

"She never came back," I said. Not asking.

"Never." He skipped it. Three hops. Sink. "I kept coming. For years. Skipping stones, counting, waiting. Like if I got to twenty, she'd appear. Like the number mattered."

"Did you ever get to twenty?"

"Once." He picked up another stone, didn't throw it. "Twenty-three hops. Perfect conditions. Flat water, right angle, luck. I looked up, expecting—" he laughed, broken, "—expecting what? A car? Her voice? Something that would make the number mean something?"

"What happened?"

"Nothing." He threw the stone. One hop. It caught an edge, sank immediately. "Nothing happened. She was still gone. The number didn't matter. I stopped coming after that."

I sat with that. The way we'd both learned that counting—breaths, stones, days—didn't keep anyone. The way we'd both been left with numbers that meant nothing and grief that meant everything.

I reached for a stone. My fingers found one, cold, heavy, wrong-shaped. I threw it badly. It plunked, no hops, immediate sink.

"Wrist flick," Dante said. He moved behind me, not touching, guiding my hand through the air. "Not arm. Wrist. Snap at the end. Like you're shaking water off."

I tried again. Two hops. Better.

"Again," he said.

I threw. Three hops. The water swallowed it, but slowly, reluctantly.

"Four next time," he said. "You'll get four."

We sat in silence. The rain became mist, then memory, then nothing. The lake steadied, offering reflection—gray trees, gray sky, two figures on a dock becoming clearer as the world settled.

"Why did you bring me here?" I asked. The question escaped before I could stop it.

Dante was quiet. Then: "Because you count too. I can tell. The way you watch, measure, wait for something that won't come." He paused. "I wanted to show you that the counting doesn't work. That you can stop."

I turned to face him. Close enough to see the stubble on his jaw, the small scar above his eyebrow, the way his eyes avoided mine then found them, too intense, too honest.

"I don't know how to stop," I said.

"Neither do I." He smiled, sad, real. "But maybe we can not-know together. Maybe that's enough."

It wasn't enough. It was too much. It was the beginning of a need that would become structure, that would become trap, that would become the reason we both destroyed something trying to keep it.

But sitting on that dock, cold and wet and seen for the first time in months, it felt like safety. Like the only solid thing in a world of water.

We didn't leave until dark. The drive back was different. He talked more, or I listened better—stories about boxing, about Robert's failed attempts at fatherhood, about the step-sister before me who'd lasted six months before demanding to live with her real father.

"You're the longest," he said. "The one who's stayed. In the house. In my—" he stopped, corrected, "—in the family."

"I'm not staying," I said. The words came out sharp, defensive. "I'm here until graduation. Until college. Until I can leave."

"I know." He didn't look at me. "That's why I brought you to the lake. So you'd have something to remember. Something that wasn't just waiting to leave."

I wanted to argue. Wanted to say that the lake was his memory, his grief, his mother's absence. That I was borrowing it, performing gratitude, adding it to my collection of things that didn't belong to me.

But I remembered the stone. Three hops. The way he'd guided my wrist, not touching, present. The way he'd shown me something without requiring performance in return.

"Tell me about the nightmares," I said. Not asking. Offering exchange.

He was quiet long enough that I thought he'd refuse. Then: "Falling. Always falling. No ground, no impact, just the sensation of losing control. Of wanting to stop and not being able to."

"Mine are silence," I said. "Then sirens. The hospital. The moment before I knew, when I still thought counting breaths meant keeping him."

We didn't elaborate. Didn't need to. The exchange was complete—his falling, my silence, both of us counting things that didn't save anyone.

“Come on, its getting pretty late ,lates head home” Dante said leading me back to the vehicle.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

That night, the thunder woke me. Not loud enough to be threat, just present, continuous, like the world clearing its throat. I found him in the kitchen, same as my first night, drinking milk he didn't want.

"Can't sleep?" I asked.

"Never do." He didn't look up. "You?"

"Thunder."

He nodded. Gestured to the counter. I sat beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touched, not touching. The refrigerator hummed. The storm pressed against windows, demanding attention, being ignored.

"The code," he said suddenly. "I should teach you the rest. The signals. For school. For when you need to get out."

"I thought you said nobody signals to you."

"I said nobody signals to me." He turned to face me. "That doesn't mean I won't see you. That doesn't mean I won't come if you need."

He taught me. In the kitchen, at 3 AM, with the storm as witness. Jab-cross-hook: trouble, rescue. Uppercut: witness, don't intervene. Roll: performing, fine, don't believe me.

I practiced until my hands remembered, until the movements became reflex, until I could signal without thinking.

"One more," he said. He took my wrist, positioned it, let go immediately. "This one's just for us. Fist to heart, then open. Means 'I'm here. Even when I'm not here.'"

I practiced it. Fist to heart. Open. The gesture felt like promise, like warning, like the beginning of a language only we spoke.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because Monday, you'll be theirs," he said. "The school's. His. Everyone's. And I'll be—" he gestured at the kitchen, the house, the life, "—here. Waiting for you to come back to the porch."

I wanted to promise. Wanted to say I'd signal, I'd return, I'd choose him over their attention, their wanting, their performance.

But I thought of my father. The way promises dissolved into silence. The way I'd learned that need was dangerous, that attachment was loss waiting to happen.

"I'll signal," I said. The words were smaller than promise. More honest.

He nodded. Accepted. Smiled, small, sad.

"Then we're ready," he said. "For Monday. For all of it."

We sat until the storm passed, until the refrigerator's hum became silence, until the first gray light found the windows. Not talking. Just being. Two people who'd learned to count, learning to stop.

I didn't know yet that stopping was its own kind of trap. That his teaching me to signal meant I'd always be signaling to him. That his waiting for me to return meant I'd always be expected to return.

I just knew that for the first time since my father died, I wasn't performing grief. I was feeling it, in the presence of someone who didn't require translation.

That felt like freedom.

That was the beginning of the cage.

The next day, Sunday, he took me to the boxing gym. Industrial, unapologetic, the kind of place that didn't bother with mirrors because the fighters didn't want to see themselves.

He wrapped his hands in the corner, methodical, ritual. I sat on a bench against the wall, watching, learning what investment looked like when it was physical.

"Investment," he said, not looking up, "is showing up when you don't want to. When you're tired, hurt, when the goal feels impossible."

He began. Jab-cross-hook, the code made flesh. The sound was wet, rhythmic, the bag absorbing impact and asking for more.

I watched his shoulders loosen, his face empty, his body become honest in a way his words never could. This was Dante unperformed. This was what he looked like when no one needed him to be anything.

He stopped, suddenly, mid-combination. Turned to me, sweating, breathing hard.

"You're not watching," he said. "You're thinking."

"About Monday," I lied.

He smiled. Knew I lied. Let it pass.

"Monday," he said, "you'll see him. Grayson. You'll see everyone. And you'll need to know that you're not like them. That you can watch without wanting. That you can want without falling."

I nodded. Didn't trust myself to speak.

He crossed to me, sat too close, close enough that I smelled the work on him, the effort, the honesty of his body.

"Don't fall, Avery," he said. Quiet. For only me. "Don't become her. Don't become your mother, watching, wanting, waiting to be chosen. Choose yourself. Choose—" he stopped, corrected, "—choose control."

I nodded again. Felt the weight of his need, his fear, his building of something that would require my participation to survive.

"I'll choose," I said. The words were promise and warning and performance all at once.

He smiled. Satisfied. Already planning, already building, already seeing Monday as test and opportunity and threat.

We left the gym in silence. The afternoon was fading, the week ending, the game about to begin. I had his codes, his hoodie, his waiting. I had the lake, the stone-skipping, the almost-touch that we'd agreed was step, was safe, was sufficient.

I didn't have freedom. I had the performance of it. And for someone who'd spent months counting breaths that didn't save anyone, the performance felt like enough.

That night, on the porch, he said: "Whatever happens Monday. Whatever you see, whoever you meet. You're my person. That doesn't change."

I didn't answer. Couldn't. The promise was too heavy, too needed, too dangerous to name.

I just sat with him, watching the oak tree turn silver in moonlight, feeling the week we'd built settle into structure, into expectation, into the trap we'd both call home.