We Weren't Supposed to Reach the Lake

Cayuga Lake finally unfolded before us, a vision years in the making. The scene was precisely as we had pictured it: a shimmering expanse of sapphire water cupped by the lush, green hills of late summer. It was the fulfillment of a solemn pact Morgan and I had forged as children, our whispers illuminated by flashlight beams from beneath a fortress of blankets. We had sworn that one day, we would make this drive. And now, against all odds, the moment had arrived.

Morgan shifted the car into park, and the engine’s low rumble subsided into a profound silence. A grin stretched so wide it felt like it might crack my face, I all but vaulted from my seat. The air, rich with the earthy perfume of damp soil and sharp pine, filled my lungs as I circled to the rear of the car. I wrestled my sleeping bag and a pair of overstuffed duffels from the trunk, and with my arms laden, I started toward the cottage we and our friends had rented for the week. Perched at the bottom of a brief flight of stone steps, it was a rustic jewel sitting just shy of the water's edge. I rapped my knuckles against the solid timber of the door, but the only reply was the gentle lapping of the lake against the shore.

“Morgan!” I called over my shoulder. “I don’t think the others have made it yet!”

Her confirmation sailed back to me, her voice carrying effortlessly on the tranquil air. To free my hands for the key hunt, I dropped my gear onto a nearby hammock that swung in a tempting rhythm between two formidable oaks. “Key, key, key… where are you…” I hummed under my breath, patting down the denim of my pockets. My fingers eventually brushed against cool metal, and I let out a small sound of triumph as I pulled the silver key free. Returning to the entrance, I slid the key into the lock, which turned with a satisfying click. I pocketed the key once more, hoisted my bags, and stepped inside.

The first space I entered was the living room, and it was perfect. The room felt immediately welcoming, with wood-paneled walls that were cozy and well-loved, decorated with an assortment of charming knick-knacks. A massive stone fireplace dominated one wall, a clear promise of warm, crackling fires on the nights ahead. Tucked into one corner, a plush, L-shaped sofa practically begged to be relaxed upon, and a large, rustic dining table, flanked by a pair of long wooden benches, stood ready to host our communal feasts. Beyond this main area lay a small kitchen, a bathroom, and three inviting bedrooms. Two of the rooms featured sturdy bunk beds, perfect for the rest of our friends, while the third held two small twin beds. The entire cottage, though compact, radiated an immense sense of comfort. My eyes, however, were drawn to one room in particular—the one with a sliding glass door that appeared to open out onto its own private balcony. That settled it.

“I’ve claimed our room!” I shouted back to Morgan. First come, first served, after all.

For the next ten minutes, Morgan and I worked in tandem, hauling the last of the supplies from her car and arranging our things in the chosen bedroom. The moment we finished, a single thought consumed my mind: the lake. We scrambled into our swimsuits, and after quickly securing our snorkeling masks, we hurried down to the pebbled shore. A long wooden dock stretched out over the crystalline water, and we walked its weathered planks to the very end.

“Are you sure about this?” Morgan asked from behind me, a tremor of nervousness in her voice. “Can’t we just walk in from the shore?”

“If you walk in, you’ll talk yourself out of it,” I stated flatly. “No, we have to jump.” I glanced back at her and saw her wide, pale eyes fixed on the dark water far below. Oh, perfect, I thought. Looks like it’s up to me, then.

A wicked grin touched my lips. With a sudden shove, I sent her toppling into the lake. Her surprised shriek echoed across the water, followed by my own mischievous laugh. A moment later, her head burst through the surface, dark hair plastered to her face, her expression a perfect mask of outrage. The sight only made me laugh harder.

“NATALIA ROCHELLE!” she roared.

“Look out! Cannonball!” I yelled, launching myself from the dock in a tightly tucked ball.

I surfaced, sputtering and smiling, to the sight of Morgan’s scandalized face.

“You—you pushed me!” she exclaimed, treading water with frantic energy.

“Yep,” I confirmed.

“And then you almost landed on me!”

“Yep,” I said again.

“I really, truly hate you sometimes.”

“I know,” I replied, my grin unwavering.

The water was magnificent. Its initial cold was a sharp, breathless shock that stole the air from my lungs, but my body quickly acclimatized, leaving only the pure exhilaration of the swim. I loved gliding through undulating forests of seaweed, watching tiny, silver-scaled fish scatter before me, and marveling at the water's incredible clarity. Morgan, ever the voice of caution, stayed close, gently reminding me not to stray too far, a necessary warning given my less-than-stellar reputation for keeping my head above water.

We spent the next couple of hours exploring the shallows, only retreating to the cottage when our fingers had become pale and pruned. After we had showered and changed into warm, dry clothes, Morgan glanced at her phone, her brow knitting into a frown. “Hey, Natalia,” she began, her tone serious. “It looks like everyone is stuck in that hurricane down south.”

I winced, an anxious knot tightening in my stomach. The thought of our friends driving through such a storm was terrifying; I could only hope it wasn't a repeat of the devastating Hurricane Sandra from a few years back. “They’re saying they won’t make it up here today,” Morgan continued, “but they might be able to get here tomorrow.”

“That’s alright,” I managed, forcing a casualness into my voice that I didn't feel. “Just tell them to be safe and not to rush. We have the place for the whole week, anyway.”

Morgan nodded, her thumbs already flying across the screen as she relayed the message. We lingered at the cottage for another hour before the pull of the shore beckoned us again. With rain in the forecast for the next day, we decided we might as well make our s’mores tonight. We built a small, roaring blaze in the fire pit by the water’s edge and, under a canopy of stars, toasted marshmallows to a perfect, gooey gold.