The summer before eighth grade, Abby and I had been playing pretend fairies outside for the past week, fluttering and skipping in the humidity of the woods. I liked the idea of fantastical things — fairies, dragons, wizards, vampires, and the rest of them — but Abby seemed to believe it. She came to me with love spells, and we performed them with our whole hearts. She smeared us with red clay so we would live forever, and when she told me not to go into the woods alone because of preying beasts, she didn't stammer or flinch.

Our schoolmates made fun of us for playing like little kids when we were officially teenagers, but as long as we had each other, we didn't mind their teasing.

Moody Pond was our favorite spot to play pretend. Something about it was magical; the way the water ripples under skater bugs, the maple seedlings that twirl on the breeze, and the reeds that curve like bridges for real fairies. Abby's house was next door, and her mother let us wander out without a mere peek from their back windows or promise to check-in. Despite its eerie name, Black Lake was thoroughly deemed safe, and a few teasing comments were the only bad things to happen to us.

I knew Abby and I would be best friends for the rest of our lives. Even if we moved to opposite sides of the world, I would find ways to get to her. She was my future maid-of-honor, my closest confidant, and we always understood each other, until sixteen. Sixteen changed everything, at first gradually, but then all at once. Abby stayed in Black Lake but moved schools. She became too busy to hangout or talk or reminisce. She cut me out of her life with no explanation and I was left with nothing but ten years of photographs and a phone number labeled with a heart that no longer rung.

Our made-up world crumbled beneath me, and I felt like she had cast me off to face reality all alone. School was no longer fun without Abby there; it was suddenly only schoolwork, lonely lunchtimes, and homework. Our plans for after high school meant nothing anymore, so I wandered aimless and ended up taking online college courses, feeling unable to fully commit.

And the worst part — I still see Abby. From time to time, there's a glance of her at the grocery store or in a passing car. She's with other people. New friends.

Sometimes she doesn't see me, but most of the time she does and pretends I'm a stranger.

"I'll be with the Society until nine, so I told your Dad to put the lasagna in the oven when he gets home from the hotel. I forgot, did you say you're working today?"

"Yeah, from ten till three," I tell my mother as we both stand in the kitchen.

"Can you pick Perry up from piano? It ends at—"

"Three-thirty, I know. I'll get him."

She strokes the side of my face. "Thanks, Love. I better get going. Today we're deciding on the color theme for the Equinox Festival."

"Isn't it always brown, red, and orange?"

"I'm hoping for a pop of gold — I think it will add a touch of glam, you know?" She grabs her keys, phone, and travel mug from the counter. "Anyhow, I'll see you later. And if your dad forgets about the lasagna—"

"I'll put it in the oven."

"What would I do without you," she ponders then blows a kiss as her keys jingle.

Once she leaves through the front door down the hall, it's only us kids in the house. Perry and Harper are still asleep in their bedrooms, but I've been waking up early the past few days. I like being alone in the morning anyway.

I grab my mug of steaming herbal tea and sit at the breakfast table. The large black-framed window to my right displays our native trees out back. Soon the green on their leaves will break down for more exciting colors. Tomorrow is the first day of September, and although it's not yet autumn, I like to pretend it is. The weather of the mountains yields to my imagination — one of the many things I like about living in Black Lake.

Our cat Teddy leaps onto the chair across from me and then jumps to the table. Mom hates when he does so, but when she's not around, I let him get away with things. I reach to pet his orange hair, and he stretches under my touch. "Good morning, Bub."

I sip my tea and finish by the time Perry enters the kitchen in his too-short pajama pants and a wrinkled t-shirt. His hair sticks out in every direction, and he mumbles, "Hey."

"Hey," I say back and watch as he grabs and prepares toaster waffles from the freezer. "I'm picking you up from piano today."

"Why?"

"Mom is with the Society. Dad's at work."

"Is Harper still driving me there?"

I get up to put my mug in the dishwasher. "She should be."

As his waffles defrost in the toaster, Perry grabs the cat from the table and cradles him in his arms. "Harper's a crap driver."

"Well, she just got her license. Give her some time."

"Won't have any time if I'm dead," he mutters and scratches Teddy's head.

I pause. "Don't be so dramatic."

"Can you drive me?"

"I have work."

He sighs. "Whatever. It's my funeral."

The kitchen begins to smell like cinnamon. The toaster pops and Perry releases Teddy so he can plate his breakfast and eat in front of the TV. I exit through the backdoor to quickly water the garden before I get dressed for the day. The garden is a quaint thing my father built me; a raised bed resting against the foundation of the porch. For the summer, I planted some herbs: mint, sage, rosemary, and the such. The harvest isn't very bountiful, but I garden to keep myself busy.

Planting every summer is a tradition I started after Abby ditched me. I think our younger selves would have liked it — the herbs would have made excellent potion ingredients.

I fill the watering can at the spout against the house and then water the base of each plant until the soil is thoroughly saturated. Next year I might try vegetables.

The backyard is surrounded by a tall paint-chipped fence, but there's a gate fixated on the far side that leads to the forest. Our house is an old Victorian like many of the houses on our street, and Dad says the residents used to gather wood from the forest before winter. They chopped it and stored it in big piles for their fireplaces, and I think that's rather peaceful. Something about housekeeping has always felt peaceful to me.

When I pass the living room on my way upstairs, I see Perry watching cartoons. I smile and carry on. Work starts in an hour.

My parents grew up in Black Lake. They bought and restored this house while my mother was pregnant with me, leaving Dad to do most of the heavy lifting. Like the majority of the house, my bedroom has the original wood floors while the paneling, fireplace, and window frames are all refinished. I know I'm lucky to have such a beautiful space to myself. My mother and I are similar in this way; we both have an eye for detail and a love of pillows, blankets, and candles.

A considerable amount of my time is dedicated to comforting myself. I'm surrounded by love and luxury, yet I'm in perpetual discomfort.

I pull on jeans and a white long-sleeve for work. My dark blonde hair is clamped up in a claw clip, and I grab a pair of black boots from my closet. When it's time to go, I descend the stairs and call to Perry, "I'm leaving!"

"Okay," he says from the living room, still glued to the TV.

I drop my boots to the floor and jimmy them on. Thankfully, Harper and I don't share a car, so I hop in my little Honda and toss my bag onto the passenger seat. The drive into town takes all of three minutes, and it's entirely reasonable to walk the route, but my boss lets me park behind the café, so I take the convenience gladly.

It's cloudy today, but I don't think it will rain. I peer up at the sky as I leave my car and enter the café through the backdoor. In the backroom, I slip on a Blue Moon Café apron and then greet Kiki whose already serving from the opening shift.