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change in here, keep your new clothes from getting wet.  Will these work?” she asks me, handing me a small pile of pajamas. 
    I hold up the tank top and the pajama bottoms in a plain blue plaid.  “Yeah, these will work,” I tell her, my mouth suddenly completely dry.  Summer isn't paying attention to me; she's hanging up the other end of the sheet, tacking it into the wall beside her bed.  This effectively turns the corner of the room into a small changing station. 
    “I'll go first, if you want,” says Summer, opening up the dresser drawer again and pulling out another pair of pajama bottoms and tank top.  She glances up at me with a wry smile. 
    “Sure,” I tell her then, clearing my throat.
    Great.  We're going to be changing in front of each other.  Does she know I'm a lesbian?  Does she remember that night, so long ago?  Does it matter?  I know what she is, and I'm attracted to her, no matter how much I'm trying to convince myself that I'm not, and that's a problem, isn't it? 
    But there's a sheet between us.  What could possibly go wrong?
    Yeah, right.  I sigh for a long moment, and then I avert my eyes as Summer draws the sheet aside and steps behind it.  The problem is that she didn't hang the sheet high enough, and the sheet itself is a little too heavy for two simple tacks to hold it up.  It droops in the middle, so when Summer turns away from me, I clearly see, as she peels off her dripping wet tank top, the soft, delicate curve of her breast.  Heat rushes to my cheeks, even as my breathing starts to come faster, as my blood begins to pound through every vein I possess.
    “As soon as I get changed, I'll grab you a beer,” says Summer companionably, peeling away her underwear and shorts—or, at least, I assume that's what she's doing.  I'm trying not to glance her way, but there's something about her, her body, her warmth and the way that she's so forward, so confidant, that's drawing me to her like a moth to a flame. 
    No, I honestly don't remember much about her, and the type of person that my sister's best friend has become isn't my normal type.  Not really.  I like more femme girls, softer girls, but there's something about this woman who looks like she's never used makeup, her muscles hardened from running a campground, from living a type of wild life that I ran away from...
    Honestly, Summer represents everything that would have happened to me , had I stayed at Lake George.  I'm an entrepreneur—it's in my blood—so while I certainly wouldn't have become the CEO of a company out here, I would still probably be running the General Store or the laundromat or...who knows?  But I'd own a business of some sort, even if it was just selling souvenirs to the tourists.  And I would be in the lake constantly, my breaststroke becoming a thing of wonder, propelling me through the water as fast as a dolphin.  And I'd be covered in a dark tan that displayed how constantly the outdoors were a part of my life.
    I'd be a lot happier, I realize, as I take a deep breath.  If I'd stayed.
    Summer turns then, as she slips a new, dry tank top over her head.  And, in that moment, she catches me looking in her direction.  I clear my throat, avert my gaze...but I've been busted.
    “You know,” says Summer, her voice dropping to a low, deep growl, “you kind of threw me for a loop earlier.”
    I look at her, my brows up, surprised.  “What?” I ask her. 
    “I mean, I knew you were coming.  I took your reservation,” she says, adjusting the tank top and pulling her braid up and through the neck hole to flop down against her back again.  She's holding me in her warm, brown gaze as she ducks under the sheet and holds it up for me, to go under.  “But when I saw you...”  She clears her throat, still staring at me.  “It was like no time had passed at all.  You know?”
    “I know,” I manage to tell her, my voice thick with repressed emotion.  Ever since I arrived here—was it