The Wizard's Last Summer

I don’t have magic powers, but they always call me the Wizard because I know things that I shouldn’t.

I know that in four minutes, the sun will take her shape and step through the diner door. I’ll approach the counter and, in just a few words, ignite a chemistry that will burn hotter than anything she could have expected. I’ve watched moments like this twist themselves in every possible direction—but today feels different. I’m not sure how it will end.

First, the waiter will ask me a stupid question in three… two… one.

“So, what brings you to Doucette Lake on the first day of summer, business or pleasure?” the pimple-faced teenager said, placing the bill face down on the table.

“I’m one of the new park rangers,” I replied, already sick of saying it. “Big bear problem this year, they’re not just stealing picnic baskets, they’re biting people's faces off.”

The teenager tried to force a smile as he backed away, eyes blown wide and his face drained to paper white. There was no problem, but his fear of bears goes back to watching a movie nearly a decade ago. I knew the panic would keep him busy. I needed the next few minutes to myself.

“Yesterday” by the Beatles drifted from the stereo, soft and familiar. A fork clanked to the floor, meaning in three… two… one.

The diner door swung open right on schedule. Eight clicks of her high heels carried her to the counter. She smoothed the hem of her yellow sundress as she sat on the stool, crossing one leg over the other with grace. When she slipped off her sunglasses, her face was bare—untouched by any brush or sponge. A natural beauty like the smooth curve of a river stone shaped by nothing but time and nature’s hand.

She lifted the menu, and that was my cue. I rose from my seat and timed my steps so I’d pass by as she placed her order.

“BLT with a Caesar salad, to go,” she said.

The waitress scribbled it down. “And a name for the order, dear?”

“Juliet,” she said, trying to hold back a giggle.

For the first time, I hesitated, unsure whether to carry on. The words tasted old and stale in my mouth, but I pushed them out anyway—the only keys that could unlock a guarded heart.

“That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

The stool squeaked as she turned, eyebrows lifted in a mix of confusion and curiosity. “Excuse me, what did you say?”

“Sorry for eavesdropping,” I said. “But you just don’t look much like a Juliet. It reminded me of one of my favourite works—Romeo and Juliet.”

“I adore Romeo and Juliet,” she replied. “Especially the nineties—”

“The Leo DiCaprio and Claire Danes version,” I said, finishing the thought. “An absolute masterpiece. My name’s Desmond Deroo.”

She smiled. “Kylie. Kylie Soroken. Care to join me?”

My mind tried to stall, to warn me, but muscle memory took over and slipped me into the stool beside her. “Can I get a Moscow Mule?” I called to the waitress.

“Hey, that’s my favourite drink,” Kylie said, leaning a bit closer.

~ ~ ~

Summer played like a worn-out VHS tape—comforting, familiar, ready to unravel. Her voice bubbled in delight when I showed her the petting zoo’s micro-pigs, the tiny creatures she adored most. We walked hand in hand under fireworks, the kind of spectacle she’d only dreamed about. Kylie swore we must have known each other in another life.

And through it all, the smile sat heavy on my face, a quiet weight reminding me I couldn’t keep the charade going.

It was the day before the autumn equinox, and once again, we ended up on the cliffside trail of Mount Polomiet.

Kylie wandered to the edge, stopping between a fallen log and a patch of blue wildflowers clinging to the slope. My stomach dropped.

“Don’t stand there,” I called out, louder than I meant to.

“What?” She grabbed my arm like a lifeline.

“The ground is unstable. One more step and you go over.”

A few hundred metres up the trail, we reached the viewpoint. I kept my arm tight around her waist as Lake Doucette sparkled below us, encased in a canopy of leaves already bleeding into yellow and orange.

“This is the kind of view that Jimothy would’ve loved,” I said before I could stop myself.

Kylie went limp, her fingers slipping from my arm as she took a step back. “How do you know that name?”

I swallowed. “Jimothy? Your dog. You told me all about him… or was that two times ago?”

Kylie narrowed her eyes, her jaw tightening into a gaze I usually found endearing.

“What devil art thou, that dost torment me thus?”

Act three, scene three. She’s never used that one before.

A lie and my confession logjammed in my throat. Nothing came out but jumbled ums and ahs.

“Did you stalk me?” Kylie asked. “Call my friends? Dig through my life? I never talk about Jimothy. Ever. And you’re starting to feel too good to be true.”

I am fortune’s fool.

Her stare was colder than the mountain breeze and froze the truth in my lungs. In the silence that followed, I knew she would never understand—she never had, in any version of us.

“I just… I just wanted everything to be perfect. One last time.”

Her eyes welled up as she turned away and told me not to follow. And I planned to honour those words. I’d seen her cry too many times—sadness, joy, every shade in between.

Thirty-three years of moments like these, cursed to repeat the same summer one hundred times... and time was finally up.

The first year I saw Kylie, I knew I needed to be with her. By the fourth, I was memorizing Romeo and Juliet. It took more than twenty years and the right number of Moscow Mules for her to open up about Jimothy. Now I knew every possible thing about her.

A god-like advantage, and it stripped away every joy, every mystery.

I’d become nothing but a stage performer, faking emotions for lines I’d heard dozens of times. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t real.

The next day, I woke up—and for the first time in a long time, it was the first day of fall.

Summer was over, and so were we.