Across the Cove | PJM

1

y/n POV

You released your backpack from your sore shoulder and allowed for it to fall on your bedroom floor, heavily. There may have been some fragile items in that bag, but you didn't care. Your mind and body were completely exhausted. One full year of college had finally been complete, and you had just brought everything home for the summer. Your posters, books, shoes, and hoodies--packed into a ton of boxes that felt almost impossible for you to carry. But you had managed to transport every single box onto your cold, wooden floor. All you wanted to do was crash yourself onto your cozy, full-sized bed and shut your eyes forever. But, you had no time for that.

Tomorrow morning, early tomorrow morning, you were going on a summer-long trip to your childhood home: Lake Magoa. Just thinking about the name made your stomach twist. You were so tired, and after a long day of packing up your stuff from one place to another, you had no day of rest to look forward to. Of course, this so-called "vacation" was none of your doing. It was your mother's.

"What are you doing just standing there?" She impatiently asked as she waltzed into your room. "Everyone else is packed for tomorrow."

You turned just your head back to show your worn out figure.

"I just got home thirty seconds ago," you replied. "Give me a moment of peace."

"No," she said authoritatively, "you will pack now because nobody wants to be waiting on you to do it tomorrow morning. I just drove two hours to get you and help you gather your things, and I'm still ready."

"Wouldn't wanna burden the entire family." You sighed sarcastically. Although, it wasn't really satirical. You really were the odd one out in your family. It seemed as though everyone else got along just fine, except for you. Claudia, your sister, was the jack of all trades with a 4.0 GPA in one pocket and a full-ride swimming scholarship in the other. And she had just finished her Junior year of highschool. Whilst you only went to a college with no highschool sports or amazing grades to help support you in pursuit of studying fashion. At least you had one thing on Claudia: Your looks.

Not only did you have an impeccable and unique style, you were also very good-looking. Your extended family often referred to you as "the beautiful one" when talking about you and your sister. Although, you weren't sure whether that was a compliment or not. Your sister was nowhere near leaning towards unattractive on the scale, but were you anything more than your physicality? Did no one take you seriously like they did her?

You half blamed your beauty, but the other half of you faulted Claudia. If she hadn't been so damn smart and talented, maybe people could see past your stunning presence and into your mind. You were smart, too. You were talented, too. Why couldn't anyone else take note of that?

Or maybe it was because of your snug, introverted personality. Claudia was so loud and extroverted and well-spoken. She knew just how to wrap people around her finger. Except you, of course. You felt as though you knew all her little tricks and tidbits on how she charmed her audience. If you wanted to, you could act just like her. But, you wanted to be your own person. Acting like Claudia would get you nowhere but having people tell you that you guys were alike. And that was the last thing you wanted.

Claudia wasn't a horrible person or anything. You were just simply jealous of the way she was seemingly perfect. For God's sake, she even woke up early every morning to do a full face of hair and makeup. And she was always working out. You didn't think you had ever seen her take a rest day. Of course, it was for swimming. She had to maintain her perfect stamina and figure. Most of it made you want to barf.

And she knew all of this, too. She was aware of the way your mother so clearly favored her over you. She didn't act too conceited or anything, but she did know.

"I never said you were a burden," your mom burned. "God, can't you just not make everything about yourself? Pack."

And with those hurtful words, she exited your cluttered room. But, these words had been spoken to you before, just in different forms. Thousands of times. You and your mother never had the best relationship. She didn't support your dreams of being in fashion, and couldn't wrap her mind around why anyone would want to do something that wasn't related to making money.

But, like mentioned before, you were the odd one out. Although, you did get along with your father. He was always away on business, but when he was home, it was the best feeling ever. You guys would always go out and get ice cream, or make dinner together, or watch new tv shows. And when he was off on his travels, he often texted you, asking if you were doing okay or telling you he loved you. Seeing a notification from him made your body feel warm and comforted. When he was home, it was the only time you felt at home, too.

And one of the best things about him was the fact that your mom was kinder when he was around. She wouldn't judge you by telling you how provocative your outfit was--even though it was simply just a tank top and ripped jeans. Or how she would stop with the comments about your weight--comparing you to your sister who was practically a toothpick. And she would finally let go of the comments about your career path. It was better when your father was around, and definitely relieving to know that he was joining you guys on your lake trip.

As your face heated at the sting of those painful words your mother gifted to you, it quickly changed to warmth. You felt a comforting presence from behind and immediately knew it was exactly who you had hoped it would be:

"Dad!" You smiled joyfully as you turned to him with open arms. Both of you embraced one another in a hug that you wished would last an eternity.

"I missed you so much, Mira," he said tightly.

"Me too."

Your father looked around your bedroom which looked like a tornado had flown right through it. He put his hands on his hips and knitted his eyebrows.

"Need help?"

You replied to his offer with a sigh indicating that you did, in fact, need all the help you could muster. In more ways than one, but this one obviously referred to your pigsty of a room. He began placing the boxes that were anything other than clothes on one side of the wall.

"Not really gonna need these ones since we're leaving tomorrow," he added as he picked one up.

"Yeah, yeah," you answered, "I know. We're going to Magoa."

"Aren't you excited?" He asked, tilting his head to the side.

You let out a small snarf. "No, who wouldn't be excited about the fact that they have to spend their summer in a huge body of water with a bunch of people they barely know? Not me!"

"Oh, come on," he nudged, "what about the Park family? Jiya and Jimin? You can hang with them!"

Those names made you internally cringe. Well, not Jiya. She was the nice one. Just Jimin's. Park Jimin. The last time you had seen the Park family was about four or five years ago. But Jimin; you grew up with him and his older sister, Jiya.

Your mother and Alexandra Park, Jimin and Jiya's lifelong stepmother, had known each other since high school. They were so good of friends that they bought lake houses together, right after you were all born. You were all the same age or around it: Jiya was twenty, Jimin was nineteen, you were eighteen, and Claudia was seventeen. Although, you and Jimin were in the same grade.

You guys grew up as neighboring childhood friends until you turned ten. Then, you moved to Washington because it was closer for your dad's work. Every summer, up until you were thirteen or fourteen, you would visit the Park family. And Jimin. He was always so mean to you.

You remembered how he would tease you to no end. How he tried embarrassing you many times in front of your family and friends. You thought about the time that he told all your classmates you had lice, and nobody talked to you for weeks. Or that time where he put a frog inside your lunchbox before school started. Or when he pushed you into the freezing cold water with all your clothes on...in the winter, at night.

He used to make you so angry. Even when you visited, he still managed to make the blood boil inside your veins out of rage or humiliation. So, when your father asked you if you wanted to hang out with Park Jimin, you felt the same emotions you had when you were a kid. And you felt your blood boil again.

"I don't think so," you replied, vaguely. "I think I'll just keep to myself this summer."