Chapter Twenty

twenty

Jessie

A new set of campers has arrived, a group in their forties and fifties. We're all gathered in the dining hall and I'm doing my welcome speech—the schedule, the rules, check your crevices for ticks, where to buy booze and condoms.

But this time, there's something more.

"Finally," I say, "I have an interesting proposition. You know that the Camp Chickawah property is under contract to be sold—"

Someone boos loudly, and other people join in. Never takes long for these adult campers to regress and start acting like kids.

"I know, I know," I say, smiling. "But as a staff"—I motion behind me to Hillary, Cooper, Dot, Zac, and Zoey—"we have an idea. A way to save the camp. And we need your help."

"Tell us the plan!" someone shouts.

"Tell us! Tell us!" another table starts chanting, pounding their fists. More and more people join in, until the dining hall is full of thunderous noise.

"I'm getting there!" I shout, gesturing for quiet. "The idea is simple: form a cooperative business of former campers and staff and purchase the property ourselves. Every person who joins will have partial ownership and a stake in the camp."

I explain the details, using the talking points Luke put together for our website.

"Let's do it!" a camper shouts, and a bunch of others cheer.

"I'm in," a deep voice booms.

Others call out: "Me too!"

I glance at Hillary, whose eyes are bright with excitement. She's standing next to Cooper, and when she notices me looking, she takes a discreet step away—but not before I notice that their hands were touching, their fingers intertwined.

Hmm. What did Cooper tell me about the last person he dated? A waitress at his restaurant. She threw lobster bisque at him, something like that? I have no idea if he deserved it or not, and I can't imagine Hillary blowing up and hurling stuff, but any drama could be a huge problem for the rest of the summer.

Plus—and the surge of protectiveness surprises me—I might claw out Cooper's eyeballs if he hurts my friend.

Making a mental note to ask her about it later, I turn back to the campers. "Anyone interested, please come up and we'll talk details. And thank you!"

—

Within two days, we have over a hundred thousand dollars pledged. I'm having trouble believing it. But like Dot said, these campers seem to be at a stage in their careers and lives where they have extra money to invest. One, an attorney with a practice in Minneapolis, has offered to draft sample articles of incorporation. Two successful entrepreneurs volunteered to help Hillary with the business plan, and several others are interested in being on the steering committee.

I'm out on the lawn, talking with a group of campers about the co-op, when Dot comes up to me. She looks nervous, and my anxiety spikes. I haven't had to bring a single camper to the emergency room yet, which is unusual this far into the summer.

"Is something wrong?" I ask.

"Not with the campers," she says quickly; she knows where my mind is heading. "I…need to talk to you about something. Something personal."

My stomach clenches. "Okay, sure. Do you want to go somewhere private?"

She glances around; a group of campers is playing Frisbee on the lawn, but no one's close enough to hear. "This is fine. Listen, what you said during training week. About staff not getting involved…romantically."

"Oh!" I get it now. "You mean Hillary and Cooper? I know—I keep meaning to talk to her about that, but—"

"Not them. Me."

I stare at her for a beat. Dot's never been romantically involved with anyone as long as I've known her.

"Okay…tell me more."

"There's someone here this week that I…" She pauses. "Well, we—"

"A camper?"

She nods. "I know you said nothing should happen with staff and campers, and I didn't anticipate this, but—"

"It's fine," I say firmly. "I know I'm the director, but you have decades more experience than I do. I trust you implicitly." Her shoulders droop in relief, and I nudge her, grinning. "So, who's this lucky camper?"

She brightens, flashing me an unexpectedly sweet smile. "Yvonne. Yvonne Schafer. We knew each other as teenagers here, but times were different back then, so…anyway. We've reconnected."

I call Yvonne to mind: warm brown skin, long gray braids. "She seems wonderful, Dot. I'm happy for you. And you know what Lola always said about camp love…"

"Yeah, yeah, don't get all sappy about it," Dot says, but she's smiling. "Yvonne's only here for the week. But I wanted to be honest with you. So you aren't surprised when you see us together."

Her voice softens on the last word, and it's so out of character for Dot that I impulsively pull her into a hug. When we pull away, I wipe a stray tear from my eye.

"Enough of that," she says, her voice mock-stern. "Back to work, boss."

I smile. "Back to work."

—

As I head to the campfire that evening—after a delicious meal of roasted salmon, freshly made bread, and sugar snap peas—I hear singing on the breeze. There's a new energy this week, a sense that we're all in this together, working to save Camp Chickawah. I've spent hours with Hillary, crafting emails to former campers about the co-op, including some with big connections they might leverage. Already, quite a few have responded that they're interested.

It's a little glimmer of hope, but that's all I need right now.

I reach the campfire and breathe deeply, taking it all in: the scent of roasting marshmallows, the flickering firelight, the laughter and singing. All the benches are packed. Dot is sitting next to Yvonne, their heads bent together, hands clasped. Zac and Zoey are cuddled up, and I can hear Zac's voice—loud and off-key—as he joins in the song.

Hillary is sitting across the circle from Cooper, who is playing his guitar, but she's clearly making eyes at him. I haven't talked to her yet—but what will I say? Hillary's an adult. She doesn't need me to police her romantic decisions any more than Dot does.

My chest feels hollow, looking at all the couples.

Back when I was a counselor, I'd have some kind of romantic attachment each summer—some that even lasted a couple months into the school year. But then I became director, and it wasn't appropriate for me to hook up with my employees, so I invested in a good vibrator instead. That's when I gave up my silly dream of falling in love with a fellow camp person, too. During the off-season, I dated a few guys in town, but nothing serious, not till Nick. We weren't right for each other, but I did enjoy being half of a couple. Knowing there was one person in the world who wanted to sit next to me in the dark and hold my hand.

I take a step back. Maybe I'll head to my cabin and read more of Luke's book. No one has even noticed I'm here; they don't need me.

I'm tiptoeing off into the darkness when I hear a voice:

"Jess."

My skin prickles. I whirl in the direction of Luke's voice and see him relaxing in a hammock strung between two trees. His legs are stretched out and crossed at the ankles, his body all lean muscles and long limbs. There's a notebook on his lap, a pen in his hand.

"You're here!" I say, surprised at how happy I am. "I didn't even have to beg you to come."

"Indeed. Not quite socializing, but not hermit-ing, either."

He brings one hand up to rest behind his head, which tugs the edge of his Henley up, exposing a sliver of flat stomach. I flash back to the memory of him in his swimsuit, dripping wet, and shake myself.

"Are you writing?" I ask, motioning toward the notebook.

He nods. "Working on an outline."

"For…?"

"My next book."

I smile. "You're not giving anything away, are you?"

"And you're not skipping the campfire, are you?"

I glance back over my shoulder. "I was late getting here, and there's hardly any space left. I didn't want to force my way in."

He stares at me, that groove between his eyebrows deepening. The distant firelight casts shadows on his face, his lips, his cheekbones. "There's room here."

He indicates the space beside him, and I freeze, imagining lying next to Luke in the hammock, pressed against his side, his arm around me, my head on his chest. My body flushes with warmth.

No way in hell. I already have crush-adjacent memories of him from my teenage years, compounded by his revelation about his sex dreams, in addition to the fact that I'm becoming fond of him.

Plus: he's absurdly handsome. There's also that.

He must notice my hesitation, because he sits up, swinging his legs so they're dangling off the side. "Come on," he says, and scoots over.

I sit next to him. The hammock swings and sags, squishing us both to the middle, and I catch a whiff of the clean laundry scent of his clothes. Carefully, I shift away, leaving two or three inches of space between us.

Now I can breathe again.

"Where's Scout?" I ask.

"Back at my cabin. Sleeping." His voice catches, but he clears his throat and goes on before I can ask if anything's wrong. "Thank you for watching her."

"It wasn't easy. She's pretty high maintenance," I say, smiling. Scout is so mellow it's easy to forget she's there: she slept twenty hours a day and followed me around the other four. I missed her last night, her quiet breathing from the foot of my bed.

"I appreciate it. And I'm guessing you and Hillary made up? You used your big-girl words and had an actual conversation?" His voice is gently teasing.

I roll my eyes, smiling. "Yes, we talked. And yes, we made up."

"I'm proud of you," he says, and I glow inside. Which is silly; I'm acting like a starstruck CIT again, hero-worshiping the coolest counselor of the summer.

"It's a great idea, creating a co-op," he continues. "I'd be interested in supporting something like that."

I glance at him. "You would? How?"

"You mean how can I afford to, since I'm dirt poor?" he says dryly.

My cheeks warm. "You said you lost all the money from your advance…"

"I didn't gamble it away or anything, if that's what you were thinking."

"That's not—"

"You were, weren't you?" Amusement plays on his lips. "You think I'm such a moron that I squandered half a million dollars."

"I'm sorry, okay!" I say, laughing. "It's not like you're forthcoming about your personal life. You could have lost the money in a Ponzi scheme, for all I know."

Around the campfire, everyone is singing "This Land Is Your Land," accompanied by Cooper on the guitar. I lean back in the hammock and look up. The trees overhead obscure most of the sky, but here and there stars peek out, the Milky Way a smudge behind them.

I glance over at Luke. He's gazing up at the sky, too, one hand tucked behind his head. Again, his profile reminds me of something out of an art gallery: straight nose, full lips, perfect chin with that shallow dimple. A sparkler seems to light inside my chest, and I look away. Sitting this close to Luke, in the dark, is dangerous.

"I lost most of it in my divorce," he says, breaking the silence.

"You—you're divorced?" I sputter. "How?"

"Well, ya see, my wife didn't want to be married to me anymore, so she contacted an attorney and filed a—"

"I know how divorces work, Luke. I'm just…" Confused. It doesn't sound like he initiated things, and maybe I'm biased, given my latent crush—which seems to be resurrecting itself—but I can't imagine any woman who'd willingly let him out of her life. "Why?"

He gives a harsh laugh. "I was a shit husband, that's why."

I swallow, stunned. "I'm sorry, it's none of my business—"

"I didn't cheat," he cuts in. "Nothing like that. But I was wrapped up in my writing, didn't pay enough attention to her, and when things didn't go well with my first book, I got even more obsessed with making the next one a success. I can't blame her for getting sick of all that. Anyway." He clears his throat. "Officially divorced since March. Separated for about eighteen months before. It was messy, working everything out. She got half my advance in the settlement. And after paying my attorney's fees…"

He trails off, and I nod.

His email responses about the mix-up with his cabin registration make more sense now. He was going through a nasty divorce, had no extra money, and needed a place to get away.

He shifts his weight, making the hammock swing. "I'll get another payment when I turn this next book in. I'd love to use some of it to help save Camp Chickawah."

I can tell he's turning the topic of conversation away from himself, but that's okay. I get it.

"Thanks," I say. "That's kind of you."

After a pause, I can't resist. "How's the book coming? Can I see?"

I try to grab the notebook from his hands, but he pulls it away and holds it against his chest. The movement makes me fall against him, which gives me another jolt of sparks.

"Get your grubby hands off that," he says. There's amusement in his voice, like he's close to laughing but won't let it out.

I push myself up, putting space between us again. I'm getting way too comfortable around him.

"I'm reading your first book," I say. "Almost done with it."

His face goes blank. "You are not."

I can't help grinning at his obvious discomfort. "It's really good—"

"Stop. Now."

"Can't. I'm desperate to find out what happens between Zolara and Prin when they reach the forbidden city and find Jax. I'm #TeamPrin, by the way."

He leans back, exhaling. "God. You are reading it."

"And you can't stop me." I give his rib cage a poke.

He grabs my finger, holds it tight. "You really are a menace."

"I'll try to behave," I say, locking eyes with him.

"That's too bad." He quirks an eyebrow at me, and my breath catches. Is he flirting with me? Or making fun of me?

Either way, time for a change of subject. I retrieve my finger and fold my hands across my stomach. "How's the writing going?"

"Better, actually. I want to go in a different direction for the third book. So far, so good."

"I'm glad," I say, sincerely. He's seemed less gloomy lately, and this must be why.

"We'll see. I'm basically starting over, but the deadline hasn't changed: the day after Labor Day. I'll be writing nonstop." He shakes his head. "Good thing I'm already divorced."

There's an edge of sadness to his voice, and I shake my head. I'm not buying this whole I-was-a-shit-husband routine.

"Okay, but here's the thing," I say. "Why is it your fault that your ex-wife couldn't keep herself occupied while you wrote? I mean, it's your job. Not just your job—your passion."

He gives me a wry look. "Not sure if you're aware, but there's an unspoken expectation in relationships that you spend time with the other person."

"Why? I mean, yes, of course. But why can't the other person accept that other things in your life are also important?" I roll onto my side to face him. He's listening intently, his full bottom lip caught between his teeth. "I had this boyfriend last year, right? He lives in town, and things were great during the winter, when I was staying there. But once summer started, he was upset that my priority was the camp."

"He broke up with you?"

"Oh, no, I dumped him," I say, waving a hand. "He cried. It was a whole thing."

Luke raises his eyebrows, but I keep going.

"My parents are divorced, as you know, and the things that drove them crazy about each other are the exact things their new spouses love. Like, my mom enjoys doing home renovations, and my dad hated it, but my stepdad loves doing them with her. My dad? He loves watching sports, and my mom felt like he was ignoring her, but my stepmom is one of those obsessive scrapbookers. So he watches games, and she scrapbooks. It's a win-win."

"Right," Luke says dryly. "I need to find a woman who enjoys being neglected sixteen hours a day."

"My point is that just because you weren't compatible, it doesn't mean you were a bad husband. Was I a bad girlfriend because I wanted to spend my summers here, doing my job? Some people may think so, but I don't. Nick didn't even try to understand why this camp was so important to me."

My voice wobbles on the last words. Luke must notice, because he reaches out his hand and places it on mine. I don't think it's a romantic gesture—more like solidarity. Even still, the world seems to narrow to this: me and him, side by side in a hammock, his warm hand covering mine.

"He was a fucking idiot to let you go," he says softly.

My chest warms with a mixture of confused feelings—attraction? Friendship?

I swallow. "I don't want to be with someone who doesn't care about what matters to me, even though that means I'll probably be single forever."

"True."

I give him a side-eye. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

He sighs, exasperated. "Jess. I'm saying you're right—no one should be with a person who refuses to understand what matters to them."

"I'm wise beyond my years," I say.

"That you are."

"Maybe I'll embroider it on a pillow and sell it on Etsy."

"I'll be the first to order one."

"Just one? Come on, Luke."

"I'll order ten in each color and size."

I grin. "That's better."

He slides his hand under mine, and I hold my breath as he laces our fingers together. Now we're definitely holding hands, and I have no idea what it means, but I don't want to let go.

So I relax into the hammock, staring up at the sky, grateful to have someone next to me.