Chapter Twenty-Two

twenty-two

Jessie

During the sixth week of camp, the weather is perfect: blue skies, eighty-degree days, a light breeze drifting off the lake. The campers, in their seventies, have been a delight. The week's big event is an art festival Hillary's been working on, showcasing projects from the whole summer—and selling them to raise money for our plan to buy the camp property.

I start the day with my usual canoe paddle, listening to the original Broadway cast recording of Moulin Rouge! with the one and only Aaron Tveit as Christian. When I get back to the dock, Luke is there in his swimsuit, the morning sun bathing his skin in golden light.

A jolt runs through me. Since that moment in the hammock, there's a new energy between us. An awareness. Like we're dancing around each other, but neither of us is willing to make the first move.

He reaches down and steadies the canoe as I climb out. "I see you're taking your personal safety more seriously."

He motions to the life jacket I'm wearing over my one-piece swimsuit and shorts. It's unzipped, but at least I have it on.

"Yeah, because guess what?" I lean in like I'm telling him a secret. "A couple weeks ago, when I wasn't wearing one, I almost drowned. Luckily, this really grumpy guy rescued me."

His eyes crinkle at the corners. "A really grumpy guy, huh?"

"So grumpy. Haven't seen him around lately, though."

He cracks a tiny smile, which feels like a victory, and helps me lift the canoe and stow it next to the others. It takes all my strength not to stare at his bare torso, his muscles flexing under his tanned skin.

"What are you up to today?" he asks.

"We have the art show later on. You should come."

"Sure."

I do a double take. "Really? You feeling okay?"

He narrows his eyes. "Don't make me change my mind."

"Is this a bad time to ask if you'd write poems on demand to raise money?"

"I don't write poetry."

I hang up my life jacket and face him. His eyes dip down my body, snagging on my chest. But then he clears his throat and takes a step back.

"Oh, it can't be that difficult," I say. "Go ahead, make one up about me."

"There once was a camper named Jessie," he says.

I smile. "Starting off strong."

"With hair in two braids, never messy." He gives one of my braids a tug, making my heart flip. "She paddles at dawn, and listens to songs…"

"Okay?"

"And wears a life jacket, no stressy."

I grimace. "Yikes. That last line could use some work. But since we don't have anyone else, you're hired. See you there!"

—

The art show is a hit: all our campers from this week attend, and some from prior weeks return to show off their projects or purchase others. Everyone's milling about on the big lawn, munching on Cooper's baked goods (also sold to benefit our co-op). Dot invited her sweetie, Yvonne, back up; they're holding hands and beaming like two people who never got the chance when they were teenagers.

Hillary, who has spent the past few days running around like a headless chicken, now looks relaxed and relieved.

"It's going so well!" I say, walking over to her.

She beams. "Thank you!" Inclining her head toward him, she adds, "And it looks like Luke's poems are a hit."

He's sitting under a canopy, surrounded by elderly women. For the first time this summer, he seems at ease. Maybe even cheerful.

"Has anyone told you that you look like a young Paul Newman?" one woman says to him. The other ladies murmur their agreement.

"I've never heard that in my life, but thank you," Luke says, his eyes twinkling.

"When I was young," a third lady says, "everyone said I looked like Elizabeth Taylor."

"I can see that," Luke says, smiling. It's a genuine smile, teeth showing, the corners of his eyes crinkling, so different from the tiny, guarded smiles he's given me. Half the ladies visibly swoon. "Now, what's your name?"

"Nora Burbridge," the woman says, and Luke starts working on her poem.

—

Later that evening, after a delicious dinner by Chef Cooper, the staff—plus Luke—work together to clean up, putting away tables and chairs. Zac and Zoey peel off to the lake, where some campers are taking a sunset kayak ride. Dot and Yvonne go on a walk; Cooper heads to the kitchen, and Hillary goes with him. Mr. Billy's wandering around with his trash picker-upper, grumbling about how litterbugs never change.

Which means it's just me and Luke. He's sitting at a picnic table, scribbling in his notebook. He must have gone back to his cabin to get Scout, because she's curled up at his feet, asleep.

"What are you working on?" I ask, walking over. His face brightens when he sees me. "Redoing my poem?"

I bend down to pet Scout; she barely lifts her head, but shifts her body toward me.

"No, just some ideas for the next book."

"What? No way!" I gasp and snatch the notebook out of his hand; he lunges to grab it back, but I run off across the lawn, triumphant.

I've been low-key dying to find out what happens next—I finished the second book in his series last night, and it ended on a cliff-hanger. Literally: the main character, Zolara, is hanging on with one hand to the edge of a seventy-story building as Prin, one of her love interests, reaches for her—only for Zolara's hand to slip and send her plummeting into blackness.

"Give that back," Luke grumbles, coming after me.

I dart away, grinning as I read.

I never felt like I belonged anywhere until I came to camp.

I stop and look up, confused. "Wait—what's this for?"

"My next book." He looks defensive, or maybe just uncomfortable, folding his arms and staring at the ground. "It's about a teenage boy coming to summer camp for the first time."

"The third book has kids going to camp ? That makes zero sense."

"No, I'm not finishing the series—"

"What? Why?"

"Because no one will read it—"

"I will!"

"Well, no one else."

"Then tell me what was going to happen," I say, pleading. "Please! I have to know if Zolara makes it."

He glances at me, his expression pensive. "I have no idea what happens. I wasn't in a good place when I wrote that—throwing my character off a cliff seemed like an apt metaphor."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

He waves a hand. "No, I know. That ending made writing the third book impossible. But being here gave me an idea for a new story. When I went to New York, I pitched it to my editor."

"And?"

His cheeks flush; a tiny smile. "She loved it."

I jump and scream. "She did? Amazing! Luke! What's it about—other than a kid who goes to camp?"

He runs a hand over his mouth, like he's trying to wipe away the smile, but he's flushing even more, and I'm delighted. I've never seen this bashful version of Luke before.

"The kid who goes to camp has cystic fibrosis. That's a genetic lung disease—it's what my uncle died from. I didn't know him well growing up, but taking Scout made me feel, I don't know, connected to him? I've been thinking about what it would've been like to grow up knowing you wouldn't survive past forty."

The sadness in his eyes makes my heart squeeze. "What happens in the book?"

We head back to the picnic table where Scout is sleeping. "The camp is for teens with chronic diseases. He loves it there, he's making friends. There's a girl…"

I grin. "Is it a romance?"

"Not exactly. After a couple weeks he notices that he's getting better. At first he thinks it's just the fresh air, but pretty soon, he doesn't need his treatments at all. Other kids are improving, too—"

"Ooooh," I breathe. "Like a healing lake or something?"

His lips quirk. "No spoilers. But when kids start disappearing, he realizes something more sinister is going on at Camp Shadows."

"It sounds amazing," I say sincerely. "I'm so excited about it that I won't even bug you to write me another poem."

He chuckles softly. "I'll make up a new one. Let me think."

We walk down the path to his cabin, Scout trailing behind us. The sun has set; fireflies are dancing on the lawn. I don't know why I'm going with him, except that I don't want to say good night yet.

"There once was a camper named Jess," he says eventually. "Her freckles were surely the best."

I grin. "Go on."

"She had pretty eyes, and nicely toned thighs—"

"Whoa!" I burst out. "That's rather personal, don't you think?"

"And they called her Camp Barbie, no less," he finishes.

I groan. "I hated being called Camp Barbie."

"It was a compliment, though."

"No. A true compliment is about something you can control, something you achieved, a challenge you faced. Like, ‘Wow, Jessie, you've done a great job putting this adult summer camp together.' That's a compliment. Being compared to a ten-inch plastic doll is dehumanizing and objectifying."

He presses his lips together as he studies me. "Point taken. But what about being told that I look like a young Paul Newman? Is that objectifying?"

I scoff. "Paul Newman was one of the most famous actors of the twentieth century, a humanitarian, a devoted husband and father. That's not just a compliment, Luke, that's high praise."

"Or is it a subtle way of saying that I look like him, but the rest of me falls short?"

"Most people fall short of the Paul Newman standard."

"True. How many people have a successful salad dressing enterprise with their face on the bottle?"

"I love those salad dressings," I say. "The ranch especially. He wore a cowboy hat. I'm sorry, it was hot!"

"Compliments should be about what someone can control," Luke says, nudging me with his arm. The contact sends a wave of sunshine through me.

We turn toward his cabin, which takes us up a slope. Scout struggles to navigate a rock in the path, and Luke bends down, guiding her around it.

"There you go," he says. "That's a good girl."

His voice goes husky on that last sentence, and I know he's talking to his elderly dog, but my dirty mind spins it in a new direction. I wonder what he's like in bed, if he's gentle like this. What it would take to make him say That's a good girl .

Heat flashes through my body, and I shake it away.

"Her eyesight is going," he says, straightening up. We continue walking, more slowly now, letting Scout pick her way across the uneven path. "She can't hear much, either. She still knows when it's breakfast time, though—she wakes me up at six o'clock every morning."

"You take good care of her."

He shrugs. "She took good care of me when Nicole left. Maybe that's pathetic, having a dog as your primary emotional support—"

"Not at all. Sounds like you're lucky to have each other."

He clears his throat, shoots me a glance. "Yeah. Anyway—I'm sorry about the Camp Barbie thing. I understand why you wouldn't feel it was a compliment. The boys just thought you were hot."

"Why would I care what a bunch of boys thought about me?"

"I thought you were hot, too. Frustratingly, maddeningly, distractingly hot."

Another zing of heat runs through me, but I'm not sure how to take this; there's a sardonic smile on his lips, like he's mocking me.

"Ah, you thought I was hot. So glad you've come to your senses."

He shakes his head, mildly exasperated. "Jess…"

"Luke…"

"I still think you're hot."

I ignore the flush of exhilaration. "And I still don't think that's a compliment because—"

"You have no control over it, I get it." We reach his cabin and stop at the porch stairs. He faces me, that tiny smile playing on his lips. "Let me try again. Jessie, you've done an incredible job with this adult summer camp. Well done."

I scoff. "Nice try."

"Jessie, you're an excellent conversationalist."

"Hmmm."

"Jessie, you're good at making me laugh."

"Except I don't think I've ever made you laugh. You always stifle it!" I say.

His lips twitch. "You're good at almost making me laugh," he amends. "And it's sometimes very difficult to stifle."

"Okay, okay. You do know how to give a compliment—"

"I'm not done." He tilts his head, regarding me with a serious expression. "Jessie, you're incredible at bringing people together, creating a community, and helping everyone feel welcome. You even made me feel welcome, and I was an asshole to you."

A tiny glow sparks in my chest. This feels like a compliment, like a gift.

"You're still kind of an asshole to me," I say, trying to keep from smiling.

He rolls his eyes. "All right, smart-ass. Get out of here."

I turn to go, but he wraps his hand around my arm and stops me. "Can I say one more thing? It's not anything you can control, so it's less of a compliment and more of an observation."

I turn to face him. His hand is around my upper arm, and we're only a foot apart. My breathing goes shallow. "Go ahead. What's this observation?"

"That you're beautiful," he says. "Frustratingly, maddeningly, distractingly so. That I could write an entire paragraph about the freckles that live in the curve of your smile." He lifts his hand, brushes the backs of his fingers against my cheek. His eyes are intensely blue, locked on mine. "That I keep thinking about how it felt to be in the water with my arm around you." His other hand skims to the small of my back, pulling me closer. "That I've been having dreams about you again."

I find my voice. "What kind of dreams?"

"You know damn well what kind."

Liquid pools low in my belly, warm and slick. This is not the kind of interaction I ought to be having with a camper—because that's what he is, a guest at the camp. But I can't seem to step away. Especially not when Luke moves his hand to cradle my face. I lean into his palm, closing my eyes as his thumb strokes across my cheek, down my chin, up to my mouth. He traces the curve of my lips, sending goose bumps across my skin.

I inhale a shaky breath and open my eyes. He's staring at me, focused and curious, like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve. I'm mesmerized, watching as his lips part. I want nothing more than to feel his mouth on mine, and I lean forward, closing my eyes.

Instead, I feel his forehead press against mine, the whisper of his breath as he sighs.

Then he pulls back, and his warmth is replaced by the cool night air.

I open my eyes, confused. He's shut down, his arms folded across his chest, and I immediately feel silly, like I misread this moment.

"Jess," he says, an apology in his voice. "I'm not at a point in my life where I should get involved with anyone. Even for a few weeks."

"Oh! Of course not. Me neither!" My voice is too loud, too bright. I take a step back, stumble over a root, and catch myself. "I—I should get going. Good night, Luke."

In response, all he does is nod.

By the time I'm a few hundred yards away, my embarrassment has morphed into irritation. How dare he act like I was coming on to him? He was the one who did the coming on!

I'm about to turn right, onto the path that will loop back toward the big lawn in the center of camp, but I pause.

Turning left will lead me to the Lodge. To Hillary.

And I could really use a girlfriend right now.

—

When I approach the Lodge, I'm relieved to see the window of Hillary's room glowing yellow. Soon I'm hurrying up the stairs and knocking on her door.

She opens it, her eyes wide with surprise. "Jessie. What's going on?"

"Can you talk?" I don't wait for an answer, just push my way past her. Then I see Cooper sitting on one of the twin beds and stop short. "Oh."

He and Hillary exchange a glance. They're fully clothed, but it's still awkward.

"I'll go," he says, and stands. But as he passes Hillary, he murmurs something to her, and she blushes.

"I'm sorry for interrupting, but…"

"It's okay. What's up?" she asks, motioning for me to sit next to her on the bed.

"Luke, that's what."

"What happened?"

I yank the elastic off one of my braids and pick at the loose strands. "What didn't happen, you mean? And he has the gall to act like I was throwing myself at him. Ugh!" I flop back on the bed like a dramatic teenager. " He was the one giving me compliments. He was the one saying I'm distractingly beautiful—"

"The nerve," Hillary says, smiling.

"Right? And then he's all, I could write a paragraph about your freckles, and I can't stop thinking about your body next to mine in the water, and I'm having dreams about you again—"

"Oh. My. God. You're kidding."

"I'm dead serious!" She's listening with rapt attention, like we're fourteen, in our cabin, talking about boy drama. "He's literally touching my lips , Hilly, so did I think he was going to kiss me?"

She hesitates and says, "Yes…?"

"Of course I did! Wouldn't you? And when I leaned in—involuntarily, I might add—"

I break off, seething with frustration.

"Yeah?" she prods.

"He stepped away from me!"

She gasps. "He did not ."

"He did!" I run my hands through my hair, my braids thoroughly unpicked. "And then!" I stand and mimic Luke's posture, folding my arms and looking at the ground. "He's all, ‘I'm not in a place in my life where I should get involved with anyone.' Like I even want that." I slump back on the bed, throwing an arm across my face. "I guess now I just avoid him for the rest of the summer."

"That's one way to handle it."

I move my hand, peeking out at her with one eye. "Do you have a better idea?"

Her lips curve up in a mischievous smile. "Oh yeah."

—

Thirty minutes later, we're sneaking through the woods, trying to be quiet even though we have to keep stopping because we're laughing too hard to walk. We're "camp drunk," as we used to call it—stone-cold sober but acting like sorority girls leaving a party at three a.m., giggling and stumbling. Deep inside, I know that what we're about to do is ridiculous and immature, but no way in hell am I stopping now.

We creep closer to Luke's cabin, and Hillary and I each stand behind a tree, peering out. His lights are on, giving us a full view inside.

"Can you see him?" I whisper.

"Yes. He's at the table, typing on his laptop."

"Guess what?" I whisper, revenge making me gossipy. "His wife divorced him because he's obsessed with his writing, did you know that?"

Hillary leans in, intrigued. "Oh, yeah? How do you—"

"I'll tell you later. Can you see if he's wearing headphones or anything?"

"He sure is," she says, grinning at me.

"Perfect."

We creep forward, climbing the stairs carefully, hoping they don't creak under our weight. Hillary catches her toe on a loose board and almost falls; I grab her arm, both of us shaking with silent laughter. Together, we set up the classic "bucket on the door" prank we must have played a dozen times as campers—though usually with water.

The ante has officially been upped.

Soon, it's ready: one bucket full of syrup we stole from the kitchen, another full of feathers from an old pillow at the lodge, both strategically balanced to tip over when Luke opens the door.

We creep down the stairs, back to our hiding place in the trees.

"Can you see him now?" I whisper to Hillary.

"Still typing."

I grin. "Ready with the pebbles?"

She nods, and we each toss a pebble at his door, then another. And another.

"He's getting up!" Hillary hisses.

"Hide!"

We freeze, standing straight behind our trees, holding our breath. There's a creaking noise as he turns the doorknob, a squeak of rusty hinges, then—

"WHAT THE FUCK?"

Luke's roar echoes through the forest, followed by grunts of disgust as the buckets overturn on his head. I'm dying to know what he looks like, but I'm laughing too hard to see. I glance at Hillary; she's doing the same, tears of laughter running down her face.

"WHO'S OUT THERE?" Luke yells, prompting a fresh round of stifled giggles from us. "THIS ISN'T FUNNY. AT ALL." More grunts, followed by stomping. "What is this, syrup ?"

I catch Hillary's eye. "Go," I whisper, pointing ahead.

She nods, and we race off through the woods.

"I can hear you out there!" Luke shouts. "Ugh—this is disgusting!"

His angry grumbles follow us as we run down the path toward the lake. We collapse on the dock, finally letting ourselves laugh until our stomachs hurt.

"That was amazing ," Hillary says.

"That'll teach him." I sit up, looking at her. "Was that immature of us?"

She tilts her head, thinking. "Nah."

We both burst out laughing again.

"Jess? Hill?"

We whirl toward the lake, see bobbing heads in the water, a few yards off the dock.

"Dot?" I ask, squinting. I recognize her and Yvonne, plus a bunch of the campers, silver and white hair glinting in the moonlight. I'm pretty sure they're skinny-dipping.

"Come on in! Water feels great," Dot calls, and the women around her agree.

I glance at Hillary. "You want to?"

She cringes. "Ew, no. That water is like—"

"Fish and poop soup," we say at the same time, and laugh again.

"Who cares?" I say, then put my hands together like I'm praying. "Come on, please , Hilly Bean?"

"Okay, fine." Standing, she strips down to her bra and underwear. "I'm not going totally naked, though."

I shrug. "Suit yourself."

I strip everything off, which makes the women in the water hoot and holler, then grab Hillary's hand. We take off, running down the dock until we reach the edge, then launching ourselves into the air, where we hang suspended for one glorious moment before crashing into the cool water below.