Chapter Twenty-Three

twenty-three

Hillary

At Cooper's request, we're having the Sunday staff meeting over brunch today, because he's busy tonight. He's being cagey about it, avoiding my questions about his plans. I stopped short of reminding him about rule number five—he can end this thing between us at any time, but if he's sleeping with other women, he won't be sleeping with me.

Which is a depressing thought, and the reason I've been in a funk all day.

In the last two weeks, Cooper and I have more than made up for our slow start, giving Zac and Zoey a run for their money. Cooper's a quick study, learning how and where I like to be touched. He's more attentive than anyone I've ever been with. And probably more experienced…

I think back to what that woman from Boston said, and to Jessie's gentle warning. It's true; the old Hillary wouldn't have been comfortable with such a casual relationship—but maybe I'm changing, going through a metamorphosis like those butterflies in my belly. A caterpillar about to get her wings.

As always, we start the meeting with roses and thorns. We all agree on one big rose— no one broke a hip! The septuagenarian campers seemed to have the time of their lives, as evidenced by their generous pledges toward the co-op. We even sold our first naming rights—from here on out, the bench at the spot separating the boys' side from the girls' side (the one we used to call the French Bench) will be known as the Cohen Canoodling Bench. It's got a nice ring to it!

Jessie's going over the details for the week ahead—we're staging the camp talent show, and a few VIP former campers are coming—when the door opens and Luke stomps in, fury radiating from him like a thundercloud. Not unlike the last time I saw him, only now he isn't covered in syrup and feathers.

"Who did it?" Luke snaps, his terrifying ice-blue eyes sweeping over us all.

Everyone goes silent. Jessie looks up, her face the picture of innocence. "Did what?"

"You know damn well. Where were you last night?"

"In my cabin," Jessie says evenly.

"I was with her," I chime in, but my voice wavers. I'm not convincing anyone.

Luke's eyes widen. "You—"

"We were all together," Zoey cuts in.

Dot nods in solidarity. Jessie told her and Yvonne everything while we were skinny-dipping, and Dot must have told Zoey, which means Zac and Cooper are the only ones in the dark.

And Luke.

"Doing what?" Luke demands.

"Girl stuff. Face masks, mani-pedis, that sort of thing." I slide my hands under the table, hoping Luke didn't notice my nails are polish-free.

"Skincare is important," Jessie says. "Gotta take care of my freckles. Someone once said they could write a whole paragraph about them."

Luke's face reddens, and I can't tell if it's from anger or embarrassment. "You'd better watch—"

"Watch yourself," Dot cuts in, her face a stony mask of disapproval. "You may have been The Man years ago, but Jessie's The Boss now."

His jaw clenches. "That took me all night to clean up."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Jessie says, giving him a crafty smile. "Would you like some eggs? Cooper was planning on making pancakes, but we're all out of syrup."

Luke's eyes flash, and he turns to Cooper.

"Don't look at me," Cooper says, holding his hands up. "I have no idea what's going on."

"Me neither," Zac pipes in. "But I'm on Jessie's side."

Luke turns to me and Jessie. "You'd better watch your backs," he snaps, "because I'm gonna—"

"Now, now," Dot says. "You're not thinking of starting a prank war, are you? Because between the four of us"—she indicates herself, Zoey, Jessie, and me—"I'd say we have about fifty years' worth of pranking experience."

I hear a thud, followed by a deep voice that's almost a growl. "Closer to a hundred, if you count me."

We turn to see Mr. Billy holding a shovel in his hands. The expression on his face makes me certain he wouldn't hesitate to use it in our defense. He may not know what this is about, but his loyalties are clear.

Luke takes a step back. "Fine," he says, an edge to his words. "What do you expect me to do?"

"I don't know," Zoey says in a snarky voice. "Maybe you could apologize?"

Luke scoffs. "For what?"

"For being frustratingly, maddeningly, distractingly rude," Dot says.

Luke goes pale.

"Just say you're sorry," I tell him.

"Tell Jessie she's a perfect queen and you're a dumb little dweeb," Zoey adds.

"Admit you're a pretentious prick," Dot says.

From Mr. Billy: "Grovel."

Next to me, Jessie folds her arms and smiles up at Luke. His hands clench into fists as he stares down the line at each of us. Then, without a word, he turns on his heel and walks out.

Once he's gone, Cooper's forehead wrinkles in confusion. "Wait—do you guys know where all the syrup went?"

I glance over at Jessie, and we dissolve into giggles.

—

Later that afternoon, I'm in my room, running numbers and working on a business plan for the co-op, trying not to think about what—or who—Cooper is doing, when three quick raps sound on my door. Our secret code.

I bolt out of bed and open the door. Cooper's there, wearing dark jeans, a green Henley, and his blue Red Sox hat. He's holding a bouquet of the tissue paper flowers he made in one of my arts and crafts sessions last week. "For you," he says, giving me a kiss on the cheek.

"I thought you had plans tonight?" I ask, confused but delighted.

"I do," he says. "I'm taking you out on a date."

"I'm not dressed for a date," I say, looking down at my leggings and tie-dyed Camp Chickawah T-shirt.

He reaches down to pick up something that's just out of sight in the hallway. It's a giant wicker basket, packed full of containers of food, two bottles of wine, and a blanket.

"But you're dressed perfectly for a picnic," he says with a playful grin.

—

Twenty minutes later, Cooper and I are walking through the empty campgrounds, hand in hand—I'm feeling more date-like after taking ten minutes to freshen up, changing into a sundress, and putting on makeup for the second time all summer.

As we stroll, Cooper suggests we make a "no talking about camp" rule—with the exception of me filling him in on what happened between Luke and Jessie, which I eagerly do. I finish the saga—and apologize for stealing the syrup—and he agrees that the punishment fit the crime.

The path through the woods is familiar; he's taking me to the waterfall—aka, the place where we had our second first kiss. My heart flutters. I bet Cooper is the kind of guy who remembers birthdays and anniversaries.

Which will be very lucky for some other girl , I remind myself, since this is just a fling.

"Wait here," he says as we reach the clearing.

Cooper takes a blanket from the picnic basket and spreads it out for us to sit on. I settle in, folding my legs beneath me as he sits on the other end.

"What did you make for us?" I ask, looking at the picnic basket, my stomach growling.

Cooper winces. "It's actually a little embarrassing…"

I arch an eyebrow. What could possibly embarrass Cooper?

He lifts the first container: the garlic-parmesan green beans we had for dinner last night. I gasp, bringing my hands to my face. "You didn't!"

"I did," Cooper says. His tone is self-deprecating, but there's a look of pride on his face.

I don't know how to respond—it's such a thoughtful gesture, and definitely outside the bounds of a no-strings fling. Instead of analyzing what it might mean, I lean over the picnic basket to kiss him. He shoves the Tupperware out of the way, and I crawl toward him. My lips never leaving his, I settle into his lap and enjoy devouring him as an appetizer.

One more benefit of leftovers: you don't have to worry about them getting cold.

We stay like that until my rumbling stomach interrupts the moment. Cooper laughs and pulls back. "I guess I should feed you," he says, taking the containers out one by one. "I am curious—do they have to actually be left over, or does it count as long as they're made in advance and saved for the occasion?"

"That would count."

Cooper shakes his head, and his confusion is adorable.

"I know it's strange," I say. "I think it might be a genetic abnormality. My mom apparently liked leftovers, too."

"Apparently?"

I nod, the dull ache that usually accompanies thoughts of my mom settling in my chest.

"She died when I was five," I tell Cooper. "But according to my dad, she barely ate a thing when they started dating. She'd get most of her meal to go. He thought she just had a really small appetite—but one night after they moved in together, my dad found her in the kitchen, eating the leftovers in her pajamas. She said most dishes taste better that way, and I've always agreed."

Cooper hands me the container of penne alla vodka and a fork, and we both dig in. I sigh happily as I take a bite.

"So, have I convinced you of the virtues of leftovers?"

"There is a certain appeal—the chewiness of the pasta, the cold sauce." He takes an enormous forkful, then adds, "If you ever tell anyone I said that, I'll deny it until the day I die."

We pass the containers back and forth, trading stories of our lives back home. Mine are mostly about work and weekly dinners with Aaron and my dad—which makes me realize how small my life back home is. Even smaller now that I've ended things with Aaron.

Cooper, for his part, has me in stitches as he tells story after story. About the neighborhood cat named Chicken and the regulars at the bar near Fenway where he watched the Red Sox win the 2018 World Series. He convinces me that the trendy restaurant he worked for was named BIB after Bibb lettuce, that every dish was served on a bed of greenery. Turns out it's actually an acronym for Better In Boston, and to hear Cooper talk about the city where he was born and raised, things do seem better there.

I wonder if he would've given me a second glance if we'd met in Boston. If I'd even like the person—the womanizer—he was there. The other camper's words drift back to me like smoke from a campfire: He'd sleep with anything that had a pulse.

Almost involuntarily, I shift away from him. As if putting space between us will remind my heart that he doesn't belong to me.

"Where'd you go?" Cooper asks, and I blink, see him watching me, a curious expression on his face.

I shake myself and force a smile. "I'm right here."

He narrows his eyes. "You promised honesty," he says, his voice low. "What's going on? You sort of…closed down there."

I sigh. "It's nothing. I was…thinking about something a camper said a few weeks ago."

"Which camper?" By the tone of Cooper's voice, I have a feeling he already knows.

"Her name is Olivia. She's from Boston."

Cooper takes his hat off and runs a hand through his hair before putting it back on. "What did she say?" His voice is hard, and I wish I'd just made something up. But it's too late now—I've ruined this lovely date night, and the only way out is through.

"She said…yousleptwithanythingwithapulse," I say, the words coming out in a rush.

Cooper flinches, like I've slapped him.

"I didn't believe her," I say, reaching out to take his hand in mine.

"You should have," Cooper says. He clears his throat and is quiet for a moment before he continues. "It's true. Not that I'm proud of it."

"We all have things in our past we're not proud of. Trust me, I have regrets, too," I say, eager to get the light and breezy feeling back.

He stays quiet for an excruciatingly long time, staring at our hands, our fingers intertwined. He doesn't look up as he starts to speak. "Remember that magazine spread I told you about?"

I nod, wondering if I should admit to googling him and gawking at the image of him and those abs. But then he looks at me with so much pain in his gray eyes that I can't risk saying anything that would hurt him more. I want to crawl into his lap and bring his smile back, but I know Cooper isn't going to let this go.

Stupid honesty.

"I should go farther back," he says. "You know I was a bigger kid. Fat."

"You were cute," I say, protective of young Cooper, the boy I shared my first kiss with.

"I didn't say I wasn't," Cooper says, and I zip my lips. "But at the time, I didn't feel cute. I was king of the friend zone, and I thought I might die a virgin. I told you I had a growth spurt when I turned seventeen, but I didn't tell you that earlier that year, I overheard two girls in my class calling me a ‘dick-do.'?"

I make a face, not sure what that means.

"My stomach stuck out farther than my ‘dick-do.' It was stupid kid stuff, but it hurt—after that, I started counting calories and working out obsessively. By the time I graduated high school, I'd lost eighty pounds and gained some muscle. I kept it up over the next couple years and really started enjoying it. When I went to culinary school, I dated a bit, but inside I still felt insecure."

That explains the green smoothies and why he's so regimented about what he eats. I start rubbing circles on the back of his hand with my thumb. A spark of comfort so he knows I appreciate him opening up like this.

"When that magazine spread ran—" He pauses and blows out a breath. "It brought a lot of attention. At the time, I thought it was great. Everything a guy could ever hope for, right?"

He huffs out a sad laugh, and I squeeze his hand. "What happened?"

"Well. All those women wanting me was addictive. I kept chasing the high, hooking up with a different woman every weekend. Eventually, I realized that once that initial rush was over, I'd end up feeling…empty, I guess. I stopped liking the person I saw in the mirror. Started feeling ashamed of him."

He stops talking and looks down at me. "So. You still glad you're hanging out with me tonight?"

"Of course I am," I say honestly. My heart aches for him, for the sweet, chubby kid he was and the man he became. "But just because you were that guy doesn't mean you have to stay that guy."

He shakes his head. "What's that saying? A leopard can't change its spots?"

"You aren't a leopard, Benjamin Cooper. And one of the coolest things about being a human is that we have the power to reinvent ourselves. Seriously, look at this date—you took me on a picnic and packed my favorite foods, even though it totally goes against your professional standards." I gesture to the basket. "That's incredibly sweet. And thoughtful."

"Well, you're easy to please," he says, but he does crack a smile.

I shift my weight, facing him. "Listen, before this summer, I'm not sure I liked myself, either. I mean, I had the life I always wanted. My business was doing great; professionally, I was in demand; and I was dating the ‘right' kind of guy, but I felt empty inside, too. I was so focused on achieving the next thing. I can't remember the last time I sat in the woods and had a conversation and just…enjoyed myself."

He leans back on his hands, appraising me. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Very much so." I slide closer, tucking myself into the crook of his arm. We sit like that for a while, watching the waterfall crash into the creek below. "Cooper, I have to believe people can change, because I want to change. I don't want to go back to being the person I was before—and you don't have to, either."

"Yeah," he says. "Maybe so."

"Definitely so."

I swing my leg around so I'm sitting on his lap and bring my face so close to his that he has no choice but to look me in the eye. We hold each other's gaze, and it feels even more intimate than anything we've done physically.

Cooper rolls us forward so I'm lying down and he's lying on top of me, his leg wedged between mine. His erection isn't the only thing pressing against me; there's a rock beneath the blanket, poking itself into my back.

"Ow," I say, and Cooper stops, the sadness in his eyes replaced with concern.

"Let's go back to the Lodge," I tell him.

"But the rules…" he starts.

"Are made to be broken," I finish.

—

The next morning, I wake up to butterfly-soft kisses on my shoulder and something long and hard against my butt.

"Mmm," I murmur, pressing back into him. Permission granted, Cooper continues, kissing my neck as he slides his hand beneath the T-shirt of his I wore to sleep. I had every intention of going back to my room, but when he suggested pushing the two beds in his room together, I couldn't resist falling asleep in his arms.

I didn't even think about how lovely it would be when we woke up.

"Morning," Cooper growls into my ear as he plays with my nipples. "I love having you in my bed."

"You mean I'm not dreaming?" My eyes are still closed, and my voice is thick with sleep. Cooper chuckles, his left hand traveling down my side, caressing my thigh before drifting up to my center. I'm wet and ready, grinding my butt back against his hardness.

He takes the hint and pushes my underwear aside, slipping one, then two fingers inside me. My breath quickens, but he takes his time, his movements languid and practiced until I can't take it anymore. I shift so I'm on my back and pull him on top of me, sliding his boxers down. Cooper reaches for a condom—we picked up two more latex-free packs last time we were in town—and slides inside, filling me completely.

We move together, slowly at first, like we've got all the time in the world, taking and giving until he picks up the pace, rising to a crescendo. Cooper shudders above me and I'm not far behind. We come together, and I've never, not once, been this in sync, this connected with someone.

Afterward, Cooper goes to shower, and I stay in his bed, floating in the afterglow. I could definitely get used to this. Not just the sex—although our chemistry is off the charts. It's the way I feel around him, even when we're having hard conversations. Last night, he opened himself up so completely. It was raw and vulnerable. That's not something you do with a fling.

Which is all this is supposed to be. Just fun. No feelings. There aren't supposed to be feelings.

That's what complicates everything and makes it so confusing. Cooper barely checks any of the boxes on my list. He's nothing like what I thought I wanted. But he makes me so damn happy. Happier than I've ever been, which is terrifying, since this fling has an expiration date that's just a few weeks away.

Time needs to slow down, because I'm not ready for any of this to end.

At least there's a good chance Camp Chickawah will go on. The campers have been incredibly generous with their pledges, and if this week lives up to our (admittedly high) expectations, we'll meet our first financial goal.

Speaking of which, I need to get moving. We're meeting with one of our VIP alums, who's agreed to get our story in front of her hundreds of thousands of engaged followers. It's almost too good to be true.

I climb out of bed, debating whether it's better to be late and clean or on time and smelling like sex. Cleanliness wins. I take a lightning-fast shower, and by some miracle, I'm only two minutes late and slightly out of breath when I walk into Jessie's office.

She's behind her desk, sitting across from a stylish brunette who looks vaguely familiar.

"Hey, Hill!" Jessie says. "You remember Kat Steiner."

"Hillary Goldberg!" Kat says, leaping up to give me a giant hug. We were in Cabin Ten together the summer we turned twelve—and I remember being so jealous when Kat discovered her best friend Blake was actually her half sister. I would've given anything to have found out Jessie was my official sister, although I understand now how complicated it must have made things for them and their families back home.

"It's so good to see you!" Kat says, releasing me from her embrace. "Let's take a selfie!"

Before I have time to smile, Kat's iPhone is angled high above us, her cheek pressed to mine. The camera clicks and I freeze, picturing my awkward self being broadcast to her ginormous following.

"Kat and I were just talking about the talent show," Jessie says, getting us back on task.

"Yes!" Kat says. She's somehow managed to look both chic and ready for a day of fun at camp: jeans with strategically ripped holes at the knees, a white crop top with a white button-down shirt open over it, and a tan bolero hat. "I shared a teaser in my stories yesterday, and I'll be posting content about my camping experience all week."

"That's incredible," I say.

Kat brushes it off like it's no big deal, even though her connections could single-handedly save the camp. "I already have a link to the fundraising page in my bio—but the talent show is the real draw. I'm picturing one of those old-school telethons, where we'll talk about the camp and encourage donations between acts. And the whole thing will be live streamed!"

I wince. "But the Internet—"

"—won't be a problem," Kat says. "My brother-in-law Noah is into all that tech stuff—he brought equipment to boost the signal. He's not concerned, so neither am I."

I glance at Jessie, who shrugs before turning to Kat. "And you're sure we can't pay you?"

"The goal is to make you money, not for you to spend it. This is important to me—if it weren't for Camp Chickawah, I wouldn't have met my sister." She pauses and clears her throat, then smiles her bright smile before continuing. "The only thing I want is a slot in the talent show—Blake and I have been waiting sixteen years to perform our lip-sync routine."

I nod, remembering that summer when we were twelve. Kat had to leave the day before the talent show because her grandfather had passed away. The news was an unwelcome intrusion into our camp bubble, a reminder that life was going on back home and something bad might happen at any moment.

Come to think of it, that week was the second time Lola allowed me into the office to call my dad. She knew I was rattled and needed to hear his voice.

A familiar sense of panic stirs in my chest, and I make a mental note to come back to Jessie's office later to give my father a call. He won't be happy I ended things with Aaron, but hopefully he'll be proud of what I'm doing for the camp. Using my business acumen to save a place that's not only special to me, but was special to my mom, too. That's got to mean something.

"I'm telling you, everyone's going to know about this talent show!" Kat is saying.

I gulp. Everyone? The last thing we want is for the Valentines to get wind of our plan before we're able to tell them about it.

"We might want to block one or two people," I say.

"Sure thing," Kat says, tapping her phone to life. "Do you know their handles?"

Fifteen minutes later, we're rolling on the floor, laughing. We found and blocked Mary, no problem. Her Instagram account isn't active; her last post was from two summers ago.

But Jack? Apparently the one thing he loves more than money is dollhouses.

His feed is full of them. Ginormous ones. Small vintage ones. Empty ones, and ones with rooms full of teeny tiny furniture. I've never laughed so hard in my life, and I'm pretty sure Jessie peed her pants a little.

It felt good to laugh. Almost as good as it feels to have a solid plan to save our camp.