Chapter Five

five

Hillary

June

It's been four months since I applied to run Arts and Crafts at Camp Chickawah. Despite being both ridiculously over- and underqualified, I got the job. And against the advice of my father and my boyfriend, I accepted it. I'm flying out bright and early tomorrow morning, and the pre-camp jitters are just as rampant as I remember. Only back then, it was all excitement and anticipation.

Now? I'm not sure how to describe this feeling. Nervous, sure. Anxious, definitely.

Also, hungry.

At least tonight's farewell dinner will solve one of the three. The food at camp was never anything to write home about, so Dad always sent me off with a good meal at the restaurant of my choice. Usually somewhere with a Zagat rating. I was a foodie before being a foodie was a thing, taking sushi in my lunch box when my classmates were still getting the crusts cut off their PB if anything, I'm relieved. I've had a hard time staying present this week. I've got one foot stuck in the past; everything seems to take me back to camp.

The sunset? Even more beautiful on Camp Chickawah's Steamboat Lake, where the sun casts a kaleidoscope of color across the waters. A cheap plastic cup tossed in the trash? We used to turn them upside down and use them as instruments. A young girl with strawberry blonde braids skipping down Michigan Ave? Jessie.

She's somehow the root of all my excitement and my fear. Because she isn't just my former best friend. She's the person who took away her friendship without a second thought because I made one decision she didn't like.

Jessie was the first, and quite possibly the only, person who managed to unearth the silly, carefree child hiding beneath my mini-adult exterior. She had a way of finding joy in every single moment, and her enthusiasm for camp and for life was contagious. Whether she was dreaming up a moonlit prank or orchestrating my first kiss, Jessie made everything an adventure. And to my delight, I discovered that I liked having fun, liked smiling until my cheeks hurt, laughing until I almost peed my pants.

Over the past decade, I haven't just missed Jessie. I've missed the version of myself I was around her. It's like those cheesy BFF necklaces I bought for us the summer we were twelve, the kind where two halves come together to form a complete heart. Jessie completed me. Not in a romantic way. But losing her friendship left a massive hole in my heart that no romantic relationship could ever fill.

"Earth to Hill," Aaron says, knocking on the table by my plate. "Your father's talking to you."

"Sorry," I say, turning to face my dad. It's seventy degrees out, but he's still wearing a suit jacket. I should have him come out to camp for a week, see if he can unlock a more carefree version of himself. I can't picture it—although there's apparently a week we'll have campers as old as seventy!

"We were just talking about how well your business is going," my dad says, and I brace myself for the but that's surely coming. "How many clients did you have to turn down this summer?"

"Seventeen," I say, watching his brown eyes widen. They narrow again when he realizes I'm kidding.

"I just hate for you to lose momentum," he says, dropping into his courtroom voice.

My father is the one who taught me the value of following a plan, and his plan for me does not include my taking two months "off." But for the first time in my life, I'm not letting his opinion stop me.

"I've got it all figured out," I say. "I'm starting the Water Tower project the week after Labor Day, and I've got two more clients lined up after that."

"Yes, well, it's still a long time to be gone."

His mouth twists, and I'm reminded of his disposition every summer before I left for camp—somber and sentimental, hugging me extra tight and standing in the doorway a little longer before he said good night. It was as if time suddenly became tangible, and he could feel it slipping away. I assume he's feeling the same way now. I reach across the table to cover his hand with mine.

"I'll miss you, too, Dad."

"It's Aaron I'm worried about," my father says with false bravado. "Eight weeks is a long time for a man to be on his own."

This old-fashioned sentiment makes me cringe, but before I can think of a good retort about the patriarchy, Aaron says, "What's eight weeks when you've got forever?"

My dad breaks into an uncharacteristically bright smile and catches Aaron's eye. Are the two of them in cahoots? Having conversations about my life, our future, over the water cooler? Did Aaron ask for my dad's permission to propose?

I flash back to an image of a future without time off, without love, and the table starts to wobble. Or maybe it's my chair.

It's where we've been heading, yet the infinite nature of the word is overwhelming. Forever . My chest feels tight; it's hard to breathe. Aaron says something and my dad replies. Their words sound garbled, like Charlie Brown's teacher.

"You okay, babe?" Aaron asks. It's like he's talking to me from the other end of a tunnel. When I don't answer, he lays a heavy hand on my leg. "Babe?"

"I'm good," I say. And somehow, I manage to pretend that I am.

—

By the time our tiramisu arrives, my pulse has returned to normal. I'm able to enjoy the moment, and the dessert. Then it's time to leave, and I squeeze my father extra tight and promise to send him a postcard every week. Assuming the canteen still sells them. If not, I'll make my own the way we used to, cutting up boxes of cereal and writing messages on the brown cardboard interior.

Maybe we'll do that for one of our weekly craft activities. Simple and sustainable. I mentally add it to the list I've been curating in a Google Doc. While I used to spend all my free time in the Arts and Crafts cabin, I haven't touched a glue gun or colored thread in the decade since. Thank god for Pinterest.

"You were a million miles away tonight," Aaron says, grabbing my hand as we walk down Ontario.

He's not wrong, and I know every self-help book on the planet would tell me that the best way to deepen our relationship is to let him in.

"Sorry," I say, giving his hand a squeeze. "I've got a lot on my mind."

It's a cop-out, but I don't have the energy to unpack how it feels like we're on different pages of different books. He's talking to my father about our future while I can't stop thinking about my past. Even if I tried to explain, I'm not sure he'd understand.

"Did you ever go to camp?" I ask.

Aaron shakes his head, and I'm disappointed, but not surprised. It shouldn't matter that he's not a camp person. I'm not one anymore, but it feels like I'm on the precipice of becoming one again.

Re-coming, not becoming.

Although I don't know if it's possible to reconcile the girl I used to be with the woman I am today. The woman Aaron is planning to spend forever with.

We stop at the corner of Michigan, waiting for the light to change, and I look at Aaron. Really look at him. He's a good man, and he'd make a good husband. Is it the worst thing in the world if we have different priorities? Money does matter, and it affords us the life we live. So what if he doesn't give me butterflies? It's not like anyone else has, either.

Aaron catches me looking at him and leans down for a chaste kiss. I'm usually not a fan of PDA, but I lean into it, opening my mouth, desperate to feel something that will give me an answer to the question that's been hanging in the air all night.

My response surprises Aaron, but he quickly recovers, pulling me flush against him, deepening the kiss. He doesn't seem to mind the hordes of tourists around us; if anything, it seems to turn him on. He presses his erection against me, and I feel the flutter of something in my belly—but it disappears the moment I lock eyes with a woman staring at us. She blushes, but I'm the one who's mortified. This is ridiculous. I'm too old to be making out in the street, chasing butterflies.

I pull away from Aaron, whose eyes are dark with desire. I may not know what our future holds, but I know I can't leave him hanging like this when I'm about to leave for two months.

Pushing all the things left on my to-do list out of my mind, I slip my hand in his and say, "Let's go back to my place."

—

Twenty minutes later, after a perfunctory roll in the hay (he came, I didn't), I'm restless. The walls in my apartment feel like they're closing in around me, so I slip out to the balcony for some air while Aaron showers.

This has always been my plan, I remind myself. Engaged by thirty, married by thirty-one, pregnant by thirty-two.

But is it still what I want? And is Aaron the man I want it with? Or is this all one big game of musical chairs and he's the one I'm left with when the music stops?

"Hey, babe," Aaron says, coming out onto the balcony behind me and sliding his arms around my waist. I lean back into him, desperately trying to feel something. What if the problem isn't him or us, but me?

"I know you still have a lot to do tonight, to pack," he says, and I blink. Does he sound nervous? "But there's something I wanted to ask you."

My heart gallops in my chest. This is it. The big question. Yes or No. Maybe? Is there room for a maybe? If I say no, does that mean we're over? I'll have lost two years of my life—my plan will officially be off the rails. But if I say yes, does that mean this is as good as it gets?

Aaron shifts so he's beside me, but he doesn't look at me. I follow his gaze, staring out at the Chicago skyline, the city lights so bright you can't see the stars.

"Like you said," he begins. "Eight weeks is a long time."

I didn't say that, but I keep my mouth shut, wishing I could manipulate time, fast-forward past this conversation or rewind back two years to when my dad said he wanted to set me up with a promising lawyer at his firm. Or farther, back ten years to when I made the decision to follow my dad's plan instead of my heart.

"Even your dad said a man has needs," Aaron is saying.

My entire body goes stiff—my dad said no such thing, and this is a weird way to start a marriage proposal.

"So I was thinking," Aaron concludes, "maybe we take a break this summer."

I bark out a laugh. Here I am, trying to convince myself I should marry this man, and he wants to take a break? Dazed, I walk away from the railing and sit on the ironically named love seat. Aaron sits beside me and tries to take my hands in his, but I brush them away.

"Listen, I meant what I said earlier. I want forever with you, but…"

"But?" I echo.

"But since you'll be gone all summer, and I'll be here…"

I don't remind him that I invited him to come out for one of the weeklong sessions so he could see this place that means so much to me. Again, I got the excuse of what a "busy time" this is for the firm.

He's still talking, and I force myself to pay attention.

"I thought we could treat this summer like one last hurrah. It wouldn't be anything serious," he says, as if that matters. "Just a little fun, taking care of, you know…"

"Your needs?" I don't even try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. I'm not angry—I'm annoyed. At myself, because I didn't see this coming, and at Aaron for going so far off script.

Aaron doesn't pick up on my tone. "Exactly," he says, relaxing back into the sofa. "I'm so glad you see the logic in this."

"So, let me get this straight," I say, trying to push past the sting of rejection and focus on his so-called logic. "You'll get a free pass to sleep with whoever you want over the next two months?"

"I'll wear a condom every time," Aaron says earnestly.

"And what about me?"

"What about you?" He looks genuinely confused.

"If you're sleeping around, I assume it's okay for me to do the same?"

Aaron laughs, stopping only when he sees I'm not amused. "I mean, if you want, but, well…you know." I narrow my eyes, keeping my mouth shut. "It's just, well, you aren't really the type."

"The type to have sex?" I cross my arms over my chest, not sure if I should be amused or offended at this, coming from the man I'm sleeping with.

"No," Aaron says, trying to take my hand again. "I didn't mean that. I meant, well, the type to just have fun."

"You don't think I'm fun?"

Aaron inhales a quick breath. "Being serious isn't a bad thing. It's a great quality for a wife."

Now it's my turn to laugh. "A wife ? Is this your idea of a proposal?"

"I'm not proposing—not yet, anyway."

"Good," I say, folding my arms. "Because a proposal requires at least a little romance."

And it shouldn't involve sleeping with other people , I add silently.

"Noted," Aaron says, and the sincerity in his voice astounds me. "But, Hill, you should know I'm planning to spend the rest of my life with you. That's why it makes sense to take a break this summer. A lifelong commitment is a big deal, and I think we should both be really ready. You know?"

He says all this like it's perfectly reasonable, like I should be flattered. Instead, I'm…I don't know what this feeling is. It's like someone dropped a bomb on the path that was so clearly laid out ahead of me, and I'm not sure whether I should find a detour and keep going, or turn back.

"And you think after this summer you'll be really ready?" There's an edge to my voice that he either doesn't pick up on or chooses to ignore.

"Absolutely. We're both turning thirty soon. It's the perfect time to have one last summer of freedom before we officially step into adulthood."

I sit silently for a while, trying to process this seismic shift. On the one hand, he's not wrong. If we're going to settle down together, it's smart to be sure. But something about his suggestion doesn't feel right. Maybe because I'm not very fun, like Aaron said. I'm a boring monogamist.

"Listen," I say, standing up. "I've got an early flight. I think you should go."

"So…we're good?" Aaron asks.

"I don't know," I admit. "I need to think about it."

He nods, slipping his hands in his back pockets. "Until then…"

"Until then, we're on a break. Do whatever you need to do."

A smile lights up Aaron's face until he remembers himself and tamps down his excitement. He gives me a quick kiss goodbye and heads off into the night, eager to get a start on all the adventures waiting for him and his completely average penis.

As soon as the door closes behind him, I sit back on the love seat, wishing I had a girlfriend I could call. Someone to ask advice about what I should do—now, and in two months when camp is over. What I should do at camp. Probably nothing? Like Aaron said, I'm not the type to have hot, meaningless sex with strangers.

But that's okay. The relationship I need to focus on this summer is a platonic one.

One more sleep until I'm reunited with my best friend.