Chapter Seven

seven

Hillary

I forgot how long a drive it is from the Minneapolis airport to camp. When I was a kid, every minute on the bus stretched like an hour. It was torture, knowing my reunion with Jessie was so close, yet so far away. Even now, after ninety minutes in the backseat of a town car heading west on Highway 94 and twenty minutes north on country roads, I'm bouncing in anticipation.

Or maybe that's nerves? Because I'm not sure the excitement is mutual. The few emails I've exchanged with Jessie have been friendly, but they don't hold a candle to the letters we used to send. I pictured us still writing each other when we were little old ladies in the nursing home—but the last letter came much sooner than that.

It was the last month of my freshman year at college. I wrote and rewrote that email four times, trying to find the words to let Jessie understand how sorry I was for breaking my promise of being counselors together.

The response that eventually came was just one short sentence: It's fine.

Of course, it wasn't. And I knew nothing I said would make it better, so I left her email unanswered as the days turned into weeks, then months.

I never imagined it would be more than ten years before we'd see each other again.

Up ahead, I spot the familiar sign with you belong here carved into wood. I hope the words are still true. It's strange to think that Jessie has been here this whole time, that my past is her present. I wonder if she's still stubbornly optimistic with the ability to bring out the best in everyone. If Camp Chickawah is still her whole world. And most importantly, if she'll be happy to see me.

For all I know, I'm one of many best friends she's had over the years. Someone like Jessie wouldn't have the same problem making friends that I did. That I still do. Maybe for her, my return to Camp Chickawah is no big deal.

Either way, I'm about to find out.

The car turns down the narrow road toward camp and my breath hitches as the tunnel of trees takes me back in time. I squeeze my eyes shut, and suddenly, I'm the eight-year-old girl who misses her dad and just wants to go home.

Abruptly, the darkness turns to light. We break through the clearing of trees into camp, and I open my eyes, taking it all in: the Lodge to the left; the girls' cabins to the right; the big open lawn and the boys' cabins up ahead.

"This the right spot?" the driver asks as he rolls to a stop in front of the dining hall. I tell him it is, then step out of the car.

But it doesn't feel right.

Something must be wrong with the space-time continuum, because this place is both everything and nothing like I remember. For one thing, it feels…smaller. Less significant. And the buildings all seem worse for wear. The dining hall, once looming and grand in a rustic way, looks like a worn-down shack. The exterior hasn't been touched up in the last decade, and the wood on the porch is so distressed I'm not sure it's safe to stand on.

If I were here in a professional capacity, my recommendation would likely be to wipe the slate clean and start with something new. The land is still impressive—majestic, even, with its acres of woods and pristine lake. It could be a blank canvas to build a new camp or a year-round vacation community for families.

But Camp Chickawah is not a client, and I'm not here to save it. I'm here to have fun and reconnect with a lost part of myself. Maybe then I'll know what I want for my future.

Behind me, I hear a door open and close. I turn to see Jessie, standing like a vision before me.

Like the camp, she's the same, but different. Older, and somehow even taller. Her strawberry blonde hair is in those familiar twin plaits and she's wearing the uniform the counselors used to wear—a Camp Chickawah shirt and khaki shorts, a walkie-talkie on her hip.

She moves to shake my hand at the same time I move to give her a hug, and we end in an awkward collision of arms and hands. Not exactly the reunion I was hoping for.

"Hillary Goldberg, back at camp," she says, stepping back. "Never thought I'd see the day."

I don't know this adult version of Jessie well enough to know if there's a hidden barb under her words or if she's genuinely happy to see me. I hope it's the latter.

"I missed this place," I say. "And you."

Jessie flinches. It lasts a fraction of a second, but it's long enough for my coffee to curdle in my stomach. She can't still be mad at me, can she? I should have reached out sooner, asked if we could talk and clear the air before I waltzed in, acting as if nothing between us was broken; as if it's been ten months and not more than ten years since we've seen each other.

I'm about to ask if she has time to catch up when static buzzes from her walkie-talkie.

"Go for Jessie," she says.

I can't follow the stream of words, but Jessie seems to understand. "Be right there," she says to the person on the other end of the connection.

Then, to me: "I've got to take care of a situation in one of the boys' cabins. Staff is staying on the second floor of the Lodge—feel free to find your room and unpack."

"Oh," I say, doing a terrible job at hiding my disappointment. I'd hoped to be in one of the girls' cabins, just like the old days: sleeping on the bottom bunk, hearing the slow, measured breaths of my camp friends, knowing Jessie was in the bunk above me.

I should have realized Jessie would be in the small cabin where Nathaniel and Lola used to live, next to the dining hall. I went in there once—halfway through my second summer at camp, when my weekly letter from Dad hadn't arrived. I was inconsolable, certain something had happened to him, that he'd had an aneurysm, like my mom.

Even though it was usually off-limits, Lola brought me into their warm, cozy cabin, which had a phone for emergencies. Hearing my father's voice on the other end of the line was just the elixir I needed.

"Remember where the Lodge is?" Jessie calls. She's already walking off toward the boys' side of camp.

"I remember."

"Dinner's around six—you'll hear the bell when it's ready."

With that, she's gone. And I'm left to ponder if my former best friend is acting distant because this is her job now, or if she's still carrying the hurt I caused by walking away all those years ago.

I sigh and look toward the Lodge, way on the other side of camp, then down at my luggage—two large rolling suitcases and a small bag. A far cry from the army-style duffel that was standard for campers back in the day.

It's clear no one's going to magically appear to transport my stuff, so I start the long haul, dragging one bag a few feet down the gravel path, then going back to drag the other. Drag, drop, repeat. Repeat. Repeat. By the time I arrive at the Lodge, my jeans are sticking to me like glue, and my brand-new hiking boots have left blisters on my heels.

The two-story building sits up the hill from the lake, and like everything else around here, it's not as impressive as in my memory. I used to think the two-toned exterior was beautiful, with flat stones accenting the first floor and wood siding on the second. Now, a few stones have fallen out, leaving gaps of exposed cement, and the wood could use a fresh coat of paint. When I let myself in, I choke on the musty air. Even on the first floor, the Lodge has a distinct attic vibe.

There are three big rooms down here, designed for the rare indoor activities or to offer refuge on bad weather days. Taking the stairs to the second level feels like trespassing. This was where staff who weren't counselors slept; no campers allowed.

There's a lounge at the top of the stairs with a couch, two chairs, and a tiny kitchenette, which holds a refrigerator, a microwave, and an ancient-looking coffee machine. A wave of homesickness for my Nespresso machine hits me—maybe I can get Aaron to ship it up here. It's the least he can do after the emotional whiplash of yesterday. I'm still unsettled by the conversation—the more I think about it, the less logical his logic seems.

Squaring my shoulders and putting him out of my mind, I walk down the long hallway. There are bedrooms on either side, but we've got such a small staff this summer that only a handful are taken. Each is marked by a simple sign in Jessie's familiar block writing. I study the names of my new coworkers: Dot and then Chef on the right; Zac and Zoey and then me on the left.

In my room, I find simple wooden furniture: two twin beds, two desks, two dressers. Like my reunion with Jessie, it falls short of my expectations.

I've been so focused on the nostalgia of coming back to camp that I didn't think about the reality of "roughing" it. There's no air-conditioning, the corners of the room are dusty, and the mattress is so thin I can feel the wood planks of the frame beneath my butt. Maybe Aaron was right when he said this isn't who I am anymore.

But I've never been a quitter, and I'm not going to start now.

Walking over to the window, I gaze out over the lake. The water glistens in the afternoon sun, and the sight of the dock makes my heart swell with memories—Jessie and I would sit out there and sunbathe for hours, talking about anything and everything. I take a deep breath, smiling. Everything is going to be okay, I just— ack!

I jump back, my heart pounding. A spider the size of a quarter is chilling in its cobweb along the windowsill, glaring as if I'm the intruder.

Which I suppose I am.

For an instant, I wish Aaron was here to take care of it, but I'm a strong, capable woman. I put on my metaphorical big girl pants and march out to the kitchenette, finding a cup and a small plate so I can evict my roommate to the safety of the great outdoors.

Next on the agenda: a shower. It's going to take a good twenty minutes to wash off the grime of this day.

—

The shower is a tiny stall in the communal bathroom at the end of the hall, but everything looks reasonably clean, and the water is piping hot. As much as I'd wanted to stay in a cabin, it's nice not having to put on flip-flops and trek my toiletries to the group bathroom.

When I'm finished, I grab a towel from the linen closet. It's small and a little scratchy, barely covering the important bits. But my room is just down the hall, so I grab my clothes and toiletry bag, then step out of the steamy bathroom—smack into a man's chest.

"Whoa there," a deep voice says.

I stumble back, nearly losing my towel before getting my balance. "Hi! Excuse me! So sorry!"

Looking up, I lock eyes with the deep voice's owner. He's about five foot ten with broad shoulders, wavy brown hair under a backward baseball cap, and a neatly trimmed beard. He's smiling down at me—on second glance, it looks more like a smirk.

"No worries," he says. "You okay?"

I straighten up, trying to act unbothered. "Fine, thanks."

"Your, uh—the towel is a bit…" He points, grimacing slightly.

I glance down to see that the top of the towel has drifted downward, revealing approximately one third of my left nipple. My cheeks burst into flames, and I yank it up—then feel the cool breeze below and tug it down. This makes me drop my toiletry bag, and my bottles of shampoo and conditioner go rolling down the hallway toward the guy's feet.

A chuckle rumbles from him, and he stoops to pick them up. "Here, let me help. Wouldn't want you to drop that towel."

"I'm sure you would just hate that," I mutter, my mortification growing.

"Hey, we're gonna be sharing this bathroom all summer, so I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot more of each other," he says, handing me my toiletries. "Here you go."

I snatch the bottles back and stuff them into my bag, squeezing my elbows tightly against my body so the towel doesn't shift.

"Thank you," I say, with as much dignity as I can manage. "Have a great afternoon."

And then I hurry past him and into my room, shutting the door behind me and locking it.

His chuckle echoes through the hallway as he walks away.

—

Once I'm done shaking off that embarrassment, I spend the next hour unpacking and trying to make the room feel homier. It doesn't work, but at least stacking the two twin mattresses on top of each other makes the bed more comfortable.

With just about twenty minutes to spare before dinner, I put on a breezy maxi dress and a minimal amount of makeup. I don't want to look like I'm trying too hard, but first impressions matter. Second impressions, even more so.

As I retrace my steps back toward the dining hall, the camp seems more familiar. There's the crunch of gravel under my feet, the rustling of leaves, the slight chill in the evening air. My shoulders loosen and my stiff exterior chips away, revealing the carefree camper I hope is still in there somewhere.

Inside, the dining room looks the way it always did: shiny wood floors and row after row of long, rectangular tables. The one difference is the rich scent of garlic wafting from the kitchen—our camp fare never smelled this decadent.

The kitchen door swings open, and out walks the guy I ran into earlier, wearing an apron covered in hot pink lips and the words kiss the cook . My cheeks heat with the memory of our run-in. He is definitely better looking than old Chef Cindy.

Before he can notice me, I make a beeline for the table where Jessie is sitting. She's talking animatedly to Dot, who looks just like I remember: short gray hair and stocky build. Across from them are a young couple—a petite, dark-haired woman sitting on the lap of a big, blond man. Presumably the Zac and Zoey who have the room next to mine. They're all laughing and talking like they're best friends. At the end of the table, I recognize Mr. Billy, the old groundskeeper. He seemed ancient back when I was a camper, and I'm impressed he's still working.

It feels like walking into my junior high cafeteria and realizing everyone has a group to sit with except me.

My muscles tense. Should I leave?

"Get over here, Goldberg," Dot calls. Her voice is gruff, but she's smiling. "Good to see you again."

"Hi." I wave. I literally wave. Like an awkward loser. Quickly, I stuff my offending hand into my pocket before I do something even worse, like give them all a thumbs-up.

"Make room," Dot commands, and Zac slides down the bench, Zoey still in his lap. I take a seat across from Jessie, who barely acknowledges my presence.

I might have been better off sitting by Mr. Billy.

Dot makes introductions, ending with the chef. "And you remember Coop, of course."

My cheeks heat as I look up at him.

"Hi…again?" I say awkwardly. Am I supposed to know him?

"Cooper," he says. "It's been a long time, Hill. How've you been?"

He says this so casually I almost wonder if he doesn't recognize me as the nearly naked woman he ran into. And how does he know me?

But then he bites his lower lip, and the gesture brings it all back. The two of us, standing a breath apart down by the lake. I was fourteen that summer, and after Sara Verkest kissed Matt Berger, I was the only girl in our cabin who hadn't gotten to first base yet. I hadn't even made it up to bat.

Jessie, being the best friend she was, set out on a mission to find a guy for me to smooch. She was strategic, narrowing it down to two: Toby from Cabin Eleven, who had kissed a lot of girls, and Cooper from Cabin Twenty-One, who was friends with a lot of girls, but as far as we knew, hadn't kissed anyone. In the end, we decided kissing Cooper would be less intimidating. He wasn't exactly cute by most teenagers' standards, but he was sweet and funny.

I'm still not sure what Jessie did to convince him, but she got Cooper to meet me down by the lake after dinner. The view, with the early evening sun casting a shimmering light across the water, took my breath away.

Unfortunately, I can't say the same thing about the kiss, which was awkward and wet. I tried to look him up once after telling someone the story, but Cooper is his last name, and I never knew his first. I guess I can ask him now that he's here, standing right in front of me, waiting for me to say something.

"Wow," I say. "You look amazing—I never would have recognized you."

I cringe, wishing I could stuff the offending words back in my mouth. He doesn't seem bothered, though. His eyes light up and he flashes me a grin.

"I shot up five inches when I turned seventeen and realized I needed to burn calories instead of just consuming them," he says.

I laugh, and accidentally glance down at his ring finger, which is bare. Not that it matters. Even though my current relationship status is single, this guy has "player" written all over him. Literally.

"Nice apron," I say.

"Nice dress," he replies.

Is he teasing me for being overdressed? His eyes dip down my body and he gives a smirky little smile like he's remembering exactly how under dressed I was just an hour ago.

My cheeks flush. "Uh—thanks."

"Any time." He looks like he's about to say something else, but a timer goes off in the kitchen. "Better go get that."

As Cooper excuses himself, I look over to see Jessie watching me. Her jaw is tight, and I search her face for a glimpse of the girl who orchestrated that first kiss.

I hope she's in there somewhere. Otherwise, it's going to be a very long summer.