The shed was for those hard, awkward truths that were too fragile for sunlight or a space without cobwebs and old garden tools. I didn’t always like his reasons for dragging me in here, but I always tried to hear what he was and wasn’t saying.
“Eric had been making all these comments that he had the hottest partner, and he might give up the singles life entirely and just take up mixed doubles. All this stuff,” Ro continued. “So I thought, whatever, he can have her. Cassie is high-maintenance as hell anyway.”
“Ro—” I said with a roll of my eyes.
“Don’t Ro me. If you’ve never had to share a court with her, you can’t even judge.” He drank from his beer again. “Don’t get me wrong, her backhand is sick. I’m talking that old-school Henin one-hander.”
“Are you saying that because Cassie’s short?” When I was a kid, I used to get the Justine Henin comparison too. What I lacked in height, I made up for in tenacity. She was many a short girl’s tennis idol, and if I’d ever gotten passionate about tennis, I’d have been obsessed with Henin.
“No,” he said. “She’s just that good.”
I nodded and waved for Ro to go on. “Continue.”
“Anyway, so we’re at Cody’s party last night, right? And I’m waiting in line for the bathroom when Cassie taps me on the shoulder and tells me there’s another bathroom in the pool house, but she’s scared to go by herself.
“So, I’m like, I’m down, let’s go, ’cause I’m getting really desperate.” Ro slurped on his beer. “We get there. She goes in first . . .”
“Gentleman,” I remarked, and he rolled his eyes.
“Then I go in. When I come back out, she’s waiting for me at the door, and she just like grabs my face and kisses me. Did I mention I was super wasted?”
“No, you did not.” I spoke calmly, but I felt a pinprick of worry. First the party where Luke and I picked Rowan up, then a party last night, and now he was drinking again today?
“Okay, I’m super wasted. So I kiss her back. We mess around, whatever, then go back to the party. I get to practice this morning before work, and Eric is like, ‘Dude, I’m going to ask her out. She’s been giving me all these hints.’ How am I supposed to tell him?”
“Maybe you don’t have to,” I offered. “If she’s giving him hints, maybe she’s into him and last night was just a series of bad decisions. On both your parts.” I couldn’t help voicing my disapproval. Cassie Clairburne was known for dating guys and dumping them the moment she got bored. Ro could do way better.
“Jessi, he thinks everyone is giving him hints. I swear to you, when he stayed over last weekend, Mom asked if he wanted pancakes and he thought she was hitting on him.”
I laughed. I could see Eric doing that.
“Maybe you should text him and say you have something to tell him, then just rip it off like a Band-Aid.”
Ro sighed. “I guess.”
We talked idly for a while, about what I’d do when summer school was done the next week. We talked about the tournament Ro had won last week and how he was now going to be ranked third for his age division in our state.
“Mom wants to celebrate. She’s planning some kind of fancy dinner,” he said. “If she had her way, she’d probably do high tea or some shit.”
“That could be fun,” I said.
“For who? The count and countess of Notre Dame?”
I laughed. “Well, if they’re coming, tell them to RSVP so Mel knows.”
Ro laid back so his bottom half was on the sleeping bag and his top half was on the grimy floor of the shed, a hygienic risk that I personally was not willing to take, so I stayed sitting, my legs stretched out in front of me.
I was trying to think of how to bring it up, this wedge forming between us that I had been feeling for weeks. But before I could speak, Ro spoke.
“What were you doing in Luke’s room?”
“Helping him pick out an outfit for a special occasion.”
“Is he having vision problems or something?” Ro had been in a state of perpetual annoyance with his brother ever since the night we picked him up from the party. It had been weeks, and he was still making passive-aggressive comments about people not staying out of his shit.
I wouldn’t dignify his question with an answer, but I asked what I’d been gearing up to.
“Are we okay?” I asked, signaling between us.
“Why wouldn’t we be?” Ro asked, sitting up again. He sounded genuinely surprised. “Is this about that night I asked you to leave?”
“It’s about . . . everything,” I said, struggling to voice my thoughts. “You never text me back lately. We barely see each other.”
“I was busy getting to third in the state!” Ro protested. “And you know I suck at texting.”
“You’re sucking extra hard lately.”
“I just have a lot going on, okay?” He seemed so indignant, I wondered now if the distance—the weirdness—had all been in my head. Worse, I wondered if I was being selfish, making this all about me and our friendship when it had nothing to do with me.
“How are you doing with Mel’s . . . stuff?” It was a clumsy way to ask, but it was all I had.
I heard Rowan shrug in the dark. “How should I be doing? I’m not the one doing treatment and whatever.”
“You’re just being so weird. So secretive,” I finally admitted, exasperated.
I expected him to get annoyed and bite back about how it was none of my business, or something to that effect, but he didn’t.
“I don’t know how else to be.”
“You could tell me what you’re thinking,” I said.
“I can’t,” he said, and it was the quickness of his response that stung more than what he said.
“You don’t think you can tell me what you’re thinking?” I repeated, hurt slipping through my words. This—this—was exactly what I’d been trying to articulate. I’d noticed the change the night Mel was diagnosed, but it might have started before that. Clearly, something had changed in the way Rowan saw me, and I couldn’t figure out what it was or why.
“I know I can’t,” he said. “Because you’ll just run it back to Mom or Luke or someone.”
“Ro, that is so unfair. I’d never tell them something you told me in confidence.”
“Sorry,” he said with a sigh. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
I wasn’t so quick to accept his apology. How many times was he going to take out whatever he was feeling on me? I wasn’t his punching bag. “You’re a jackass.”
“Sorry,” he repeated. He picked up my hand and put it on his lap, running his finger over my lifelines the way we used to do when we were little and telling each other’s fortunes. It tickled, but I didn’t pull away. “I just mean, like, it sucks because Luke is Mr. Perfect. He never does anything wrong. And you—you’re, like, Mel’s best friend. The chosen one. I’m the shit son, who never knows the right thing to do or say.”
“There’s no right thing with this, Ro,” I said, feeling my throat closing up again the way it did whenever I was about to cry. I rested my head on his shoulder. “This is the worst thing that has ever happened to us. This is the worst-case scenario.”
Ro didn’t say anything, and when his fingers stopped moving over my hand, I returned the favor, pulling his hand onto my lap so I could tell his future. His palm felt dry and, thanks to his racket, more callused than I remembered. Once upon a time, I could trace the lines on his palm in the dark. Now there were more and more parts of him that were unfamiliar.
“I wish you’d talk to me, even if everything you say is the wrong thing.”
“It’s not that simple anymore,” Ro said at last.
I didn’t know what he meant by that last word. Anymore.
If he could admit that it had once been simple to tell each other everything, why wasn’t it any longer? What had changed?
NOW
I can’t figure it out.
I’m standing in the rec room of the W
inchester Community Center, in the middle of calling roll for my group of squirmy nine- to twelve-year-olds, when I see Luke Cohen standing at the other end of the room, watching me.
At first I try to ignore him.
Keep calling names, look anywhere but at him, and he will disappear.
But when I steal another glance at the west doors of the massive room, he’s still there.
“Willow!” I call, and like the amazing cocaptain she is, she appears.
“Mmhmm?” Her long brown hair is in a perfect fishtail braid and her makeup is flawless, completely out of place for a Tuesday morning at Camp MORE. Especially before eight a.m.
“Can you finish?” I ask, handing her the clipboard and already moving toward the other side of the room.
“Uh, sure,” she says, following my gaze to the figure standing near the doors, watching us.
I brace myself for the staccato beats of my heart, the butterflies in my stomach that always come when I’m in Luke’s presence, but being prepared makes no difference. He runs a hand along his jaw as I reach him, and I notice he’s shaved since yesterday. He looks closer to nineteen today and slightly less intimidating, but neither of those things is to my advantage.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, coming to a stop in front of him. I fold my arms over my chest, trying to seem as confident and in control as I normally am at work.
“What are you?” He lobs the question back at me.
“I work here,” I say. “And it’s obvious you knew that, or you wouldn’t be here.”
He glances over my head, like I’m barely keeping his attention. “Obvious how?”
“I don’t see you in months, but you show up three times in the last forty-eight hours? You’re clearly stalking me.”
That brings his attention back to me. “Or you’re stalking me.”
“Bullshit,” I counter. “You were lying in wait at my house.”
“That was not what I was doing.”
I push my hair off my face, exasperated. “I don’t want to fight, Luke. Please just go.”
“I can’t just go. I work here.”
“Hilarious,” I say. Then, a second later, a wave of fear crashes over me. “Is it . . . is Mel okay? Is that why you’re here?”
“She was, as of twenty minutes ago,” Luke says, and he’s back to not looking at me. “But she does want to see you again.”
I’m too confused to feel relieved. “Did you tell her the truth?”
“Which part?” he asks.
I take a moment to answer, try to keep my expression even when I say, “All of it.” It’d make her hate me, but she deserves to know the truth. I deserve her fury.
“I’m not going to do that to her,” Luke says. “At least not while she thinks we’re together.”
“But we’re not together,” I point out.
“She thinks we are,” he says. “And I’m not telling her anything different.”
My mouth drops open. “You’re just going to keep lying to her?”
“She’s happy.” He repeats his words from yesterday morning.
“It doesn’t matter if she’s happy. It’s a fucking lie.”
I can’t believe how long Luke managed to fool everyone into thinking he was some kind of saint.
His eyes narrow, and he looks down at my T-shirt. “Don’t you work with children?”
“So?” Self-conscious, I try to cover more of the unflattering shirt and the embarrassing ALL WE DO IS WIN, WIN, WIN NO MATTER WHAT logo emblazoned on it. On the back, it says WINCHESTER SUMMER CAMP MORE, which you’d think would be the more pertinent information, but apparently not.
“So you shouldn’t curse.” He stands up straighter and looks around. “Who’s in charge, anyway?”
“If you hang on a moment, I’ll go get the manager.” It’s meant to be a threat, but that apparently goes over Luke’s head.
“Thanks. That’d be great,” he says.
I disappear into one of the offices tucked into the back of the rec room. “Can I get your help with something?” I ask Diana, and she pops up from her desk.
“Sure. What is it?”
I’m genuinely surprised to see Luke still there, leaning against the wall and scrolling away on his phone. I point him out to her.
“Luke!” Diana says as we approach him. “Nice to see you again.”
I gape as she and Luke shake hands.
“Jessi, this is our new science coordinator, Luke Cohen. He’s a biochem major at State.”
Shit.
“Luke, Jessi’s one of our best team captains. She’s been here since the start of the summer.”
Shit, shit, shit.
Luke doesn’t extend his hand, and neither do I.
“Let me just grab my phone,” she says, “and then I’ll take you to your cabin . . . classroom . . . whatever you want to call it. We like to call them stations.”
“Got it,” Luke says, following her back to her office. As I watch them go, Luke pulls out the green fabric hanging from his back pocket. The same green T-shirt I’m wearing, matching logo and all.
My heart drops.
NOW
The next time I see Luke is just before lunch when Willow and I and our eleven campers file into one of the classrooms on the second floor of the Community Center. Our previous science coordinator was a retired schoolteacher who missed days in a row because her MS was acting up. Her real name was Sunny, but she went by Sunshine in front of the kids.
As all the kids file in, Willow and I help them get settled and then retreat to the back of the room.
Luke claps his hands once to get their attention. “Hey, everyone.” He settles on the wooden desk that Sunny used to sit behind and introduces himself. “I’m Duke. I’m the new guy here, so I’m counting on you guys to tell me what’s what.”
“Duke,” Willow repeats so only I can hear. “He’s cute.”
He’s asking the kids what they think of when they hear the word science.
I mumble something noncommittal to Willow, but the truth is that I’m kind of mesmerized by Luke. The least surprising thing obviously is his affinity for STEM. I’m used to bookish, quiet, thoughtful Luke. My Luke. But the boy in front of me is the same only on the surface. This boy is animated and lively and charming. He talks with his hands and holds the attention of every kid in the room.
He gets a volunteer to hand out sticky notes, asks the kids to write down their three favorite scientific facts, and makes his way to the back of the room, where Willow and I are leaning against the wall.
“Hey,” Luke says, his eyes finding mine for half a second before totally focusing on Willow. “I’m Luke.”
“Ohh,” Willow says as she shakes his hand. “I was wondering about that. I’m Willow, but I go by Oak.”
“Like the tree,” Luke says.
“Yes. Oh my God, you’re like the only one who has gotten and appreciated that.”
Luke grins, and his smile makes something turn in my stomach. Of course Willow would love him on sight. My Luke, but with different eyes. My Luke, but different.
So not my Luke at all.
“This is Jessi,” Willow says, introducing us for the second time in the space of four hours. “But she goes by J.J.”
Luke’s eyes dart back to me. Neither of us makes a move to shake hands.
“It’s like this thing where they want leaders to be relatable and fun and all that,” Willow explains to Luke, “but still be authority figures, you know? So kids can’t use our first names. But sometimes one of us will slip up and use somebody’s real name.”
He nods in understanding, tells us he’ll be right back, and resumes his role as teacher. I’m mesmerized by his energy, his easy rapport with the students. I wonder what other sides of Luke I’ve never seen.
Thankfully, the science lesson passes uneventfully, and then it’s lunchtime. All the camp leaders eat together in the cafeteria, at one table when we can all fit. Two, when we can’t.
I s
pend the whole forty-five minutes with my eyes peeled to the cafeteria door, waiting to see him stride in wearing the T-shirt that is way more flattering on him than it is on most of us. Brett and Willow are sitting on my left side, practically spoon-feeding each other. A college-age student I don’t know very well is on my right side, the only person between me and Eric, who is the sports coordinator here, so overall, it’s a pretty uncomfortable lunch.
I breathe a sigh of relief after the period passes, relieved to get back into the swing of things for the rest of the day and not have to worry about seeing Luke again. The day does pass quickly, and before I know it, I’m saying goodbye to Willow and making my way into the staff parking lot. I stop when I see Luke leaning against the back of my car, his head down as he reads something on his phone.
He doesn’t see me coming, and it takes everything I have to keep walking. I’m wondering if I can just get in and drive away without saying anything. Sure, it might surprise him a little, but I doubt there will be too much damage.
“Hi,” I say, coming to a stop in front of him against my better judgment.
“Hi.” He tucks his phone away in his back pocket. It’s a total one-eighty from this morning, when he wouldn’t give me the satisfaction of his full attention.
“I went about it all wrong,” he says now. “The other day. Today.”
“So, we are going to acknowledge that your getting a job here just to mess with me was going a bit too far?” I ask.
“I didn’t get a job here to mess with you. I swear, it was a coincidence. Meant to be, I guess,” he says, and I flinch at the idea that anything about us was ever meant to be.
The art coordinator, a girl in her early twenties with more piercings on her left ear than on my whole body, walks by us and waves. “See you later, J.J.”
Some Other Now Page 8