by Lissa Linden
His jaw ticks. “Yep. Firewood and painting. You know where I’ll be if you need me.”
And that’s the problem. I do need him. In my bed. In my kitchen. Backing up the calls I make at work. Because it wasn’t only the staff who went to him for help yesterday. It was me. Making sure I was doing this right. That he approved, when I should have only been worried about myself. When I should have been trusting myself so the staff would trust me, too.
So I know where to find him today. But I won’t. I need space. Time. My own air to iron out my frayed nerves and glue them back together. Because as much as I wish I’d been lying to him when my feelings flowed out on my release—as much as I wish that I just fucking loved fondue and not the man inside me—I wasn’t. I love him in the way that makes my heart speed when I see him. My hands reach for him without my input. In the way where his chest is my favorite pillow and I store his words in my brain so I can play them on repeat just to hear his voice.
I love him in a way I didn’t know was possible. In a way I’d never loved Dan.
But loving Paul means losing the independent woman I’ve become. The strong person I’ve formed from the pieces of me that survived Dan’s blast of hurt and guilt. My fractured self is all I have left, and loving Paul means letting him in through the cracks in my shell of confidence. Cushioning him in my softness. My vulnerability. In the malleability that has already flattened me once.
The door hits me from behind and jolts me into the present. Campers are zombie-walking to their places on the stairs. So I stop the music. Pick up my clipboard. And touch my hip, knowing that no matter how chaotic it might be inside of me, I’m in control. And they’ll only see what I show them.
*
The net stretches over the canoes, but the corner of my mouth that had turned up when I remembered why Paul had installed it has sunk between my teeth. I pull on the netting again, but there’s no give. No stretch. No hope of unhooking it this way. I stand and fist my hands on my hips.
“Want me to go get Paul?” calls a teenaged voice.
I snap my head up. Ten campers in life jackets stare back at me, holding their paddles, blade up, like they’ve probably been doing for most their lives.
“No.” I take a deep breath. “Just give me a second.”
I make my way to the far side of the canoes and curse myself for not paying attention when Paul and I went canoeing. My mind had been so clouded with obstructed lust and the need to prove to myself how wrong Dan had been that the only thing I’d been able to focus on was Paul’s ass when he bent over. The way his biceps tensed when he—
With a grin, I stride to the spot where Paul’s ass had been and then pull the elastic cord to release the boats. “Got it!”
“Finally,” a camper stage-whispers.
My shoulders creep up, but I pretend I didn’t hear. I clear my throat and call on two of the bigger kids to get the canoes into the water. Ten minutes later, the campers are on the lake. Two to a canoe. Giving them safety in numbers even though some of them wanted to paddle solo.
I glance at my watch and strain my eyes back toward camp, spotting Britt casually making her way over. Sauntering like she wasn’t supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago. Dawdling like I hadn’t just broken a bunch of water safety rules by letting the campers into the water without her here in an attempt to keep them from hating me on the second day of camp.
“Hey. Sorry I’m late.” The first-aid attendant and secondary lifeguard pulls a whistle from her pocket and loops it around her neck. “I stopped to catch up with Paul and lost track of time.”
“Right. Okay.” My thumb creeps over my knuckle and pushes. “But the only reason I could even get these guys in the water is because they’re experienced campers and Cam’s over at the swim dock. Please don’t be late again.”
Her cheeks flush. “My screwup, I know. Won’t happen again.”
I chew the inside of my cheek and nod.
“Oh.” She finger-combs her hair into a messy bun. “I ran into Justine on the way down. She was looking for the water jug that’s normally in the shelter-building kit.”
My mind flashes to last week. To every summer of my childhood. Squeezing into a shelter built from nothing but the forest. Crossing my fingers that I could build a home that would keep me safe and never succeeding. I clutch the clipboard to my chest. “Thanks. I’ll handle it.”
I jog to the storage shed and peek behind the stack of milk crates that house the accessories needed to run each activity. The plastic jug lies on its side behind a tower of supplies. I kneel down and stretch to reach it, but jam a corner of the crate into my ribs instead. I rub the pain away and take stock of the tools. My eyes set on the poles used for snowshoeing during winter camp. I use a pole to push myself to my feet, then hook it through the jug’s handle.
My fingers wrap around the plastic and I raise the container in success. But my victory fades under Paul’s voice.
“You really should have gone to Amy,” he says.
“Yeah, yeah,” Justine replies.
“I’m serious. She’s the director now.”
The finality in his voice swells my throat. This job. This place. It really is mine. I blink fast.
“I know, I know. But she’s—” there’s a pause. “Somewhere. And you’re here, so help a girl out.”
“Just this once. Amy’s likely to kill me if she knows I’m helping you.”
“Well, let’s hope that doesn’t happen before she pulls the paddle from her ass and stops trying to run this place like a boot camp instead of summer camp.”
Paul laughs. The sound cools me faster than any early-morning swim. “Come on. She’s not that bad,” he says.
Logically, I know he doesn’t mean it. That it’s a figure of speech. But Dan’s voice echoes inside me, finding fault where I aimed for perfection.
“Compared to you?” Justine groans. “Seriously. Can’t you stay?”
My pulse pounds in my ears and I force my shoulders down. I step out of the shed and Justine has the decency to blush. But Paul smiles wider when he sees me. It splits me open, his face. His grin. His Chuck-like happiness to be in my presence. It spills my guts onto the grass, but it doesn’t break my resolve.
My resolve to start fresh. To find something that makes me happy. To direct my own life. And I can’t do that when the staff doubt me.
When I doubt myself.
“No.” I drop the jug into her hands. Avoid his eyes. His face. The air he expels. “He can’t stay.”
I don’t notice the soft grass turn to loose gravel under my feet, but I’m at the door to the house. My house. I push inside with a shaking hand. My breath comes in rapid gasps. Sweat seeps into my bra as I pace the living room. I slam a knee into the coffee table but it doesn’t slow my steps. Or the wave of nausea that’s choking me.
“Amy?” Paul pokes his head into the living room, his forehead creased.
“Nuh-uh.” I hold up a hand to stop him and shake it, fingers spread. “No. Not right now.”
“Jesus. You’re bleeding.” He stalks into the kitchen and bangs a cupboard open. Whatever words he’s calling to me are lost over the drum of my heart and the trill of that god damned fucking phone.
I grab the phone mid-pass of the living room. “Hello?” I snap. Nobody responds and I press a hand to my forehead. I take a breath. Swallow the acid that’s corroding me from the inside. “Fred?”
“Oh, no,” says a female voice. “It’s Tanya.”
My feet glue to the ground. “Tanya?”
“Yeah! Hey, Amy.” A kid screams in the background. “Is Paul around?”
He appears in the doorway, shoulders slouched, first-aid kit in a death grip.
We lock eyes and I swallow hard. “Until tomorrow. Yeah.”
“Oh.” Tanya’s voice loses its energy. “Crap. So he still needs a ride?”
I count to five and will my muscles to unclench. “He does. Are you his ride, Tanya?”
Paul leans his s
pine against the doorjamb and drops his chin.
Cutlery rattles on her end. A drawer slams shut. “I might have to send Laurie, actually. I honestly wasn’t expecting to come up after he ran back to you in his overly dramatic moment of realization, but hey, he’s always had a thing for you. I mean, I told him that the earplugs blocked it out when he called for you in his sleep, but some nights, well, must have been good dreams. So really, you can’t fault him for trying.”
I wrap an arm around my body. “What are you talking about?”
“He still hasn’t told you this?” Her voice sounds far away. “Well, he’s likely to be pissed that I’m getting in the middle of this again, but I’ve already spilled it, so what the hell? He talks in his sleep, which I think you know, but he really only talked about one thing when I heard him.”
Razor blades have replaced my throat. They slice and mutilate. “Me?”
There’s a pause. “Yeah. Are you okay? I know it’s been a while, but you sound kind of—”
“You need to come get him.” My voice cracks. “Please.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
I squeeze my eyes closed. “When is she coming?”
Amy throws the phone onto the couch. “She’s not. Laurie is. Tomorrow morning.”
I raise my head and hit it on the doorjamb. “I’m sorry you got that call. Right now, I mean. When you’re pissed at me and she was never your favorite person to start with.”
Her voice shakes. “Of course she wasn’t my favorite person, Paul. You were. And you were with her, all glossy lips and tits that weren’t just fat.” Her voice cracks and she presses the heels of her hands against her temples.
I step into the living room. “Am—”
“No!” Her eyes widen and her cheeks flush in patches. “Stop. Please.”
My feet root to the floor.
“I really don’t give two shits that you’re still friends. Really. You like everyone. Everyone likes you. That’s the way it’s always been. But I can’t do this. Not again. I can’t give myself over to you.”
The first-aid kit collapses in my grip. “That’s not—”
She grips her head and paces. “And I sure as hell can’t have you waiting around for me to fail. Waiting until I screw up, or hell, making sure I screw up, just so you can swoop in and make things right. Until you can convince me that I need you. That I can’t do anything without you.”
“I would never—”
“I had to put kids into the water with no lifeguard around, Paul. I had to risk their lives and my job because you kept Britt, my legally required staff member, from me. And you’re a fucking certified lifeguard! You know the laws. You knew she needed to be at the water, but you kept her back anyway. No. This can’t happen.” She spins to face me and pounds her fist against her chest. “This is my camp. My job. My life. And you don’t get to take pleasure in watching me fail.”
My forehead creases. “I don’t take pleasure in—”
“You laughed at me! Just like Dan used to. You and Justine. And you do not get to laugh at me. You don’t get to tell me I’m not good enough. You don’t.” She presses her palms into her eyes and her chest heaves.
My arms tense with the need to hug her, comfort her, press her against me and squeeze her back together. But she’s on edge like wildlife—likely to bolt at the slightest movement or loud noise. “I was laughing,” I say, “because I know full well that there’s no paddle up your ass. I was laughing because of how little Justine knows you—feeling pretty damned good that I do.” Amy’s breathing slows and I move closer. “So, please sit down. Let me fix your leg.”
“No.” She pulls her hands from her face. “I don’t need your help. I can take care of myself.” Her jaw juts forward. “I can do this on my own.”
“I know you can. Just like you know that I’m not him, Amy. I’m not Dan.” I take a cautious step towards her. “I don’t want to control you, or isolate you, or make you think you’re any less amazing than you are.”
“I know.” She seals her hand against her mouth but it doesn’t quite smother the sob. “I know. But I can’t. I just can’t.”
I drop the first-aid kit onto the coffee table. “I love you, Amy. So fucking much.” My fingers beg to touch her, comfort her, smooth away her worries and warm her shaking body. But I feed them into my hair instead. “We’ve been living the dream I never thought I could have. I mean, I always hoped it could be like this—that life could be like this—but I didn’t really believe it. But it can—we can. We just have to—”
“No.” She lowers her hand from her mouth and smooths her palm over her stomach. “We can’t. The staff will never see me as their leader if you’re here.” Her voice shakes. “And I need them to. Because that’s your dream life you’re talking about. Not mine.”
I close the space between us and cup her chin in my hands. “Do you love me?”
Her eyes glisten and she turns her head from my grasp. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. It matters to me. To—”
“This isn’t about you!” She pulls her shoulders down and twists her hands together. “It’s about me. I didn’t take this job to fall in love with you. I took it so I could love me. To be more than a fucking doormat or corporate robot. To remember who I was before I shut myself away to make others happy. That’s my dream! And I thought I was doing it. I thought I could do it here, with you. Because I was happy. So happy.” She rolls her eyes up to the ceiling. “But I know what happens if I love someone else before myself. And I can’t do that. Not again. Not when I’m all I have left to lose.”
The weight of her words sits on my chest. “Who else did you lose Amy?”
She keeps her eyes on the ceiling but can’t stop the tears from serpentining down her cheeks. “It doesn’t matter.”
I reach out slowly, cautiously wiping the rivers from her face. She squeezes her eyes closed but doesn’t pull away from my touch. “It does matter. It matters because it hurts you and it impacts your decisions and it makes up a part of who you are. And I love you, Amy. All of you—all the good and the bad and everything that’s gone into making you, you.”
“I don’t deserve that.”
My thumb strokes the length of her cheek. “You do.”
She pulls back and wrings her hands, eyes darting from my face to her shoes, to the sounds of campers playing outside. Her jaw trembles. “I wanted to believe that I could do this. Camp. You. But I can’t.”
“Do you love me?”
Her eyes—wild and red—hook on mine and they slice me open. She takes a shaky breath and her mouth opens, but it’s not her voice that moves—it’s her hand, creeping towards her hip—towards the protective veneer she’s spent years hiding behind.
My fingers are through her hair before she can put up her walls, her face tilted up beneath mine. “If you don’t love me, I’ll go to the rec hall right now. If you can tell me that you only care about my cock, I’ll leave tomorrow and you’ll never hear from me again. So I’m asking again. Amy, do you love me?”
Her throat lurches and cheeks quiver, but she doesn’t say no.
My thumb strokes her temple while my insides tie loops and hitches with my guts. “I promised I would give you everything. Whatever you need. So tell me, Amy, what do you need?”
She pulls away and backs down the hall. “I need…” Her index finger grazes her hip but falls limp to her side. She swallows hard. “I need you to give up. On me. On us. On whatever it is you thought I could be for you.”
The bathroom door closes behind her, shutting me out like before. But this time, I know it’s not because she doesn’t want me, but because she’s terrified that she does. So I press a palm into the door frame and lean my forehead on the plank of wood between us. Her muffled sobs rip into me and I grip the molding, swallowing what I want and doing what she needs. Against the protest of every muscle fiber in my being, I let go.
Turn around.
And leave.
Cha
pter Thirty-Three
I force myself to swallow the cold cereal. To show everyone that I’m fine. That I’m eating. At the dining hall. That things are back to their new normal.
Not like the staff really believed that I had the stomach flu for four days, but whatever. They still stayed away. Left me to myself and the leftover crappy wine Paul and I had shared. Left me alone to puke out my emotions and bad decisions.
He said goodbye to everyone while I lay on the bathroom floor. In the dark. Blocking out the wall I’d pressed him against when I’d wanted him so badly I couldn’t stay away. The counter that had dug into my back. The bathtub where I knew I wasn’t getting out of this cleanly. Where I knew I could wash him off my body, but that I was stained within.
I heard them singing that night. Him playing guitar. The song we’d danced to under the stars. I was still awake when Laurie’s minivan pulled away. The front door slid up my back as my ass hit the floor, back against the door. Blocking myself from going after him. From repeating history.
“Morning.” Britt’s voice cuts through the dull roar of the dining hall.
My spoon clatters into my bowl. Soggy cereal splashes onto the table. “Crap. Hi, Britt. What can I do for you?”
She slides onto the bench next to me. “Oh, nothing. I just wanted to sit. Sorry for the scare, though. Looks like you were off in space there for a minute.”
I pull my mouth into something resembling a smile. “If only we could actually travel through time and space.”
“Yeah?” Britt cuts her pancakes. “Where would you go?”
I rest my chin in my hand. Last week, when time sped up and slowed down to the pace of our hearts and breaths. Twelve years ago, when I left us both hurt and incomplete. I shake my head and sit up straight. “Six years ago,” I say.
“What would you do back then?”
My hands grip my coffee cup. I could refuse to answer. Pull the boss card. Keep my distance. But these are the people Paul chose. The people he wanted to spend his summer with. The people who kept camp running while I forced him to leave. When I ran from him while staying in place.