Page 60 of The Summer Intern

My phone buzzed with a text.I scrambled to grab it, nearly falling off the bed in my haste.It wasn't from Matt, which I should have known, because there was little to no cell service in the area they were hiking in.It was just Mom, checking in.I tossed the phone aside, irritation prickling under my skin.

"So," Oliver said, closing his laptop, "how long are you going to mope because Matt's gone on that backpacking trip?"

I shot up, glaring at him."I'm not moping."

"Uh-huh."His eyebrows disappeared behind his too-long bangs."That's why you've been sighing dramatically every five minutes since you walked in."

"I don't—" I stopped, catching myself mid-sigh.Fuck."Whatever.I'm just tired."

"From all that late-night 'work' you've been doing with our esteemed camp director?"Oliver made air quotes around "work," his face perfectly neutral save for the knowing glint in his eyes.

Heat rushed to my face."Jesus, Ollie.Can you not?"

"Hey, I'm not judging.Matt's hot, if you're into that whole 'mountain man with a man bun' thing."He shrugged."Just didn't expect you to fall for him so hard."

"I haven't fallen for anyone," I snapped, shoving myself off the bed.I grabbed the laundry basket, desperate for activity."It's just sex."I fingered the keys in my pocket."Though he gave me his keys, so I might...Just go check on his place and see if it's okay."

Oliver tilted his head, studying me with that analytical gaze that always made me feel like a particularly interesting science experiment."Okay.Do what you need to do."

"I don't need it, Ollie.It's a favor, for Matt."

Oliver smiled."Got it.I'll have pizza and a movie if you come back, but I won't wait up."

"I'm coming back.After I check on Matt's house.You know, water the plants and stuff."Looking around, I found my overnight bag, and stuffed a few things into it, ignoring whatever Oliver was obviously thinking about that, then I picked up my guitar and breezed out the door, pausing to shout, "the space has nice acoustics!"

I didn't know who I thought I was convincing, but I rationalized my need to go to Matt's place a hundred different ways as I walked down the narrow path from camp to his house.It was early afternoon, and I had plenty of time to check on the house real quick, then get back to my cabin and watch a movie with Oliver.

The lock clicked open, and I stepped into semi-darkness, fumbling for the light switch I knew was just inside the door.A warm yellow glow illuminated the space as I pulled up the blinds and let in some sunlight, looking around.400 square feet of Matt Blackstone distilled into physical form.His scent.His clothes.His...presence.

The air smelled like him: cedar and the essential oils in that fancy soap he used, with undertones of coffee.His Camp Eagle Ridge hoodie hung on a hook by the door next to his rain jacket.A half-empty mug sat on the small kitchenette counter beside a dog-eared copy of some wilderness survival guide.So perfectly Matt—practical, a little messy, completely lived-in.

I stood awkwardly in the center of the room, feeling like an intruder despite the key in my hand.What was I doing here?The place was fine.No burst pipes or rampaging bears.Mission accomplished.

But instead of leaving, I set my guitar and wandered toward his bed—really just a big mattress on a platform built into the loft space, accessible by a small ladder.I'd climbed that ladder so many times in the past two weeks, usually with Matt's hands guiding my hips, his breath hot against my neck.

I scaled it now, slower and more carefully without him behind me.The bed was hastily made, the thick blankets pulled up but not smoothed.Next to the pillow lay a phone charger cord and an empty glass of water.Evidence of our rushed morning, when Matt had realized he'd overslept and nearly missed breakfast before the backpacking trip.

I sat on the edge of the bed, running my hand over the blanket.The sheets beneath had been changed yesterday—I knew because I'd been here when Matt had done it, complaining that I was leaving him to do all the work while I lounged naked, laughing at his domestic skills.

"Just checking on things," I said aloud to the empty room, my voice sounding thin and unconvincing even to my own ears.

I smoothed the blanket, then did it again.And again.My hand moved over the fabric in slow, methodical strokes as if I could somehow press out the wrinkles of my own conflicted feelings.I shouldn't stay.I should go back to my cabin where Oliver was probably ordering a gross vegetarian pizza.I should sleep in my own bed with its standard-issue camp mattress and scratchy sheets.

But I was already pulling off my shoes.Already slipping under the blanket.Already turning to Matt's side of the bed, where his pillow still held the indent of his head.

The silence pressed in, broken only by the ticking of the small wooden clock on the wall and the distant sounds of the night guard making their rounds.No Matt's steady breathing.No Matt's occasional sleep mumbles that I'd started to find endearingly ridiculous.Just emptiness and the weight of my own thoughts.

I pulled his pillow to my chest, burying my face in it and inhaling deeply.Still smelled like him.Still felt like him in the oddest way.

"This is so fucking stupid," I whispered into the fabric.

Five weeks.The same thought that had plagued me all day returned with a vengeance.Five more weeks of camp.Five more weeks of Matt's hands and mouth and voice in my ear telling me how good I felt around him.Five more weeks before I had to go back to real life and leave whatever this was behind.If I couldn't survive two nights without him, how would I survive months?

Why had he given me his keys?It wasn't just practical—he didn't need anyone to water his plants.But he'd given them to me, just in case I needed them.In case I needed to be closer to him even when he wasn't here?How could he have known?

I clutched his pillow tighter, closing my eyes against the sting of unexpected tears.This wasn't supposed to happen.Summer flings were supposed to be light and fun and forgettable.Not this ache that felt like it might crack me open if I examined it too closely.

twenty-four

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