Page 106 of Until Next Summer

Not that it should have mattered. See aforementioned detail about the break.

And it’s not like Cooper’s past is squeaky-clean. He admitted as much last week on our stupid, wonderful picnic date. Even so, if one of his former conquests showed up at camp and tried to win him back with a ridiculous unromantic gesture, I wouldn’t freak out. I mean, I might be uncomfortable, but I wouldn’t push him away.

It wouldn’t make sense to get upset over it, because this is just a fling. Sure, we broke some of our rules, but none of the major ones. It’s still casual. Purely physical. All that emotional stuff, the way I feel around him, about him, that’s just in my head.

Right?

So why is he so upset? And why do I miss him so much?

My ridiculous heart is galloping in my chest, so I take a deep breath and remind myself why I came here in the first place. Having the best sex of my life was just a bonus, and if it’s over, so be it. The relationship I came here for was—and still is—a platonic one.

I look down at the friendship bracelet in my hand, the one I’ve been working on for the last three days. Its base is bright yellow (Jessie’s favorite color) with blue accents (mine). I know it’s a poor substitute for losing the camp, but I needed to do something. To give her something.

Now, I just have to find her.

She’s not in her office, but Dot is, organizing some paperwork. She glances up when she sees me come in and sets it down. “How’re you holding up, Goldberg?”

I shrug. It feels wrong to complain to someone who is losing their livelihood because of my inability to close a deal.

“I should be asking you that,” I say. “How are you?”

“I’m on this side of the earth, and the sun is shining, so I’m not so bad.”

“You’re not sad? Or angry?”

She gives a wry smile. “I have my moments—and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t look into getting a voodoo doll of that rat bastard.”

A laugh bursts out of me, despite how sad I am. “We might have the supplies to make one in the Arts and Crafts cabin. Or an effigy to burn.”

“Now you’re talking,” Dot says, laughing. Then her expression softens. “I know you’re disappointed, Goldberg, but you can’t control how other people respond. And you did good. Your momma would be real proud of you.”

She clearly reads the confusion on my face, because she kicks out a chair on the other side of her desk and motions for me to sit. “Did you know I went to camp with your mom and aunt?”

My jaw drops. “What? You knew my mom?”

“Damn straight,” Dot says. “Your aunt Carol was in my cabin, and Becky was like her shadow, always hanging around.” She pauses, considering my face. “You remind me a lot of her. She was artsy, and fearless, too—I remember one summer her cabin was doing an overnight hike, and the counselor got stung by a bee. Girl was allergic, and your momma ran all the way back to camp to get help. Three miles, in the dark, all alone. Saved that girl’s life. Real brave.”

I glance down at my hands. My mom saved a girl’s life; I couldn’t even save the camp.

“I wish I’d inherited her bravery,” I say softly.

“You did,” Dot insists. “It was damn brave of you to comeback here. You knew Jessie was upset with you. And you didn’t know a thing about running an arts and crafts program. But you showed up. That took a lot of guts.”

My cheeks flush, embarrassed. I’d hoped my ineptitude wasn’t obvious—but I’ve got the swing of it now, and it turns out I’m not bad at it.

Dot’s still talking. “Not to mention this ballsy plan of yours to buy back the camp.”

“Which wasn’t successful,” I say, slumping forward in my chair. Jessie was my motivation for saving the camp, but part of me wanted to save it for my mom, too. Camp Chickawah was a place she loved. A place we shared, decades apart, even if she never knew I came here.

“I guess that depends on how you define success,” Dot says thoughtfully. “It brought you and Jessie closer together—and a friendship like yours doesn’t come around every day, or even every decade. So take that for the win it is.”

Dot’s right, and I’m grateful for her perspective. I’m about to ask if she knows where Jessie is when the phone rings. Dot answers it, and I slip out so she can get back to work, marveling at the idea of her and my mom knowing each other. I wonder what other stories Dot can tell me about her, more things I never knew we had in common.

I continue my search for Jessie, trying the dining hall next. The light is off in the kitchen, and I don’t know whether I’m sad or relieved that I won’t have another awkward run-in with Cooper.

I’m about to leave when I notice the old camp photos lining the back wall. More than one hundred years of history, black-and-white photos that turn to sepia and, eventually, tocolor. I don’t know why I never thought to look for my mom here.

I locate the summer of 1978 and press my finger against the cool glass of that frame, then the next, looking at each and every girl in the annual camp photos. So many of them could be Mom—brown hair, wide eyes, a button nose, and a shy, knowing smile.

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