Page 120 of Until Next Summer

I sigh, say, “Only for you,” and follow her back out to the dance floor, where we join hundreds of campers from their thirties to their seventies, all having the time of their lives.

For the last time.

thirty

Jessie

Every day of this last week at camp has been bittersweet, in the truest sense of the word.

Bitter: Jack Valentine’s smug expression as he watched me pour my heart out in my speech at the dance. The impending goodbyes with my staff, who have become like family. The knowledge that the place I love will soon be wiped away.

Sweet: the smile on Hillary’s face when she was snuggling with Cooper. The cream cheese brownies Cooper made. And, of course, waking up with Luke each morning.

I wasn’t sure what he meant by, “You’re mine until camp ends,” but apparently it means sleeping together every night, holding hands wherever we go, and staying up late talking. In short, acting like we’re in a real relationship.

A relationship I have for one more week.

Which is the cause of this morning’s sob session. Luke is asleep, his body curled behind mine. I’m crying quietly, letting the tears slip down my face onto my pillow.

I care about him. More than I ever did for Nick even after eight months together. Though lately I’ve been wonderingif the appeal of Nick was that having a boyfriend made the off-season feel less like a waiting period between camp sessions. With Luke, it seems impossible that we’ll survive out of the beautiful bubble we’re in—our lives are too up in the air, taking us in totally different directions. There’s no use imagining anything long-term.

Still, every once in a while, the intensity of my feelings for him washes up and nearly drowns me. It’s ridiculous. It’s way too soon. But that’s how time works at camp: a day feels like a week, a week feels like a month.

And I can’t stop wishing we had more time together.

The morning light filtering through the windows is soft. I should get up; it’s the last day of camp, the day the final campers leave. We have less than a week before the staff and I clear out, too. And shortly after that, the sales documents will be finalized and demolition will begin.

Yesterday, I started to pack up my cabin. I was shocked at how quickly it went. Two duffel bags and a few boxes hold everything I own.

I start to roll away, but Luke holds me tighter.

“Don’t leave,” he murmurs.

My heart aches. Because I am leaving. We all are.

But it’s warm and comfortable here, so I stay where I am. No sense rushing past the sweetness of this morning to the bitterness of the day ahead.

—

By lunchtime, the campers have checked out, the property is silent, and I’m overwhelmed with the wistfulness I always feel at the end of summer. Only this time, that wistfulness is layered with a piercing grief.

The staff disperses to work on their individual tasks—Zac and Zoey down at the lakefront, Hillary in the Arts and Crafts cabin, Cooper in the kitchen. Mr. Billy is wandering around with his trash picker-upper, grumbling. It feels futile, all of it, because what’s the point of putting the watercraft in order, or organizing the craft supplies, or picking up trash, when it’s going to be bulldozed anyway?

“Hey, boss.”

I turn to see Dot walking across the lawn toward me.

“Hey,” I say, and try to summon a smile. But I’ve been trying to keep it together all morning and I can’t anymore, so I burst into tears.

Dot sits on a bench and pats the spot next to her. “Ah, Pippi, come here.”

My old nickname makes the tears come even harder. I sit, and I cry, and she pats my back.

“Why aren’t you as much of a mess as I am?” I say after a while.

She snorts out a laugh. “Oh, so how hard you cry is a measure of how much you care?”

“That’s not—”

---