Page 18 of Until Next Summer

Luke is at the bottom of the porch stairs with his dog, bending over to help it up. The dog is struggling, like each step is painful, and my heart reluctantly squeezes.

My soft heart used to embarrass me—I once cried for days after finding a dead bird at school, and a bunch of my classmates teased me—but my teacher told me compassion was a strength rather than a weakness. I’m not sure about that, since soft hearts are easily bruised. Still, I wait until Luke and his dog reach the top of the stairs, and the dog comes over to sniff my shoes.

“Hello, there,” I say, bending down. It’s a golden retriever, its face almost totally white, one eye cloudy with a cataract. I let it sniff me, then gently give it a pat on the chest. The dog leans into me, tail wagging. “What’s your name, puppers?”

“Scout,” Luke says.

I look up, smiling. “Like Scout Finch?”

He nods but doesn’t return my smile. There’s a palpable sense of gloom surrounding him. So different from the way he acted back in the day, when he was The Man, charming and adored, always laughing and joking. I can’t help but wonder what changed.

“She’s beautiful,” I say. And obviously well cared for; her fur is silky soft. “How old is she?”

“Thirteen.”

My heart squeezes again. I can’t separate this elderly dog from her owner all summer.

Sighing, I straighten up. “All right, the dog can stay. Just…make sure she doesn’t bother the other campers. Ticks are a problem here, so check her every day. And pick up her poop, okay?”

“Obviously.”

Luke turns to go into the cabin. There’s something so sad about watching him head into the dark with his elderly dog. My silly, soft heart gives one final squeeze.

On impulse, I say, “Luke?”

He turns.

“Do you want to come to the lake with us later? The staff is planning to hang out and have a drink as the sun goes down. Scout is welcome, too.”

I’m just outside the threshold. He rests one hand on the doorframe and the other on the door, like he’s holding himself upright. For the first time since he arrived, he lifts his eyes to meet mine—they’re so blue it’s startling, and a hot poker seems to hit my spine. His face is lined with exhaustion, or sadness, or both, and when his lips part in a long, heavy sigh, I find myself leaning forward in concern.

He’s lonely.

Not a pretentious asshole. Just lonely.

Then he breaks the silence with one word:

“No.”

And shuts the door in my face.

seven

Hillary

I forgot how long a drive it is from the Minneapolis airport to camp. When I was a kid, every minute on the bus stretched like an hour. It was torture, knowing my reunion with Jessie was so close, yet so far away. Even now, after ninety minutes in the backseat of a town car heading west on Highway 94 and twenty minutes north on country roads, I’m bouncing in anticipation.

Or maybe that’s nerves? Because I’m not sure the excitement is mutual. The few emails I’ve exchanged with Jessie have been friendly, but they don’t hold a candle to the letters we used to send. I pictured us still writing each other when we were little old ladies in the nursing home—but the last letter came much sooner than that.

It was the last month of my freshman year at college. I wrote and rewrote that email four times, trying to find the words to let Jessie understand how sorry I was for breaking my promise of being counselors together.

The response that eventually came was just one short sentence:It’s fine.

Of course, it wasn’t. And I knew nothing I said wouldmake it better, so I left her email unanswered as the days turned into weeks, then months.

I never imagined it would be more than ten years before we’d see each other again.

Up ahead, I spot the familiar sign withyou belong herecarved into wood. I hope the words are still true. It’s strange to think that Jessie has been here this whole time, that my past is her present. I wonder if she’s still stubbornly optimistic with the ability to bring out the best in everyone. If Camp Chickawah is still her whole world. And most importantly, if she’ll be happy to see me.

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