Page 20 of Until Next Summer

There are three big rooms down here, designed for the rare indoor activities or to offer refuge on bad weather days. Taking the stairs to the second level feels like trespassing.This was where staff who weren’t counselors slept; no campers allowed.

There’s a lounge at the top of the stairs with a couch, two chairs, and a tiny kitchenette, which holds a refrigerator, a microwave, and an ancient-looking coffee machine. A wave of homesickness for my Nespresso machine hits me—maybe I can get Aaron to ship it up here. It’s the least he can do after the emotional whiplash of yesterday. I’m still unsettled by the conversation—the more I think about it, the less logical his logic seems.

Squaring my shoulders and putting him out of my mind, I walk down the long hallway. There are bedrooms on either side, but we’ve got such a small staff this summer that only a handful are taken. Each is marked by a simple sign in Jessie’s familiar block writing. I study the names of my new coworkers: Dot and then Chef on the right; Zac and Zoey and then me on the left.

In my room, I find simple wooden furniture: two twin beds, two desks, two dressers. Like my reunion with Jessie, it falls short of my expectations.

I’ve been so focused on the nostalgia of coming back to camp that I didn’t think about the reality of “roughing” it. There’s no air-conditioning, the corners of the room are dusty, and the mattress is so thin I can feel the wood planks of the frame beneath my butt. Maybe Aaron was right when he said this isn’t who I am anymore.

But I’ve never been a quitter, and I’m not going to start now.

Walking over to the window, I gaze out over the lake. The water glistens in the afternoon sun, and the sight of the dock makes my heart swell with memories—Jessie and I would sitout there and sunbathe for hours, talking about anything and everything. I take a deep breath, smiling. Everything is going to be okay, I just—ack!

I jump back, my heart pounding. A spider the size of a quarter is chilling in its cobweb along the windowsill, glaring as if I’m the intruder.

Which I suppose I am.

For an instant, I wish Aaron was here to take care of it, but I’m a strong, capable woman. I put on my metaphorical big girl pants and march out to the kitchenette, finding a cup and a small plate so I can evict my roommate to the safety of the great outdoors.

Next on the agenda: a shower. It’s going to take a good twenty minutes to wash off the grime of this day.

—

The shower is a tiny stall in the communal bathroom at the end of the hall, but everything looks reasonably clean, and the water is piping hot. As much as I’d wanted to stay in a cabin, it’s nice not having to put on flip-flops and trek my toiletries to the group bathroom.

When I’m finished, I grab a towel from the linen closet. It’s small and a little scratchy, barely covering the important bits. But my room is just down the hall, so I grab my clothes and toiletry bag, then step out of the steamy bathroom—smack into a man’s chest.

“Whoa there,” a deep voice says.

I stumble back, nearly losing my towel before getting my balance. “Hi! Excuse me! So sorry!”

Looking up, I lock eyes with the deep voice’s owner. He’s about five foot ten with broad shoulders, wavy brown hairunder a backward baseball cap, and a neatly trimmed beard. He’s smiling down at me—on second glance, it looks more like a smirk.

“No worries,” he says. “You okay?”

I straighten up, trying to act unbothered. “Fine, thanks.”

“Your, uh—the towel is a bit…” He points, grimacing slightly.

I glance down to see that the top of the towel has drifted downward, revealing approximately one third of my left nipple. My cheeks burst into flames, and I yank it up—then feel the cool breeze below and tug it down. This makes me drop my toiletry bag, and my bottles of shampoo and conditioner go rolling down the hallway toward the guy’s feet.

A chuckle rumbles from him, and he stoops to pick them up. “Here, let me help. Wouldn’t want you to drop that towel.”

“I’m sure you would just hate that,” I mutter, my mortification growing.

“Hey, we’re gonna be sharing this bathroom all summer, so I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other,” he says, handing me my toiletries. “Here you go.”

I snatch the bottles back and stuff them into my bag, squeezing my elbows tightly against my body so the towel doesn’t shift.

“Thank you,” I say, with as much dignity as I can manage. “Have a great afternoon.”

And then I hurry past him and into my room, shutting the door behind me and locking it.

His chuckle echoes through the hallway as he walks away.

—

Once I’m done shaking offthatembarrassment, I spend the next hour unpacking and trying to make the room feel homier. It doesn’t work, but at least stacking the two twin mattresses on top of each other makes the bed more comfortable.

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