Page 24 of Until Next Summer

People talk all the time about the heartache and despair of a romantic breakup. What about a friendship breakup? Losing Hillary was a thousand times worse than losing Nick or any other guy I’ve dated.

More difficult to get over, too.

Maybe that’s because when a romantic relationship ends, you usually get some closure—there’s a breakup conversation; an evening spent eating ice cream and drinking wine with friends while rehashing the details, followed by the purging of all your ex’s belongings (maybe into a campfire…if you happen to have one nearby). There’s crying and extra chocolate consumption, and eventually, you move on.

But with Hillary? She didn’t even call me when she took that internship. She sent anemail.And then never reached out to me again. Ever. There was no closure whatsoever—I hardly allowed myself to think about it.

Now she’s back and she says she wants to be friends, and my heart hurts every time I think about her, and I don’t have the emotional capacity to face any of this, because this summer is going to be challenging enough as it is.

Better to keep my distance.

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By Thursday, I’m still feeling out of sorts. The staff is eating dinner together—Cooper made chicken fajitas with churros for dessert—and everyone’s laughing and talking. Even Mr. Billy is with us, quietly eating at the far end of the table.

“Would you rather…” Cooper says, and all the former campers perk up as he starts one of our most beloved dinnertime activities. “Lose one eye, or lose two fingers?”

“Can I choose which fingers?” Hillary asks.

I blink, surprised at how eagerly she jumped in. I’ve kept my distance from her, as I promised myself, but I’m not sure she’s noticed. Which maybe goes to show that she doesn’t care nearly as much about me as I care about her.

“Whatever fingers you’d like,” Cooper says.

Hillary holds up her two pinky fingers. “I’d give these two up. I could still have good hand function.”

“Can’t give up the opposable thumb,” Zac chimes in.

“How do we lose them?” Dot asks.

Cooper turns to her. “What?”

“Is my eye surgically removed under anesthesia in an operating room, or plucked out with a dirty knife in the woods?”

Zoey shudders. “Do you think it would hurt worse to get your eye cut out or your fingers cut off?”

“Eye,” Zac says confidently. “It’s one big nerve bundle, you know?”

“It’s not the pain, it’s the risk of infection,” Dot says, dead serious. “You’re healing up a few days later and bam! Sepsis.”

I glance at Mr. Billy, who’s rhythmically shoveling foodinto his mouth. I swear I see his lips twitch, like he’s holding in a laugh.

“It’s not plucked out!” Cooper says, exasperated. “You just become a person with one eye.”

Zac points to the middle of his forehead. “Like a cyclops?”

“Or a pirate?” Zoey covers one eye like an eye patch.

“I’m going with losing two fingers,” I say. “Depth perception is important.”

“Plus you’re more likely to survive a postoperative infection in your arm than one so close to your brain,” Dot says.

“Smart.” Zac looks impressed.

She gives him a little salute. “Got to be prepared for the worst-case scenario.”

I hold in a laugh. Dot created a ninety-five-page emergency response booklet that covers everything from tornadoes and forest fires (which are possible) to hurricanes and cholera outbreaks (which are not).

“Would you rather,” Zoey says, “have the ability to snap your fingers and create fire or create ice?”

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