Page 29 of Until Next Summer

“Not at all,” he says. “You were just really,reallyhappy. Except for when I suggested it was time to head back to the Lodge. I believe you called me a party pooper.”

“Oh, god,” I say, burying my head in my hands. “So unprofessional.”

“We’re allowed to have fun, too,” he says, cracking eggs into a metallic bowl.

It’s only then that I realize he’s cooking. For me.

“You don’t have to,” I say, motioning to what looks like the makings of an omelet. “I actually love cold leftovers.”

Cooper looks at me with mock horror. “Not in my kitchen. But if you don’t like what I make after you try it, then you can help yourself to all the cold leftovers you want.”

“If you insist,” I say with a sigh. “And I assume you won’t let me help?”

“You assume right,” he says, and I take a seat on the opposite side of the counter, watching as he moves around the kitchen with precision and confidence, biting his lip in concentration as he adds a dash of this, a pinch of that. It’s impressive. He’s impressive.

Cooper looks up from the bowl where he’s whisking eggs, the muscles in his forearms pulsing with each rotation. “Fun being back here, huh?”

“Yeah,” I say. “But I’m starting to wonder if I should’ve come. Jessie and I…we had a falling-out, a pretty bad one. And it seems she hasn’t forgiven me yet.”

“Well, if there’s one place to rekindle an old flame, it’s camp,” Cooper says. His eyebrows dance, and I wonder if he’s talking about me and Jessie, or me and him.

But that would be crazy. Cooper would never be interested in someone boring like me when every week will bring a new batch of eligible lady campers, like his blonde friend.

Before I can ask about her, he turns back to the stovetop. My mouth waters as the eggs hit the sizzling pan, letting out a satisfying hiss. Next thing I know, Cooper’s sliding anomelet filled with cream cheese, roasted potatoes, and chives onto a plate.

“Bon appétit,” he says, handing me a fork.

The explosion of flavors catches me off guard. I let out a moan—not unlike the noises I heard coming from Zac and Zoey’s room this morning—and look up, mortified.

“Still want those cold leftovers?” he asks, a smug look on his face.

I’m about to say, “No, thank you,” when the door swings open and in walks Jessie, looking fresh as a daisy in her crisp uniform and signature braids.

Her smile falters at the sight of me.

“First activity starts in fifteen minutes,” she announces.

“Then you’ve got enough time for food,” Cooper says. “Sit.”

Jessie hesitates for a half second before walking over and taking the stool next to mine.

Cooper plates the second omelet, the one meant for him, and sets it in front of Jessie.

Her reaction to the first bite is similar to mine. “If we’d had a chef like you before, maybe we’d have turned a profit,” she says. “Then the Valentines wouldn’t be closing us down.”

Her voice is full of melancholy, and I feel a sudden urge to help her in the best way I know how.

“If you’re looking for ways to make the camp more profitable,” I say, “that’s pretty much what I do. Help failing”—Jessie flinches and I pivot—“er, struggling businesses. I actually had an idea the other day about selling wine at dinner. There are other things you could upcharge for, too. I was thinking…”

Jessie stiffens, her soft edges turning hard, and I instantly realize my mistake. She’s losing so much with thesale of the camp—not just her job, but her family and her home. Her identity. And here I come, pointing out all the ways she could’ve done better. No one wants to be friends with that girl.Idon’t want to be friends with that girl. She’s worse than un-fun. She’s a buzzkill.

I take one last bite of my omelet, but it doesn’t mix with the sour feeling in my stomach. One week here, and I already have Jessie questioning why she bothered to give me a second chance.

ten

Jessie

It’s just after dawn. The sun peeks over the eastern hills as I push my canoe into the lake. Last night I was up late, keeping watch over a group of tipsy campers enjoying a late-night swim, and I’m in desperate need of solitude before the day begins.

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