Page 43 of Until Next Summer

He rolls his shoulders, releasing the tension. “Just another reason I need to finish the book. I don’t get more of my advance until I turn it in.”

We’ve almost reached his cabin, and I find myself slowing down. I’m not ready for our conversation to end. There’s something intriguing about him—maybe because he’s so closed off. He’s like a locked door to a forbidden room; I’m dying to open it and look inside.

“What will you do after this book is finished?” I ask.

“Probably go back to teaching.”

“You were a teacher?” I say, perking up. “What did you teach?”

“Junior high English.”

I smile and motion to the dog. “Hence naming your dog after Scout Finch.”

“My uncle named her,” he says, “but yeah. We both loved that book.”

Silence descends between us again as we walk up to the cabin and stop.

“Well,” I say, “good luck with the writing.”

“Good luck with the scavenger hunt,” he says.

I expect him to go inside, but he leans against the stair railing and folds his arms, staring at the ground. His posture—the slump of his shoulders, the slope of his neck—reminds me of something.

He’s like a lonely camper, the kind that isolate themselves because they feel out of place. Yes, my soft heart is coming into play again, but I can’t help it. It goes against all my years in this job to walk away from someone like that.

So I blurt out, “Do you want to join a team? For the scavenger hunt?”

“I know where the final clue is,” he reminds me, his lips twitching like he’s holding in a smile.

“Oh yeah,” I say, smacking my forehead. “But you’re welcome to join any of the activities—oh! We have the camp musical next week. Would you like to help?”

“At what point in our interaction have I given you the impression that I’d like to be on a stage singing and dancing?”

I roll my eyes, but I’m secretly thrilled he’s at least engaging in the conversation—it’s a huge improvement over slamming the door in my face.

“I don’t mean perform—we could use help with the writing.”

“I’m behind in myownwriting,” he says, but there’s not much weight behind his words. Almost like he wants me to talk him into coming.

“You need to take a break occasionally, right?”

“I suppose.”

“Also! We’re having a bonfire on Friday night—you should come.”

He narrows his eyes. “Are you going to keep bugging me until I say yes to something?”

“Yes. You don’t have to talk to anyone at the bonfire—just hang out and watch. Don’t writers like observing people?” I’m pleading; I probably look like Scout when she wanted to play fetch. “Come on. I’ll save you a seat.”

He gives me a long look, his expression unreadable, and something warm unspools inside my chest. The deep groove between his eyebrows relaxes then, just a bit. “I’ll think about it.”

I grin triumphantly, taking that as a win, and say goodbye.

When I get a few yards down the path, I turn and look back. Scout is slowly making her way up the stairs to the cabin, Luke supporting her hind legs. But I swear there’s a hint of a smile on his face.

thirteen

Hillary

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