Page 57 of Until Next Summer

“Not if the Valentines are set on a quick payout,” I say. “They’d have to be on board, or at least give Jessie the power to make the decisions. But even then…”

“What?” Cooper asks. “You don’t think she’d do whatever it took to save Camp Chickawah?”

I shrug. “It would take some drastic changes, and Jessie loves this place so much—maybe even too much. She’s still running it the same way Nathaniel and Lola did. And when you do things the same way for so long, you don’t evolve. You get stuck. That’s why a lot of these old businesses are run into the ground—they refuse to change. But that’s what happens when you make one thing your whole life and getwaytoo emotionally invested in it.”

A creak of a floorboard rings through the air, and Cooper and I both turn to find Jessie standing mere feet away on the porch outside the dining hall.

Her face is frozen into a mask of shock and hurt.

Shit.

I’m about to explain what I meant—that my frustration is with the Valentines, not her—when she turns and speed-walks away. I take off after her, trying to catch up, but her long legs make it difficult, and I end up running.

“Jessie! Wait! Let me explain.”

“Not necessary,” she calls back, picking up her pace. “Hey, Noah,” she says, smiling and waving to a camper walking by. “Looking good, Jenna!”

If I wasn’t actively pursuing her, I would stop in my tracks, stupefied at the way she can carry on like her world isn’t falling apart at the seams. But I am, so I keep going.

“Jess, slow down!” I shout, my chest burning from the exertion.

She walks even faster, breaking into a run herself as she approaches her cabin. She takes the stairs in two big steps and closes the door behind her, right in my face. I don’t think there’s a back door, and I can’t imagine her climbing out the window to escape, so I take a minute to catch my breath.

Once my pulse has reached non-cardiac-arrest levels, I knock.

Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t answer.

Surprisingly, I push past my inner rule-follower and go inside anyway. Jessie is sitting in front of her old desktop computer, staring daggers at the screen while typing furiously.

“Can we talk?” I ask.

“I’m busy,” she says, pummeling the keys like she wishes they were my face.

“Listen, about what I said. Out of context I can see how—”

“Don’t patronize me, Hillary,” she says, her tone cold.

“That’s not what I’m trying to do, I just want you to understand.”

“Oh, I understand,” Jessie says, looking up at me for the first time. Her blue eyes fill with tears, and she blinks them away. “Actually, I don’t. Why were you trying to help me at all if you thought I was such a bad businesswoman? Running this camp into the ground?”

“Jessie, that’s not—”

“That’s exactly what you told Cooper.” There’s more hurt than anger in her voice, and deep down, I know I deserve it—I was venting to Cooper, processing my own feelings about losing this place, but I should have been more aware of how what I said could have been perceived.

“Iwantedto help you,” I tell her. “If the Valentines—”

“Oh, please,” Jessie says, her voice wavering with emotion. “It’s over, Hillary. We both know that.”

I recoil at her words. Is she talking about the sale of the camp or our friendship? The first, I understand. The latter, I won’t accept. I get what happened the last time: I broke a promise and she was rightfully hurt. But this time, I didn’t make any promises. I came back to help. Ididhelp—she’ll be able to give Dot and Mr. Billy hefty bonuses with the increase of cash flow this summer. And my being here—to helpher—came at the detriment of my own career and personal life. Aaron wouldn’t have asked for a break if I wasn’t leaving him for two months.

“Everyone in my life said coming back here this summer was a big mistake,” I tell her. “I walked away from clients that wanted to pay me a lot of money. But I came back anyway, for you.”

Jessie laughs, but there’s no amusement in the sound. “Gee, thanks.”

My head is a cyclone of emotions, and I stop, trying to find the words that can fix this. But I’m not sure they exist. And the thought of being here four more weeks without Jessie’s friendship feels like torture.

“Maybe I should just go home,” I say, my voice small and uncertain.

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