Page 6 of Until Next Summer

“That’s great, babe, congrats,” Aaron says, raising his glass to clink against mine.

“Thanks. They don’t want to start until September, and my contract with the bank wraps up in May, so that leaves a few months unspoken for.”

“Something will come up,” Aaron says. “It always does.”

“Actually, something did…” I say, letting the word linger.

Aaron cocks an eyebrow.

“I got an email about a job opportunity I might apply for,” I say, feeling oddly like I’m about to ask my dad for permission to go to the mall after school. “Running the Arts and Crafts program at my old sleepaway camp.”

Aaron laughs, then abruptly stops when he realizes I’m not joking.

“I know it sounds crazy,” I say.

“It does.”

I frown, trying to summon the surge of excitement that pulsed through me when I read Jessie’s email. I haven’t been this excited about a potential job since…since the summer I was planning to be a counselor at Camp Chickawah. At my father’s urging (read: insistence), I turned down that job in favor of a “real” one that would jump-start my career. Which it did. The experience I got interning for a marketing firm that summer was priceless.

Well, not exactly priceless.

It cost me the best friend I’ve ever had.

“Camp doesn’t start until June,” I tell Aaron. “So we could take a few weeks to travel. Go somewhere exciting, maybeItaly and Greece? I’ve wanted to go since I watched the firstSisterhood of the Traveling Pantsmovie. And you love feta!”

“I do love feta,” Aaron agrees. “But you know I can’t take time off right now.”

“It’s not right now; it’s in May.”

“May’s a busy time,” Aaron says. But he’s forgetting I’m the daughter of a lawyer—the daughter of his boss. I know lawyers don’t have “busy times.” All their times are busy, but that doesn’t mean you never take time off. Is that the life Aaron wants? A chill runs through me as I imagine spending our honeymoon in the halls of the courthouse.

“Babe,” Aaron says, putting his hand over mine. “I’m just thinking about our future—you want me to make partner, don’t you?”

“Of course,” I say.

“And this camp job. What does it even pay? Minimum wage?”

“It’s not about the money.”

It would help if I could find the words to tell him what itisabout. But I’ve never been good at putting big feelings into words. Even if I could, I doubt Aaron would understand the urge I feel to reconnect with this piece of my past. There was a time when Camp Chickawah felt like home. The one place I could truly be myself. A person I haven’t been in more than a decade.

“Everything’s about money,” Aaron says, then adds, “Right, Roger?” to our waiter, who probably wishes he’d picked a different moment to refill our water glasses.

“Nothing’s decided yet,” I say. “Who knows if I’ll even get the job.”

But beneath the table, I cross my fingers, hoping with everything I’ve got that I will.

four

Jessie

January

Mick’s Diner in North Fork has the best breakfasts in a five-hundred-mile radius. Pancakes the size of dinner plates, deep-fried bacon, cinnamon rolls dripping with frosting. During the winter, Dot and I come here most mornings and eat, and work, and eat. We always gain back whatever weight we lost during the busy summer months.

“Morning!” I say to Dot. She scoots into our booth and I slide a mug of coffee toward her as she shakes the snow from her short gray hair.

“Hoo boy, it’s comin’ down out there. But good news: as of last night, we’re seventy-five percent booked.”

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