Page 93 of Until Next Summer

“But you’re dressed perfectly for a picnic,” he says with a playful grin.

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Twenty minutes later, Cooper and I are walking through the empty campgrounds, hand in hand—I’m feeling more date-like after taking ten minutes to freshen up, changing into a sundress, and putting on makeup for the second time all summer.

As we stroll, Cooper suggests we make a “no talking about camp” rule—with the exception of me filling him in on what happened between Luke and Jessie, which I eagerly do. I finish the saga—and apologize for stealing the syrup—and he agrees that the punishment fit the crime.

The path through the woods is familiar; he’s taking me to the waterfall—aka, the place where we had our second first kiss. My heart flutters. I bet Cooper is the kind of guy who remembers birthdays and anniversaries.

Which will be very lucky for some other girl, I remind myself,since this is just a fling.

“Wait here,” he says as we reach the clearing.

Cooper takes a blanket from the picnic basket and spreads it out for us to sit on. I settle in, folding my legs beneath me as he sits on the other end.

“What did you make for us?” I ask, looking at the picnic basket, my stomach growling.

Cooper winces. “It’s actually a little embarrassing…”

I arch an eyebrow. What could possibly embarrass Cooper?

He lifts the first container: the garlic-parmesan green beans we had for dinner last night. I gasp, bringing my hands to my face. “You didn’t!”

“I did,” Cooper says. His tone is self-deprecating, but there’s a look of pride on his face.

I don’t know how to respond—it’s such a thoughtful gesture, and definitely outside the bounds of a no-strings fling. Instead of analyzing what it might mean, I lean over the picnic basket to kiss him. He shoves the Tupperware out of the way, and I crawl toward him. My lips never leaving his, I settle into his lap and enjoy devouring him as an appetizer.

One more benefit of leftovers: you don’t have to worry about them getting cold.

We stay like that until my rumbling stomach interrupts the moment. Cooper laughs and pulls back. “I guess I should feed you,” he says, taking the containers out one by one. “I am curious—do they have to actually be left over, or does it count as long as they’re made in advance and saved for the occasion?”

“That would count.”

Cooper shakes his head, and his confusion is adorable.

“I know it’s strange,” I say. “I think it might be a genetic abnormality. My mom apparently liked leftovers, too.”

“Apparently?”

I nod, the dull ache that usually accompanies thoughts of my mom settling in my chest.

“She died when I was five,” I tell Cooper. “But according to my dad, she barely ate a thing when they started dating.She’d get most of her meal to go. He thought she just had a really small appetite—but one night after they moved in together, my dad found her in the kitchen, eating the leftovers in her pajamas. She said most dishes taste better that way, and I’ve always agreed.”

Cooper hands me the container of penne alla vodka and a fork, and we both dig in. I sigh happily as I take a bite.

“So, have I convinced you of the virtues of leftovers?”

“There is a certain appeal—the chewiness of the pasta, the cold sauce.” He takes an enormous forkful, then adds, “If you ever tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it until the day I die.”

We pass the containers back and forth, trading stories of our lives back home. Mine are mostly about work and weekly dinners with Aaron and my dad—which makes me realize how small my life back home is. Even smaller now that I’ve ended things with Aaron.

Cooper, for his part, has me in stitches as he tells story after story. About the neighborhood cat named Chicken and the regulars at the bar near Fenway where he watched the Red Sox win the 2018 World Series. He convinces me that the trendy restaurant he worked for was named BIB after Bibb lettuce, that every dish was served on a bed of greenery. Turns out it’s actually an acronym for Better In Boston, and to hear Cooper talk about the city where he was born and raised, things do seem better there.

I wonder if he would’ve given me a second glance if we’d met in Boston. If I’d even like the person—the womanizer—he was there. The other camper’s words drift back to me like smoke from a campfire:He’d sleep with anything that had a pulse.

Almost involuntarily, I shift away from him. As ifputting space between us will remind my heart that he doesn’t belong to me.

“Where’d you go?” Cooper asks, and I blink, see him watching me, a curious expression on his face.

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