Page 99 of Until Next Summer

Since our date with the leftovers, something has shifted between us. We’re not staying up all night having sex, we’re staying up all night talkingafterhaving sex, conversations that feel intense and easy at the same time. The sex is different, too—still excellent, but there’s more depth, like our goal has shifted from achieving the best possible orgasm to achieving the best possible connection.

It’s feeling less like a fling and more like a relationship. I know it can’t last, of course—Cooper’s roots and connections are in Boston, and mine are in Chicago—but my chest fills with aching sadness whenever I think about having to say goodbye to him.

I’m doing my best to focus instead on what this experience is teaching me—how it’s changed the way I think of myself and what I want in a romantic partner. Next time I meet a potential match, I won’t be measuring him against a checklist, determining whether he meets enough of the requirements to warrant a second date. Instead, I’ll focus on how he makes me feel—hopefully calm and comfortable in my own skin.

Which is exactly how I feel around Cooper.

Just thinking about him makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside, and I walk out of the office with a smile on my face.

It fades as soon as I see the black town car rolling down the gravel road.

A quick glance at my watch confirms it’s only four thirty.Shit. The Valentines aren’t due for another hour.

I grab my walkie-talkie to give the rest of the staff a heads-up. “The eagles are landing early,” I say, before returning the walkie to my holster.

The car rolls to a stop in front of the dining hall. I stand with my hands on my hips and a giant smile on my face, the way I’ve stood every week for the last two months as we’ve welcomed each new group of campers. The only difference: those other times, my smile was sincere, and I was actually excited to see our arriving guests.

I strain to see the far side of the camp, hoping to catch sight of Jessie and her braids bouncing toward us. I don’t…and the car door is opening. But it’s okay. I’ll introduce myself and take them over to the Lodge so they can—

“Hillary!”

I take a step back, startled. Because the man who just stepped out of the black car wearing a tailored blue suit and holding at least two dozen roses isnotJack Valentine.

It’s Aaron Feinberg. The Aaron Feinberg I broke up with over three weeks ago. The Aaron Feinberg who had zero interest in coming to camp when we were together—so what in the world is he doing here now?

I’m still trying to process everything when someone else gets out of the car, a woman I’ve never seen before. She’s tall and blonde and dressed in all black. One of Aaron’s summer conquests?

Shocked, I stare as this woman pulls a large camera out of her bag and starts snapping pictures like it’s her job.

Which, I realize with a sinking feeling, it is.

“Aaron!” I choke out. “What are you doing? This isn’t—”

“Hillary,” Aaron says. “You look…beautiful.”

I glance down at myself, and my sense of dread grows. I’m in cut-off jean shorts and a Camp Chickawah T-shirt smudged with paint that wouldn’t come out in the wash. There’s no way he thinks I look beautiful right now.

The photographer is smiling broadly, snapping pictures, probably interpreting the shock on my face as delight. Which it most certainly is not.

Aaron steps closer to me, then begins to speak, his voice raised, as if he wants to make sure everyone hears him.

“My love,” he says, “from the moment I met you, my life transformed in the most extraordinary way. With each passing day, my love for you has grown. I can no longer imagine a future without you by my side.”

“Aaron,” I say, holding out my hand for him to stop.

He doesn’t. In fact, he goes down on one knee, and I freeze with horror.

The photographer keeps snapping pictures, circling us like a hawk.

“Today, as we stand beneath the breathtaking canvas of the setting sun—” He stops, realizing the sun is still high in the sky. Then, flinching, he continues, “…beneath the breathtaking canvas of the afternoon sun, I want to ask you a question that has been burning in my soul for the last two years. Hillary Elizabeth Goldberg, would you do me the incredible honor of becoming my wife?”

He pulls a Tiffany-blue box out of his pocket and opens it.

The silence that follows is deafening. The air is still. Even the birds have stopped chirping.

I’m frozen in shock—why on earth would he think thiswas a good idea? I’ve never liked surprises. He knows that. He also knows I broke up with him—he replied with a freaking thumbs-up!

Did my father put him up to this? The thought makes me nauseous. My dad and I haven’t been able to talk, but I sent him an email to let him know that I’d ended things with Aaron. I didn’t go into detail because A) it’s none of his business, and B) I didn’t want to jeopardize Aaron’s job at the firm. My father’s response was curt, imploring me not to make a “stupid mistake” and let a “good guy” like Aaron walk away. I didn’t reply.

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