Page 13 of A Match Made In Evan
“Which would be more helpful if you were one of the teachers making the decisions, but…thank you.”
Another kid, one I can’t name, comes and takes the seat beside him, effectively ending our conversation. James nudges me and I catch his grin out of the corner of my eye.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re such a softie,” he murmurs back.
“He’s a good kid,” I justify, unable to explain any more than that. After the drama excursion, his words about seeing our ‘relationship’ as something to covet —as well as the admission that his parents aren’t wholly supportive of his identity— have played on my mind.
“He’s come a long way from shark food, then?”
It might be the guilt about lying to him, but I feel like he deserves a more supportive role model than the ones he has at home.
“I dunno,” I muse wryly, “he could still become chum.”
Joey’s face comes into view between his seat and his companion’s. He rolls his eyes. “I hate you both.”
I grin back at him, then at James. “And balance has been restored to the universe.”
Chapter Seven
James
The first two nights of the leadership camp are relatively uneventful. The camp itself is located just across the New South Wales border, in the hinterland, and the activities for the kids have ranged from trust-building exercises to physical stuff like high ropes, abseiling and kayaking. They’ve all been so exhausted by the end of the day that, after dinners served in the camp cafeteria, they’ve all crashed by curfew without any pranks or cabin swapping.
On the third and final night, though, someone must have broken out the sugar because the teenagers are all wired.
“Come on, Mister D,” Rose cajoles with a whine, “come do a campfire night with us. We’re going to roast marshmallows and tell ghost stories.”
“Yeah, and we’re not allowed to do it without supervision,” Mia adds, widening her big, blue eyes in the same way that wrapped me around her finger when she was just a baby. “Please, Dad? It’s a teambuilding exercise. And it’s our last night.”
Rose nods. “Plus Mister Martins said they’ll extend curfew for an hour to do it.”
Given that I have done all the same physically taxing things as the kids and I am twice their age and nowhere near as fit, I was really looking forward to crashing in the uncomfortable queen-sized bed allocated to me and Evan as the chaperones for the teenagers of B Block.
Also, I want it on record that my enthusiasm for bedtime has nothing to do with how much I enjoy waking up wrapped in someone else’s arms, even if that someone is my best friend and not a lover. It doesn’t. I swear it. Because that would be sad, wouldn’t it?
“Guys,” I begin, leaning into my best ‘stern dad’ voice, “I—”
“Hope someone else is supplying the marshmallows,” Ev appears from out of nowhere, slinging his arm around my shoulder. I lean into the embrace because to lean away would give away our ruse. (And definitely not because I’m soaking up any and all physical affection like a sponge.)
The kids in front of me cheer. Mia grabs my hand and tugs me back up the hill —seriously, why is the bonfire area uphill? — thanking me profusely.
“Don’t thank me,” I tell her, “thank Ev.”
“Thanks, Evvy,” she beams at him. I can’t see it so much as hear it, seeing as night has settled in and the only light around us is either the scattered solar lights dimly illuminating our path up the forested hill, or the slivers of moonlight spilling in between the overhanging tree branches.
“Yeah, well, campfire nights are the best,” Ev’s voice comes from somewhere not-too-far behind me. I can hear the smile in his tone, too. “I wasn’t gonna miss out.”
Except I’m missing out on snuggling,I think petulantly, and then almost fall over my own feet when I realise exactly what I just thought.
It’s one thing to admit that I like waking up in someone’s arms when we have unconsciously drifted together during the night. It’s something completely different to actively think about snuggling someone.
Not just someone — Evan.
My best friend.
I’m embarrassed by that. Not because he’s a man, but because he’s my best friend, and I’m so touch-starved that I’m sulking about missing his cuddles like I’m a five-year-old.
