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“Nope. Look, it’s part-time. A week of afternoon shifts and some weekend coverage. Plus, you’re qualified, organized, and way better at calming down panicked parents than any of us.”

I sigh and stare at the ceiling like the answer might be hidden in the paint.

“Also,” she adds slyly, “we’re short one person on the camp staff schedule starting tomorrow. And I may have mentioned your name.”

“Liv!”

“You’re going to thank me later. Promise.”

Before I can answer, my phone buzzes again, this time a call from my cousin Molly.

“Hey,” I answer quickly. “Everything okay?”

Molly’s voice is tight. “Yeah. I just… I needed someone to talk to. Work's a mess, and Mom's being impossible about her meds again. I didn’t want to bug you.”

“You’re never bugging me.” I get up and pace the living room, grounding myself in the rhythm of her voice. We talk for twenty minutes, me listening mostly, offering what advice I can and reminding her to take a break and eat something.

When we finally hang up, I stare out the window, conflicted.

There are a thousand things I could be doing. Hospital shifts, check-ins with family, just existing in peace. But Liv's right. I made a resolution to stop hiding in my routines.

And maybe facing Wes is part of that.

I grab my phone and text her:Fine. I’ll do it. One week. No funny business.

Liv responds with a string of heart emojis and a gif of someone dancing with a first aid kit.

But before I can smile too long, her next message pops up:

Oh, did I mention? Your first shift starts tomorrow. You’ll be working alongside Wes.

My stomach drops.

Of course I am.

I spend the rest of the evening half-heartedly prepping my emergency med bag and trying to distract myself by reorganizing the linen closet. Neither works. My brain won’t shut up.

There was a time Wes could make me laugh with a single glance. A time when his hoodie smelled like eucalyptus shampoo and black coffee, and I felt safe just leaning against him after a shift. I didn’t know what love was until I fell face-first into it with him.

And then he left like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.

The anger still flares up in moments, catching me off guard. But it’s no match for the ache that’s buried beneath it—the ache of not knowingwhy.

I finish packing my supplies, double-checking for gauze, athletic tape, instant ice packs, and stethoscope. Then I reach into the drawer by the fridge and find the small photo booth strip that’s somehow survived every purge. One of those carnival nights we swore we’d never forget.

In the last frame, he’s kissing my cheek while I laugh like I don’t have a care in the world.

I slam the drawer shut.

Sleep is a joke. I toss. I turn. I stare at the ceiling fan like it holds answers. When my alarm finally buzzes at six a.m., I feel like I never actually closed my eyes.

Liv texts before I even brush my teeth.

Don’t overthink. Just be your brilliant, unshakeable self.

I want to respond with something witty, but I don’t have the energy. So I send her a thumbs up and a sleepy-face emoji.

It’s strange getting ready for camp instead of the hospital. My scrubs are swapped for black joggers, a soft gray T-shirt, and my Sunset Cove Medical jacket. I pull my hair back into a braid, grab a protein bar, and try not to feel like I’m walking into a minefield.