Page 3

CALLIE

I ’m not saying I came to camp to stage a pool noodle rebellion on Day Two.

But, like… if the noodle fits.

"Okay, squad!" I shout, hands cupped around my mouth like a budget megaphone. "I want one group by the inflatable dolphin, one by the mushroom sprinkler, and one on Team Flaming Noodle. No, Braxton, you cannot dual-wield."

A dozen campers shriek with joy, pelting across the lake’s shallow end like caffeinated ducklings. The floating unicorn rings bounce like bumper cars. The obstacle course I slapped together in forty minutes with some duct tape, plastic hoops, and blind optimism is holding up surprisingly well.

Miracles do happen.

I lean on my oversized pool net and squint toward the deeper water. Yup. There he is.

Mr. Saltytail himself.

Ryder stands on the opposite dock, arms crossed like he’s the ancient guardian of the lake, watching my noodle circus with all the enthusiasm of a tax audit.

I ignore him. Mostly.

Because today, the kids are grinning. They’re cheering each other on, even the shy ones. Eliza who wouldn’t put more than a toe in the water yesterday is now doing battle with a foam trident like Poseidon's tiny heir.

So yeah, I think I’m winning.

“Callie!” Leo, one of the youngest, flails from the giant flamingo float. “The noodle king is trying to cheat!”

“No cheating unless it’s creative and dramatic!” I yell back. “Bonus points for flair!”

The flamingo capsizes with a whoop of laughter and an epic splash. I blow my whistle like I mean it and raise both arms. “Victory goes to Team Glittery Narwhals! MVP goes to Eliza for yelling ‘I am the storm’ before leaping off the floatie!”

The other kids cheer. Eliza beams like I handed her a trophy made of rainbows and spite.

Behind me, someone clears their throat.

I know that throat.

That’s the throat of a man who files incident reports for fun.

“Ms. O’Shea,” Ryder says, voice like ice sliding off a steel blade.

I turn slowly, smile locked and loaded. “Why hello, sir! Fancy seeing you emerge from your lake lair. Did the glitter lure you out?”

He doesn’t take the bait. Just steps closer, silver eyes flicking from me to the water to the pool noodles currently orbiting a watermelon-shaped float like it’s the moon.

“This isn’t on the approved activity list.”

“I’m fostering aquatic creativity,” I say, twirling the net like a baton. “You’d be amazed how many life skills are hidden in a properly executed noodle joust.”

“You’ve disrupted the shallow zone’s current system. You’re blocking my sightlines. And you’re exceeding the flotation device quota.”

“There’s a quota?”

“There’s a reason for the rules.”

“Sure,” I say, smile tight, “but are the kids laughing correctly under regulation joy standards?”

He doesn’t flinch. I can tell he’s barely hanging on to his last thread of patience.

I fold my arms and stare up at him. "Look. I get it. You’ve got your rhythm. Your charts. Your perfectly organized little lake kingdom. But this?” I gesture to the water full of squeals and splash fights and sunshine. “This is summer. It’s supposed to be a little wild.”

He shakes his head. “Wild gets kids hurt.”

“Controlled gets kids bored. And bored kids stop showing up.”

There’s a beat. His jaw works like he’s chewing on something unpleasant and philosophical.

He mutters, “You should at least assign buddies.”

I grin. “Already did, Captain Grump. Braxton’s got Leo. Eliza’s got Tasha. Unicorn Squad is self-governed through glitter democracy.”

That actually gets the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. More like his face briefly considered one and then changed its mind.

Progress.

I snap him a salute with my pool net. “Appreciate the consult, Lieutenant Seafoam. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a noodle monarchy to maintain.”

He stalks off without another word.

But he watches.

All afternoon, I catch him glancing over from the main dock while I lead my chaotic gaggle through synchronized splash-offs and a very questionable interpretive water ballet.

And when Leo trips on a float line and goes under for a second too long, I see Ryder move before I even register the danger.

Fast.

Like cutting through the lake without friction. He’s there before I am, pulling Leo up, checking him over with all the calm authority of someone born for deep water and emergency chaos.

“You okay?” he asks Leo, gently but firmly.

Leo nods, sniffling. “Yeah. Just swallowed a noodle.”

I snort. “Mood.”

Ryder glares at me, but softer this time. Like he's not quite sure how to file me in his mental cabinet anymore.

After the kids go in for lunch, I sit cross-legged on the end of the dock, peeling a wet sticker off my knee.

Ryder passes behind me. Slows. Doesn’t stop.

“You did good out there,” he says.

I blink. “Did you just compliment me?”

“It’s not a habit,” he says over his shoulder.

“Aw, come on, give me a second. I wanna write this in my journal.”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps walking.

But there’s a twitch in his tailfin as he dives off the edge.

And I swear it looks suspiciously like a smirk.

After dinner, once the sun’s dipped low and the lake’s gone all gold and glassy, I sneak away to the quiet dock behind Cabin 3 with my journal, a half-broken pencil, and a juice box I stole from the counselor fridge.

I flop onto my stomach, legs kicking in the air, and open to a blank page.

Camp Log: Day 2.

Chaos quotient: high.

Glitter ratio: satisfactory.

Lifeguard tolerance: pending.

Today I led a full-scale inflatable uprising and only lost one child to the Noodle Abyss (he survived, thanks to our resident sea-sergeant). Eliza said I’m her “sparkle general,” which I’m definitely putting on my resume.

I chew the end of the pencil for a second, then frown. Tap it against the page.

Also… what’s Ryder’s deal?

I stare out at the lake. It’s empty now, calm like it’s pretending to be normal. But I saw it today how fast he moved, how he knew exactly where Leo had slipped under, like the water whispered it to him.

He’s so… contained. Like every muscle is on guard.

Like he’s waiting for something to go wrong. Or already thinks it has.

I don’t buy the whole “rulebot with no emotions” act. Not fully.

There’s something else there. Something deep. And old. And sad.

I pause, pencil hovering.

And it makes me want to know more.

Which is stupid.

But I still do.

I blow out a breath, scribble a little glitter heart next to the word “stupid,” and snap the journal closed.

The stars are coming out, and I swear the lake hums when I sit still long enough.

And Ryder?

Yeah, he hums too.

But I don’t think he knows it.