Page 6

RYDER

And Callie is nowhere to be found.

Again.

The whistle hangs from my neck, untouched, like it knows there’s no point. I check the clock clipped to the lifeguard tower. Check it again. Just in case time started lying to me.

Nope. Still late.

This is the second day of our Advanced Water Skills co-lead. We’re supposed to be covering lateral rescue techniques. But right now, I’m covering the dock in increasingly aggressive pacing grooves while the campers play hacky sack with someone’s flip-flop.

Jason walks by, coffee in one hand, yogurt in the other.

“Ryder,” he says, not stopping, “your forehead vein’s about to file a restraining order.”

“Have you seen Callie?”

“Nope,” he calls over his shoulder. “But if I had to guess, I’d check the canoe shed. That’s where the glitter incident started yesterday.”

Glitter incident.

I still have specs of it embedded in my towel. It’s like her DNA is invasive.

I march toward the canoe shed, each step a silent plea to whatever higher power monitors camp discipline to give me a break today.

The door creaks open.

And there she is.

Standing on a milk crate, wrapping duct tape around what appears to be a floating obstacle shaped like a giant banana. She’s singing. Off-key. Something about friendship and jellyfish.

“Callie.”

She jumps and knocks the tape roll into a bin of googly eyes.

“Oh. Hi! You’re early.”

“It’s 07:48.”

She looks at her wrist. There’s no watch there. Just a friendship bracelet shaped like a slice of pizza.

“Huh. Time flies when you’re banana engineering.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “We’re supposed to be demonstrating rescue strategies.”

“We are, ” she says, hopping down. “Banana buoy scenario: sudden storm, raft capsizes, jellyfish swarm. Improvised flotation and escape route drills.”

“That’s not what’s on the schedule.”

She shrugs. “Yeah, but it’s better. ”

I stare at her.

She smiles at me like she knows something I don’t. Like she always does.

“I have a plan,” she says, lifting the banana buoy like a trophy.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

By 08:15, the campers are laughing so hard half of them can’t tread water properly. There’s a plastic jellyfish tied to a string, a noodle gauntlet, and a challenge where two kids have to save a third using only paddles and one towel.

It’s chaos.

But somehow... it works.

Bennett our resident Kraken actually follows instructions. Eliza, who panicked last week in open water, floats across the lake tied to a banana while giggling like a maniac.

And me?

I’m standing waist-deep, arms crossed, watching my structure crumble in real time.

“Ryder!” Callie calls from the dock. “Don’t just glower, join the chaos!”

“I’m monitoring for hazards.”

“Monitor this!” she shouts and launches a water balloon at me.

It hits me dead center in the chest. Cold. Sudden.

The kids explode into cheers.

I slowly look down at the burst, at the wet bloom on my shirt.

“Ma’am,” I say, raising my voice like it’s a court hearing, “that constitutes an assault on a certified safety instructor.”

Callie grins. “Guess you’ll have to write me up in glitter pen.”

Gods help me, I almost smile.

Almost.

After lunch, we’re in the gear hut cleaning up. I’m checking inventory. She’s balancing goggles on her head like it’s fashion week.

“You’re impossible,” I mutter.

She hums. “You’re rigid.”

“I’m prepared.”

“You’re constipated with rules.”

“I’m ensuring nobody dies.”

She sighs, flopping into a beanbag someone clearly smuggled in from the arts cabin. “You ever stop to think that safety doesn’t always look like control?”

“Control is how I survived.”

That comes out faster than I mean it to.

She looks up, quieter now. “Ryder.”

I ignore the way she says my name. Ignore the tug it plants in my chest.

“This camp,” I continue, keeping my voice even, “only works because it runs like a system. People trust systems. They don’t trust improv acts.”

She tilts her head. “You really think the campers are trusting my glitter noodle games because they believe in structure?”

“No,” I say, voice hardening. “They trust you because you make them feel safe by pretending nothing’s serious. But that’s going to break the second something goes wrong.”

She straightens. “And you think that’s not already in my head every time I lead a session? You think I’m not calculating risk just because I’m not barking orders?”

I pause.

She’s standing now, soaked in lakewater and sunlight, eyes blazing.

“I’m not here to ruin your system,” she says, voice shaking a little. “I’m here because I’m damn good at helping kids swim through the hard parts. You do it with structure. I do it with sparkles. But don’t stand there and tell me I’m not taking it seriously.”

There’s silence.

Even the lake wind goes still.

“I never said you weren’t serious,” I murmur.

“Feels like you did.”

We lock eyes.

I don’t know what I want more, to walk away, or to grab her by the shoulders and ask why the hell her chaos makes me feel steadier than any schedule ever has.

But I do neither.

Because rules are rules.

And I have a feeling she’s going to keep breaking every single one of mine.

The next morning is smooth.

Too smooth.

The lake’s glassy. The kids show up on time. Even the paddleboards are stacked properly for once.

I’m halfway through my checklist when I hear it.

A splash wrong and sharp.

Then silence.

“Help!”

The voice is high. Panicked.

My head snaps up to see Max, one of our quietest campers, thrashing in the deep zone, his eyes wide and wild.

Before I can move, Callie’s already in.

She dives clean no hesitation, no wasted movement. Breaks the surface near him with a calm, easy stroke like she’s made of instinct.

“I got you, Maxie,” she says, low and firm. “You’re okay. Just hold on.”

He clings to her with that frantic, frozen look I’ve seen before. She keeps talking. Keeps her tone steady. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t jolt him with instructions. She just is there.

And somehow, that’s enough.

She paddles them both to the shallow shelf, guiding his legs like she’s done it a thousand times. He’s crying quietly. She crouches beside him, running a hand through his soaked curls and whispering something I can’t hear.

But I don’t need to.

I see it in the way he breathes easier.

In the way she stays kneeling even after he’s safe just in case.

Julie’s already with them now, wrapping a towel around Max. Callie walks back toward me, dripping wet, her face unreadable.

“You alright?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says, rubbing water from her eyes. “He just panicked. Didn’t realize how deep it got.”

I nod. “You handled it well.”

She shrugs. “Instinct.”

But I know better.

That wasn’t just instinct. That was experience. That was someone who’s been watching more closely than she lets on.

And for the first time since she cannonballed into my life, I realize something:

Callie O’Shea isn’t a problem to solve.

She’s a force to trust.

Even if she drives me insane.