Page 13

ALICE

I feel the shift before I see it.

It’s like a storm that never hits—just hangs over you, low and heavy and electric. Jason’s here, but he’s not. He moves through the day like a reflection, all the same jokes and smirks, but something underneath is missing.

And it’s my fault.

I keep catching him across the lawn, or at the end of a mess hall bench, or standing at the edge of a campfire circle. Every time, it’s the same. He looks like he’s waiting for something, but not from me anymore.

Because I already told him what I had to say.

I told him I was scared. That I didn’t know how to trust myself. That maybe the kiss—the kisses —were too much too soon. And then I walked away.

And now?

Now he’s walking too. Just in the opposite direction.

I’m supposed to be helping plan the end-of-session campfire sendoff with Julie, but I can’t focus. The paper in front of me is blank. I’ve been staring at it for fifteen minutes while pretending I’m sketching ideas.

Julie’s in a back office, probably dealing with another report from Aisla or prepping for tomorrow’s parent packets. I should be relieved that she’s not hovering, but instead I just feel... untethered.

“Need help brainstorming?” a voice says behind me.

I flinch—too hard—and then Jason’s there.

Holding a box of graham crackers.

He’s not smiling like he used to. It’s smaller now, like he’s trying not to expect too much from me.

“Oh. Uh. Sure.” I motion vaguely to the blank page. “I’ve got... absolutely nothing.”

He nods once and sets the box down. “We could do the usual. Skits, songs, s’mores.”

“Yeah.”

A beat.

Silence blooms.

Then he clears his throat. “I’m making the fire that night. I got Nolan to help. He insists it be ‘dragon approved.’”

I try to smile. “That sounds cute.”

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

I hate this. The awkward. The space. The way everything feels like it’s been unplugged but we’re still pretending the current’s running.

He looks at the list again. Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t stay.

“Well. Let me know if you think of anything,” he says.

And just like that, he’s gone.

I stare at the graham cracker box and feel like crying.

Later, I catch myself watching him from across the field.

He’s tossing a frisbee with two campers, laughing at one’s terrible throw, ruffling another’s hair. His smile is real for them. The easy kind. The kind he used to give me.

And I know, in the pit of my stomach, that I’m the reason it’s gone.

I’m the one who pulled away.

Because that’s what I do.

Because being wanted is one thing. But being kept ? That’s terrifying.

How do I let someone stay? I’ve never done it. Not really. Not without bracing for them to leave first.

But Jason?

He stayed longer than anyone else.

And now I can’t figure out how to stop pushing him away without feeling like I’m betraying some part of myself.

Dinner is worse.

I sit two seats down from him at the counselor table. He doesn’t move closer. I don’t either. The kids are loud, the food is terrible, and every sound feels too sharp, like the air itself is trying to scratch at my skin.

He makes a joke about raccoons sneaking into the kitchen and everyone laughs.

Everyone except me.

He doesn’t look at me once.

And I feel like I’m disappearing.

It’s dark when I finally break.

The fireflies are out. The campers are in their bunks. Julie’s in her office. The whole camp is tucked under a blanket of late summer heat and quiet tension.

I walk.

Down past the rec field. Around the cabins. Toward the lake.

I don’t mean to find him, but I do.

He’s sitting on the dock again. Like he always does when he needs to breathe.

The moon is hanging low. Not full yet, but close. His back is straight. His hands are in his lap. He looks like he’s waiting.

But not for me.

Not anymore.

“Hey,” I say, because I’m an idiot.

He glances over. “Hey.”

I sit beside him. Not too close.

The water ripples quietly beneath us.

“I saw you today,” I offer, because I don’t know what else to say. “With the frisbee.”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice unreadable. “It was a good game.”

More silence.

I try again. “You’ve been good with the kids. All summer.”

“Thanks.”

It’s like we’re back at the beginning. Like nothing ever happened. Like we haven’t kissed, or talked about fear, or shared anything deeper than sunscreen.

I open my mouth—then close it.

Because whatever I want to say feels too messy.

And he doesn’t look like he wants messy from me anymore.

So I stand up.

He doesn’t stop me.

“Goodnight, Jason,” I whisper.

He nods.

And I walk away.

I’m halfway back to the cabin, heart a mess, when I hear a soft sniffle behind the arts shed.

I pause, listen. Another tiny sob.

I follow the sound, and there she is—Rubi. One of the youngest campers. Barely eight. Curled up on the grass beside the paint bins, clutching a friendship bracelet so tight it’s cutting into her palm.

“Rubi?” I kneel gently. “Hey, what’s going on?”

She doesn’t answer at first. Just hiccups through tears.

I reach into my back pocket and pull out a tissue. “Here. It’s okay.”

She takes it, dabs her nose. “They said it’s ugly,” she whispers.

My heart breaks a little. “Who did?”

“Some of the older girls. They said my bracelet looks like spaghetti.”

I bite back a smile. “Well, I love spaghetti.”

She doesn’t laugh.

I sit next to her. “Let me see.”

She hands it over—wobbly knots, mismatched colors, uneven ends. It’s perfect.

“This,” I say softly, “is made with heart. That’s what matters.”

She sniffles again. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

She leans against my side. Small. Warm. Quiet.

“I don’t want to go home,” she murmurs. “I want to stay here forever.”

I stroke her hair. “Yeah. I know the feeling.”

She looks up at me. “Will you be here next year?”

My throat catches.

I open my mouth, but the answer won’t come.

“I hope you are,” Rubi says. “You make things feel... calm.”

I smile. It wobbles. “Thank you, Rubi.”

She squeezes my hand, then skips off, the bracelet swinging in her tiny fingers like it’s made of gold.

And I sit there in the grass, staring after her, heart full and tangled.

I want to take the job.

I want to stay.

But I don’t know if I can untangle the part of me that wants this place from the part of me that’s still breaking over Jason.

Because I’m not sure if staying would mean being brave.

Or just being stuck.