Page 21

ALICE

I ’ve been avoiding it all day.

Julie’s office door.

It’s like this looming, invisible checkpoint I keep walking around like some kind of nervous deer—casually strolling past, checking the staff bulletin like it might spontaneously explode, pretending I’ve just forgotten that I’m supposed to give her an answer.

Which is a lie.

I’ve been thinking about it non-stop.

The offer.

The one that’s been rolling around in my brain since the night Mira went missing and Jason went full werewolf in front of me without a single ounce of shame.

A full-time job.

At Camp Lightring.

A life I never pictured, but now can’t seem to unsee.

Still, I hesitate in the doorway like the floor might open up and swallow me whole.

Jason’s voice echoes in my head from yesterday— “I think I’ve got a future here.”

And I want that.

I do.

But wanting something this much? That’s the scary part.

I knock, once.

Julie looks up from behind a stack of attendance rosters, her glasses perched low on her nose like she’s already seen through every layer of my soul.

“Hey, hon,” she says, setting her pen down. “Come to make me wait another day?”

I step inside, wringing my fingers together like a middle schooler with a confession note. “I, um. I’ve been thinking.”

She leans back, hands folded. “Go on.”

I take a breath. It feels like jumping off a dock in early June—bracing and sharp and right.

“I want to stay.”

Julie’s face softens instantly. “Yeah?”

I nod. “I mean—I’m terrified. But also… not? Which feels weird. But in a good way.”

She smiles, full and warm. “That’s how you know it matters.”

I laugh nervously. “I think this place is the first thing in a long time that’s felt like mine.”

Her smile doesn’t waver. “It is. And we’d be lucky to have you full-time, Alice. You’re a natural. The kids adore you, the staff respect you, and I’ve never seen anyone color-code a conflict resolution chart with that much finesse.”

I flush. “Thanks. I—I think I’m still figuring out how to belong.”

“You already do.”

The tears come before I can stop them.

Not the ugly kind. Just the kind that slip down your cheek when you finally breathe out something you’ve been holding too long.

Julie tosses me a tissue from the desk drawer. “That’s the official welcome package.”

I sniffle. “Thank you.”

She stands, walks around the desk, and pulls me into a hug. It’s brief, but grounding.

“You made the right call,” she whispers. “You’ve got roots here. Let ’em grow.”

And just like that—it’s real.

I’m staying.

Not because I have nowhere else to go.

But because this time, I want to.

I linger a little as Julie moves to grab the formal paperwork from a side drawer, my fingers fidgeting with the hem of my shirt.

“Um,” I say, too casual. “Are there… full-time housing options that… bunk two?”

Julie pauses mid-reach. Slowly turns to look at me, one perfectly arched eyebrow lifting.

“Two, huh?”

Heat flushes my cheeks immediately. “I mean—not like—it’s not—we’re not even technically?—”

She smirks, arms crossing. “Who’s the lucky guy? Wait. Don’t tell me. Let me guess.”

I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.

Julie grins wider. “Scruffy. Shirt-averse. Howls at the moon?”

“I didn’t say that,” I mutter.

“You didn’t have to.”

She winks.

I try to disappear into my own shirt.

But she’s already turning back to the drawer, still smiling.

“I figured this might be coming. Actually,” she adds, flipping through a set of folders, “I’ve been planning to talk to Jason about a full-time role. Just hadn’t decided where he fits best yet.”

My head snaps up. “Really?”

Julie nods. “He’s got something rare. Heart. Leadership. An instinct for these kids that can’t be taught. I wasn’t gonna let that go to waste.”

Relief spreads through me, warm and golden.

“He really cares,” I whisper.

“I know,” she says, softly this time. “So do you. And yeah—we can make the housing work. You just let me know when both of you are ready to make it official.”

I nod, cheeks still warm, but smiling now.

Because everything’s starting to line up.

Not perfectly.

But honestly.

And that’s even better.

The next morning, I get up early.

Not because I have to.

Because I want to.

The lake’s misty, the air still cool, and the rec field is quiet. I stand there for a second, clipboard in hand, calendar tucked under my arm, just... breathing.

This is mine now.

Not in the possessive way.

But in the belonging way.

I head to the arts shed first, unlocking the door and flipping the lights on. The faint smell of paint, glitter, and dried glue hits me and, weirdly, it calms me. I arrange the brushes, refill the bead bins, pull the weekly roster off the wall and adjust it with a pink highlighter.

By the time the first few campers trickle in—early birds with sleepy faces and wild hair—I’ve got three activity stations prepped, music playing low from the enchanted speaker, and a goofy new sign that says MONSTER MACRAME – Weave or Be Weaved.

I guide Ferix to the clay table, help Mira pick out her yarn colors, and talk Rubi through knotting a bracelet with one hand while she holds her half-eaten muffin in the other.

They’re loud and messy and full of energy.

And I’m not overwhelmed.

I’m anchored.

In the chaos. In the joy. In the squeals and the glitter spills and Nolan accidentally getting fabric paint on his ear.

Julie peeks in during mid-morning rotation, leans against the doorframe with a coffee in hand, watching for a beat before saying, “Looks like someone’s in their element.”

I smile without hesitation. “Feels like it.”

She raises her cup. “Knew you had it in you.”

Then she disappears again, off to manage a scheduling conflict between the kitchen and the werebat night flight crew.

I look around the room, filled with laughter and glue and more color than the sunrise.

This is the job.

This is the life.

And for the first time in years I feel like I’m right where I’m meant to be.