Page 60 of One Last Summer
“Are you calling me a mess?” I said, voice rising. Everything he said was now hitting like an insult, whether he intended it that way or not.
“No.” He raised his hands, frustrated. “But you did just use the word ‘failing’ to describe yourself.”
“So you’re saying I’m bad at life.” I could feel the reactive side of me going full force, seething, tapping into an angry, familiar hurt that had lingered since I was a teen.
“Didn’t you suggest the same thing about me the other day?” he asked. “What was it you said, that all I do is float around on the lake all day?”
“Mack. I said I was sorry for that asinine comment,” I said, my voice loud enough to echo off the water.
I felt my throat clench, my voice cracking over the last few words. I wasn’t even sure how we got into this conversation, but it felt like riding a bike for the first time with no helmet. Exciting for a moment, but now I was panicking and desperate to pump the brakes.
“Just forget it,” I said before he could reply. “And you know what? I am focused on my own life. I came up with an amazing idea for my big pitch next week. Wrote it up last night.”
“Oh yeah?” he said, somewhere between aloof and mocking.
“Yup. I honestly can’t wait to get back home so I can work on it. It’s, like, the burnout disappeared the second this thing popped into my brain.”
I snapped my fingers, to really prove how easy it had been to fix all my issues overnight. This entire argument felt immature, ridiculous even. Like something from twenty years ago. A race to see who could push the others’ buttons harder, and then grin and bear it when they did it back.
“Problem solved, then, huh?” he said, pushing himself back up to sit on the bench.
“Yeah,” I said. “Crisis averted. Everything’ll be great and back to normal next week. All according to plan.”
“Good.” He moved back up to sit in front of the steering wheel. “And I’ll follow my own plan. Maybe I’ll even send you a postcard from LA.”
He raised his eyebrows at me, an invitation to challenge him on this, to bicker more, push back harder.
Instead, I stayed on the bottom of the boat and twisted my gaze away from his, shutting down the conversation with a literal cold shoulder. He was moving across the country. I had a life in Boston. Whatever romantic feelings for Mack that I’d let blossom in my heart and grow as fast as ivy were just weeds, covering up what I was truly supposed to be focusing on. What actually mattered.
“I gotta get back to Sunrise. I need some sleep,” I announced. Mack replied by switching on the engine with a swift yank, and it sputtered to life with an angry grunt. This time there was nothing peaceful about the quiet between us; it was tight and tense, a decades-old, frayed rubber band just waiting to snap.
26
I FELL ASLEEP pissed off at Mack.
I woke up pissed off at Mack.
And I dug out my camp to-do list from underneath my pillow, where I’d stored it for safekeeping during the night, still pissed off at Mack.
I burned with anger at myself for getting swept up in the sensation of his body against mine, for letting all his ridiculous talk about rocks, and being weird, get to my head. A lover may have been a part of younger Clara’s plan. Passion? Sure, fine. But feelings? Love?
She hadn’t mentioned a bit about it, not a word.
With good reason, I thought, steaming.
I leaned over the edge of the bed and searched around my purse for a pen and my notebook. Paper smoothed out, I dug the tip of the pen into the center of the box labeled “Take a lot of lovers. Or at least have one passionate love affair,” and checked it off.
I pressed down so hard that the paper split, a little tear ripping through the box. I let out a bitter, frustrated growl and flung my notebook to the floor, where it landed with a sharp slap.
“Clara?” Sam’s concerned face appeared through the screen door. “Are you finally awake? Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, squinting at her through the bright-white sunlight. “Are you okay? How are you feeling?”
The sun wasn’t shy about taking up every inch of window space around the cabin; it beamed into even the dustiest corner with its arrogant, high-noon energy.
Wait, what time was it, exactly?
I yanked my phone from its charging cord and squinted at the numbers on the screen: 11:24 a.m.
