Page 68 of One Last Summer
“Clara,” Mack said, and his use of my first name caused my head to spin toward him. “I don’t know what happens next. I just know I like you, and I want to be with you right now, even if we only have a couple of days left together.”
I finally gave in and looked up at him. He was standing and staring directly down at me, and not at the fire in front of him. Even though his arms were across his chest, he didn’t look defensive, not one bit. Instead, he looked like he was deeply and truly sure of himself.
“I’ve been crazy about you since the day we met, but, like, never more than I am right now,” he continued. “You know that, right? I’m making myself clear? Because I’m trying to be better about saying what I mean. And I mean it.”
“Yes,” I said finally, and my entire body flushed. “I know.”
It was the heat from the fire, of course, but whatever was burning between Mack and me felt bigger and hotter than the real thing in front of me.
“Good,” he said, and then with a nod of his head toward my rope. “Congratulations.”
I broke our eye contact and swung my head around, and there it was in front of me: my rope split in half, two pieces dangling now from the wood stakes that held them.
I’d won.
“You know what this means, right?” I pushed myself up off the ground, scrubbing my dirty hands on the front of my shorts.
“Don’t do it, Millen,” he said as he pulled up the edge of his T-shirt, bringing it to his brow to wipe away sweat. “I told you, my ego can’t take it.”
“I kicked your ass!” I whooped. “I won our date!”
He held out his hand for a high five, and when I slapped it he gripped me tight, tugging me into a warm, sweaty hug.
“This was a shitload of fun,” I said, mentally checking that particular box on my camp list as my cheek pressed against his shoulder, taking in that scent that was so uniquely him; a mix of an ancient bar of soap, sun-touched skin, sunscreen, and sweat. It wasn’t fancy, or musky, or out of an expensive bottle, but it was his, and I was becoming addicted to it.
“Almost as fun as living in denial with you,” he muttered, his lips soft against my jaw.
I pulled back, clasped my hand against his pout. “Shh,” I scolded. “The first rule of living in denial is not talking about it.”
He reached up and laced his fingers through mine, pressing a kiss against our clasped hands. “I won’t speak of it again.”
But that nagging clock was still ticking away in the back of my mind, counting down our time together second by precious second.
29
ELOISE WAS THE first to reach us, enthusiastically waving a can of hard seltzer in the air as she approached in a bright yellow floppy sunhat, a sequined, silver vest hanging off her shoulders. “That was amazing,” she said. “And very ridiculous to watch.”
“I can’t believe no one broke a leg in that fucking sack race,” Sam muttered as she wrapped an arm gingerly around me. “You are a badass.”
Trey appeared next to her with a Bloody Mary in hand, complete with a giant celery stalk. “I have never seen two adults work so hard for something so wonderfully meaningless.”
“What are you talking about?” I recoiled, giving him my best offended look. “Camp games mean everything.”
And they had, once, all those years ago. Competitions that felt like battles, where the heartache of loss was learned alongside the magic of winning. But now I could see them for what they really were: life lessons with training wheels, practice for the real ups and downs to come.
“It was glorious.” Trey raised his glass in my honor. “You two are fun to watch together.”
“That’s because Mack’s fun to torture.” I did my best villain laugh as I grabbed the water bottle Sam passed me and threw back a gulp.
“It sure doesn’t look like he finds it torturous,” Eloise chirped, lighting up as Linus and Nick approached.
“Should we take the pontoon boat out?” Trey asked the group. “Cocktails on the water?”
“I’m not drinking, so I can drive,” Mack volunteered, standing next to him. His shirt dangled from his hand, and my eyes couldn’t focus on anything else but him; the slope of his shoulders, that light sprinkling of chest hair, his taut stomach. I blinked hard, trying to reboot my brain by concentrating on something else.
My gaze landed on three figures standing up on the sloped grass, in front of the dining hall. Marla and Steve I recognized immediately, and I waved them over, still riding the high of my win, wanting to celebrate.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Mack’s face growing cloudy as they approached, a glare focused solely on the man next to them, a stocky, silver-haired white guy who walked with a purpose. His tidy button-down and fitted slacks felt way too formal for the place, even though he’d paired them with some retro-style hiking boots.
