Page 3 of That Summer Feeling

Even though I’d spent more of my life with my maiden name than my married name, it surprised me to hearMooreagain. I’d only been Garland Sanders for two years, but I’dwantedto be Garland Sanders for what seemed like my entire life.

The twins jogged after my car. As soon as I got out, they hugged me like I was their close friend. Honestly, I felt like I was. They’d posted so many camp and life updates on their social media, it had tricked me into believing we’d spent the last few months in close contact, when really we had only shared that one fateful car ride. They couldn’t believe I’d never been to sleepaway camp before, and as I drove them, I’d playfully entertained their pleas that I come for their adults-only week. I’d written the whole thing off as the kind of exchangethat floated into the wind as soon as someone vacated my back seat. But Dara hadn’t. When I told her about the conversation, she thought it was a sign. She insisted we go.

“Still want to leave?” she asked me as the twins made their way to my trunk to help unload our bags.

“I never said Iwanted to leave,” I whispered. “I’m really excited, actually. I’m also just scared.”

“What scares you? That you’ll like the experience too much?”

“Exactly,” I confirmed. “Because when it’s over I’ll go back to my glamorous life of being a nuisance to your existence.”

“When have I ever called you a nuisance?” she asked.

I pretended to pull a notebook out of my pocket. “Let’s see,” I said as I shuffled through imaginary pages. “April of 2006, when I left my curling iron plugged in and almost burned down the house. December of 2011, when I tripped walking into the kitchen and ruined everyone’s Christmas with my rolled ankle.”

“The curling iron thing was 2005.” Smirking, we gave each other a beat, appreciating our ability to remember our shared history. Then Dara added, “You are welcome at my apartment for as long as you need to live there, and you know that. I don’t mind the company.”

I was supposed to stay for one week. One week had turned into one year and I still hadn’t left. I never wanted Dara to think I planned to intrude upon her life in a permanent way. No matter what she said, I felt like I was a bother, and I hated being a bother.

“Let’s make the most of this week, okay? I don’t use my PTO for just anything,” she continued.

I gave her a salute and headed to the trunk. She’d asked me to do this camp with her, and she never asked me for anything. I couldn’t evenbeginto pay her back for all she’d done for me. The least I could do was enjoy this week, which started with checking all my anxiety at the door.

Tommy pointed to my bumper sticker. “You’re divorced?” he asked me.

“Aren’t we all?” I said as I popped my trunk.

Tim leaned toward me and whispered, “We saw the sticker after you dropped us off in February. He’s been dying to ask you about it.”

Right before I drove my car across the country to live with Dara, I’d put on a bumper sticker that saidhonk if you’re divorced. It was a real crowd-pleaser on highways.

I hauled my giant suitcase over the lip of my trunk, then let it thump onto the dirt. “I am the proud product of a dysfunctional marriage who went and failed her own marriage,” I told Tommy. “You know what they say.It takes a village.”

Tommy’s eyebrows crinkled with what I could only guess was pleasant shock. “I’m divorced too.”

I held up my hand for a high five. “Failed marriageon three?”

Tommy nodded.

“One, two, three,” I counted.

“Failed marriage!” we yelled in unison as our palms connected.

Our siblings laughed with an edge of unease. They didn’t understand, and that was for the best. Dara handled her struggles the same way she handled everything else—withsteadfast competence. When her appendix burst, she had me bring her laptop to the hospital so she could log in to work remotely. It wasn’t that she loved her job that much. She just didn’t want anyone to know anything was wrong with her.Ever.

I, however, wore my struggles like Girl Scout badges. My divorce was something I found myself mentioning as often as possible, as if the more I talked about it, the less painful it would feel.

In some ways, it worked. The word no longer bottomed me out. In other ways, it was a wound I poked at too much, never letting it properly heal. Ultimately, acknowledging my divorce as often as possible took the edge off other people’s opinions of it. No one could ever judge me too harshly if I judged myself harder and louder than they’d ever dare.

“Quite the rollout for you, Miss Divorcée,” Dara whispered to me as Tim grabbed our suitcases and started wheeling them toward the sign-in area. She always took great note of small gestures of kindness, like when a cashier gave a sincere greeting or a stranger went out of their way to pick up a piece of trash.

“It’s for the both of us,” I told her.

She laughed. “Please. You’re the crowd-pleaser here. I’m just the bank account.”

“Hey,” I said softly. “You’re also theParent Trapenthusiast. That’s a really important piece of you.”

“Soon it will be a piece of you too. When you cut my hair in our cabin in the middle of the night...”