Page 15 of My Star-Crossed Summer

“So listen,” I say. “I think we should clear the air.” I keep my tone warm and friendly, though the words feel ragged in my mouth. “I expect you have some mixed feelings about being here together, given how things ended between us.”

That furrow in her brow deepens. I’ve hit a nerve, but there’s no backing out now.

“Given how things ended,” she repeats, turning to face me. “That’s one way to say it.”

My whole body tenses when I see the flash of hurt in her eyes. “How would you say it?”

She blinks at me for a moment, like she’s deciding whether she can tell me off and still keep her job. “You completely ghosted me,” she says. “Vanished like Houdini. Or D.B. Cooper. Poof!”

“You kissed me like the world was ending and then bolted,” I counter. “You wouldn’t even talk to me after.”

“I needed to clear my head,” she says, exasperated. “I made myself so vulnerable with you. And felt like I’d made the worst mistake and I didn’t know how to fix it.” She crosses her arms over her chest as if she’s holding herself together. “I was humiliated, and then you disappeared from the face of the earth. With yourgirlfriendthat you kept secret from me.”

“That was a serious error in judgment,” I tell her. “And for what it's worth, she ditched me in Amsterdam when she met some Swedish guy with a platinum credit card and cheekbones that could cut glass.”

“Are you trying to make me feel sorry for you?” she asks, her cheeks flaming.

“Not for a minute,” I insist. “Just wanted you to know that karma kicked me square in the balls, and I definitely deserved it.” My attempt at levity is failing because she looks like she wants to hurl those new boots right at my head. “There’s a lot I regret about that string of decisions,” I say. “But mostly, I regretnot being honest with you. And not trying harder to fix things between us.”

She narrows her eyes, but that hard line of her lips softens. “You stopped texting me,” she says with a shrug. “I figured you lived happily ever after and forgot about me.”

“Not even close.” I slide my hand over hers, and to my surprise, she doesn’t pull it away. “I could never forget about you. I didn’t try to get in touch anymore because I thought that’s what you wanted.” I swallow hard, thinking of that night on the beach, that kiss that turned the whole world on its side—and that text she sent weeks later that readAll good things come to an end, N—leave me be.

There were some other words, but those are the ones that feel tattooed on my heart.

“I never meant to hurt you, Vic. I thought you wanted me to stay away.”

“I just wanted my best friend back,” she says, and I feel gutted.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, squeezing her hand. “For all of it. Being oblivious, keeping my feelings hidden, not trying harder to make it up to you.” I give her a small shrug. “Your last words to me just felt so final. I was trying to do what you asked.”

Puzzled, she cocks her head to the side. “What do you mean?”

“That last text you sent me, telling me to leave you alone. I took you at your word when you said you didn’t want to see me again.”

Her brows pinch together. “I never said that.”

“You did, though.” There’s no way I’m misremembering because at the time, those words were like a knife plunged into my chest. It had seemed so unlike her to cut me off so easily, but there was no mistaking her words—eventually, I convinced myself that there was no way to fix what I’d broken. “I thought if I gave you some space, you might get in touch again when youwere ready. But you never did. I just figured I didn’t matter to you anymore. And maybe I deserve that. But I will do anything to make all that up to you.”

“But I—” She shakes her head, pulling her hand away from mine. She looks like she wants to say more, but she’s quiet for a long moment. When she finally turns back to me, her eyes are glassy. “You know what? It doesn’t matter now. We have a job to do. I think it’s best for everyone if we keep our past in the past and focus on making sure the kids have a good time here.” Her tone is cool. She’s building that wall up between us again.

Now I feel like I’ve made a mistake and shouldn’t have poked this wound.

Why do I always make everything between us worse?

“We’re adults,” she goes on. “And people with complicated histories work together all the time. I can handle being colleagues for three weeks if you can.”

Something about the wordcolleaguemakes me want to choke. It’s so cold and clinical, the opposite of how we used to be with each other. Back then, I broke her trust—I see that now. It’s a tricky thing, earning back someone’s trust when you’ve lost it. But that’s what I have to do—because I’m not that scared twenty-one-year-old anymore.

“Pretend you don’t know me,” she says, her tone icy.

“What?”

“I think it’s best,” she says. “For the sake of camp, we have no history. We’ve never met before today.”

“That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?”

“No.” She reaches for the door handle and gives me a look of disappointment that could burn a hole in my chest. “You said you’d do anything. This is what I’m asking.”

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