Page 30 of My Star-Crossed Summer

“Yeah,” he says, following me the last few feet to the cabin. “We should try again.”

I know he’s talking about sleep, but a tiny part of me lights up at the idea of us trying again for real—to be friends, or something more.

With Noah, I always wanted more—even when it wrecked us.

“Good night, Noah,” I whisper, opening the door.

“Night, Vic,” he says, his voice gravelly. “Sleep tight.” His gaze drops to my slippers, and just as he turns back toward the boys’ cabin, I see a hint of a smile.

Chapter Nine

VICTORIA

Three days later, I’ve made it clear to everyone on this mountain that sports are not my superpower.

Today’s afternoon game is ultimate Frisbee, which as a concept sounds easy enough and potentially fun—if you’re a kid who likes to run around at warp speed and not a twenty-nine-year-old woman who has zero hand-eye coordination and gets winded after running thirty yards. We’re twenty minutes into the afternoon game, and already I’m wheezing and have been smacked in the face by a Frisbee. Twice. But I’m going to rally because that’s the point of this whole camp adventure: I’m supposed to be proving to myself that I can thrive outside my comfort zone. I can do more than I give myself credit for.

Frisbee, though, might be my undoing. I feel like one of those inflatable air dancers that wiggle around to get your attention at car dealerships—completely goofy and bending at all the wrong angles.

I definitely do not want anyone’s attention. I’d prefer to rally from the sidelines.

Half the kids love this game and ask to play it every afternoon—but a few of them are hanging out on the fringe of the action,moving only when it’s necessary to get out of the way of the players who are intent on winning this game. Sophie’s on my team, and Noah’s on the other. Sophie, trying to keep me from feeling excluded, tosses the Frisbee to me every chance she gets—and keeps saying, “You’ll get the hang of it,” every time I drop it. Or bat it out of the air when it flies anywhere near my face.

Bless her heart for throwing all that optimism my way. She’s like an endless well of affirmations—but what I want her to do is pretend I’m not here so I can stop looking like a goofball. I offered to stay safely on the sidelines and take photos to share on the website, but she gave me this speech about how important it was to bond with the kids and play with them, and then I just felt like a jerk for trying to weasel out of the game.

Noah, of course, is the complete opposite of me. If you were to send your kid to camp and put in an order to the universe for the coolest camp counselor it could manifest, Noah is who you’d get. With the kids, he turns into this big scruffy teddy bear with a movie-star smile that draws them in closer, like plants leaning toward a sunbeam. He’s like their easygoing big brother, telling them stories about how he went backpacking in Maine, swam with dolphins in the Virgin Islands, or trekked through the Rockies and met some amazing forest dweller who changed his perspective on life.

It’s completely adorable, and yes—I’m a little jealous. Noah and Sophie are like the cool aunt and uncle at the reunion, and I’m the weirdo cousin that no one wants to stand next to for too long in the buffet line.

Every word Noah says keeps the kids riveted, their eyes sparkling with delight. When I talk to them, I bumble through questions about their favorite class, their hometown, their favorite hobby. Sometimes, I get a blank stare, but I see the eye rolls that pass between them when they think I’m not looking. It reminds me too much of high school and how I was never quitecool enough to fit in with the popular girls. How I constantly felt like a chameleon and needed to change myself to fit in with whichever crowd I was with that day. The kids here tolerate me, but they seem excited to hang out with Sophie and Noah. It’s just one more way that I feel completely out of place here.

Today, though, I’ve pulled out all the stops. I’m cheering my team on, giving high-fives galore, and doing everything I can to channel Sophie's energy so the kids like hanging out with me, too.

When I trip over my own foot after missing yet another pass, I roll back up to my feet and throw my hands up in victory. Layla and Priya give me sympathetic smiles and giggle as they chase the Frisbee on the next play.

Across the field, Noah gives me a questioning look, and I respond with an exaggerated smile and a big thumbs-up. He smirks as he shakes his head, and I try to ignore the way the muscles in his forearms ripple as he rakes his hands through his sweaty hair. I’m not sure when forearms became my catnip, but from this point forward, all others will be measured against his.

Probably, all others will fall short.

Half of my problem today might be that Sporty Noah takes my breath away. Today, he showed up in soccer shorts and a vintage Queen tee shirt, a blue 1980s-era sweatband wrapped around his head like this was the most serious game in the history of games. He got the kids all pumped up to have fun and went over the ground rules (no tackling, no tripping, no trash talking) before dividing us into teams.

He’s gone to great lengths to research different ways to assign kids to teams so that no one is choosing and no one has that sucky feeling of getting picked last. Today, it was “All people born between January 1 and June 10 are Team Noah, and everyone born between June 11 and Dec 31 are Team Sophie.” Yesterday, it was those who have more than one sibling andthose who do not. Each day, he makes it seem like this is a system he’s just thought of on the fly, a not-quite random way to change up the teams and keep them even.

When he first explained this system to me, it tugged at something in my heart so hard that it almost made me tear up. He shrugged it off like it was the simplest idea on earth and not a super sneaky way of making sure no kid felt like they weren’t wanted on a team.

It’s no surprise that these kids love Noah. They ask him questions all during the evening, hang with him at mealtimes, and seek him out when there’s downtime, too. They’re like a bunch of little asteroids orbiting their sun.

“I’m on to you,” Sophie says, giving me a playful nudge.

“What?” The word comes out like a squawk. She’s caught me drooling over Noah, and now it’s game over.

“This whole clumsy act,” she says with a smile. “It’s totally working. Some of the kids are self-conscious about sports, but you’re taking the pressure off. It’s sweet.”

“It’s no act,” I say. “I’m truly this bad at sports.”

She smiles. “You’re good with the kids, though. We’re really lucky to have you here.” She claps me on the shoulder and then jogs back over to where the action is.

The tightness in my chest loosens.Good. Lucky.

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