Page 32 of My Star-Crossed Summer

Holding my arm in a firm grip, he walks me out of the meadow, where Sophie’s transitioned to referee as the kids finish the game.

“I have a first aid kit in my room,” he says, leading me into the boys’ cabin. It’s the mirror image of the girls’ cabin, but this one smells like sweaty old socks and middle school boys. Thankfully, Noah’s room smells like cedar and cloves, and there’s not a single dirty sock in sight. Just like mine, it has the same dresser, desk, and chair. The space is tidy, his clothes hanging neatly in the closet and his bed made. I spot two pairs of hiking boots in the closet, a notebook on his desk with a couple of sci-fi novels, and a reed diffuser that’s no doubt the source of the heavenly smell. This is the room of a man who knew what he was getting into—someone who knows how to prepare.

He pulls a first-aid kit from his bottom dresser drawer and motions for me to sit on the bed. When he sits next to me, I’m yanked back in time to that night at the beach house, when we sat together by the campfire under the stars. Something in my chest coils tight at the thought, and I swallow hard, trying to forget about how his hands felt around my waist, how his lips felt on my neck as he pulled me tight against his chest, so close that I could feel his heartbeat against my skin.

He tears open a sterilizing wipe and pushes my hair behind my ear before he gently swipes it over my eyebrow. I wince at the cool touch.

“I’ll try to be gentle,” he says. “It doesn’t look deep.”

He carefully cleans the wound and then applies some antiseptic with a cotton swab. His fingers are whisper-light, his eyes flicking to mine every few moments. At this distance, I can fully appreciate his long lashes, the way his lips pinch together when he’s concentrating hard. I hadn’t exactly forgotten these details about Noah, but I hadn’t let myself think about them—and that’s not quite the same thing.

I wince as his fingers brush over my brow, so delicate.

“Sorry,” he breathes. “It stings a little.”

What also stings is that memory of him that has never quite slipped away. And worse, this feeling that I’m failing at every part of my life and can’t even manage to do summer camp right. That critical voice in my head grows louder and more insistent, and before I know it, I’m choking back a sob.

“Vic?” he says, his hand frozen in mid-air. “Are you hurt somewhere else?” His voice is so calm, so soothing, and I want to tell him that I hurt everywhere, down to the deepest crevices of my heart.

“I’m fine,” I mutter, but the words come out sounding strangled and weak. But that’s what Griffins do. We roll along chantingEverything’s fine, even when the world’s burning down around us. Because to admit things are not fine is to confront all the difficult, uncomfortable feelings—like hurt, regret, and fear.

And that’s another hard truth I’ve gotten used to evading.

“Victoria,” he whispers. “Tell me what’s wrong. Let me help.”

I brush the tears away, avoiding his gaze. “I really want to not suck at this.”

“Frisbee?” He gives me a tiny smile, the kind he always used to make me feel better.

“All of it,” I sigh. “I’ve made so many mistakes lately, and I’ve wasted so much time. I don’t want to keep feeling like a failure.” When I think of the time I wasted with Theo and with a job Ididn’t like, it makes me wish I’d stood up for what I wanted. That nagging voice in my head has kept immaculate records of every mistake I’ve ever made, and now they’re washing over me like a tidal wave. Before I know it, I’m telling Noah more about my near-marriage and my unfulfilling job—all the ugly details I’d left out when we talked before.

It’s only when Noah’s big hand touches my shoulder that I realize I’m shaking all over. My brain is buzzing, and my skin feels too tight, but Noah’s hand is like an anchor, and when he moves it in a tiny circle, the warmth spreads across my back and into my chest, and it becomes easier to breathe.

“Vic,” he says. “You’re not a failure.”

I let out an unladylike snort. His gentle hand is the only thing keeping me from crumbling into pieces. “This was supposed to be easy,” I tell him. “Help kids have fun at camp. How am I failing at that, too?”

“You’re not,” he says, and there’s that warm smile again. The one that says everything’s going to be okay, no matter how it feels right now. “So Frisbee’s not your jam. That doesn’t mean you’re failing.”

“You make this look so effortless,” I tell him, a little envious of how he seems so perfectly suited to this role, this place. “You’ve so clearly found where you belong, and I thought that by now I would have found that, too.”

He shrugs. “I’ve been doing this a long time. But my first summer was a disaster.”

“It was not. You forget that I know when you’re lying. You have a tell.”

He shakes his head, biting back a smile as he dabs more ointment on my brow and tears open a tiny bandage. “During my first summer, at the New Mexico camp, I planned a day trip with horseback riding. First, my horse threw me into the biggest cactus I’ve ever seen, and I spent the rest of the day pullingspines out of places I won’t even mention. Then I realized I’d left all of our food and water behind, so we had to cut the trip short and go raid the nearest gas station—thirty miles down the road—for snacks. And let me tell you, feeding kids beef jerky and peanut butter cups is hands-down the worst decision one can make on a road trip.” He grimaces. “The next day, I made two kids cry, and one went home early. I thought for sure I’d get fired. But then Roxy told me the same thing I’m telling you.”

When he leans in closer to examine the cut, his knee presses into mine, and he doesn’t pull away. Then his eyes flick to mine as he lifts a brow, as if daring me to argue. “We all have to find our rhythm, Vic. No one’s perfect, so we shouldn’t beat ourselves up for that. We just need to be excellent to each other and leave the world a little better than we found it.”

“Did you just quoteBill and Ted’s Excellent Adventureto me?”

He shrugs. “It’s sound advice, and I will die on that hill.”

I snort out a laugh because I’ve missed this feeling so much—being able to relax and be my goofy weirdo self without worry about who’s watching and judging my actions against some impossible standard.

Noah smiles—a real one that makes his dimples pop and his eyes crinkle at the corners, and it’s like feeling sunlight on my face. When his eyes meet mine, there’s a flicker of something that tugs deep in my ribcage, and another chunk of that wall between us crumbles.

I stay still, feeling the heat from his knee burning into my thigh, his fingers warm on my brow. Before I can stop myself, the words spill out. “Have you ever thought about that night on the beach? I mean, before I showed up here?”

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