Page 49 of My Star-Crossed Summer

No earthly force can wipe Noah from my mind.

My options are few: I can lie here all night, praying I don’t wake up with a cold, or I can go sleep in the Tahoe. I might wake up feeling like a pretzel, but at least I’ll be warm and dry.

Another fat raindrop splatters on my cheek.

Grumbling, I wriggle out of my sleeping bag and unzip the door of the tent. I grab my rain jacket and shove on my hiking boots, and as I tie them I think of Noah holding my foot againsthis thigh that night in the shoe store. On my first day here he wanted to make sure I had what I needed.

Because it was so obvious I was not prepared for this trip.

And not prepared to see him again.

It must have been so awkward for him, too. But his first move was to take care of me.

The rain blows directly into my tent as I scramble to get out of it. Flashlight in hand, I walk softly around the back side, away from where the kids are sleeping. I pause long enough to make sure no one else is awake and outside their tent, and then head towards the small paved lot where the vehicles are parked. It’s maybe fifty yards from where the tents are, so not too far from the kids.

Once inside the Tahoe’s passenger seat, I proceed to enact a modern retelling ofThe Princess and the Peaand try each seat in every position I can think of: semi-reclined in the front, slumped against the window like a sack of flour, curled up knees-to-chin on the back seat. Finally I settle for lying on my back with my knees up and feet flat, like I often lie on my sofa at home.

But this Tahoe is no sofa. The seats are hard and a seat belt buckle is poking into my hip. Rain’s pelting the roof and I’m still fixated on Noah and that jolt of electricity that shot up my arm when he squeezed my hand in the dark.

With each deep breath, I try to push him out of my mind. Stop thinking about the way things ended, the sorrow that I felt when he told me about Samantha, and the hurt that came when I realized he’d slipped away.

All of that old hurt has come rushing back—but also that feeling of missing him that had burrowed deep down between my ribs and hidden for so long that I thought I didn’t feel it anymore.

But I do feel it. Now more than ever.

This isn’t the place to have an explosion of complicated feelings though, because we still have a week to go here. These kids need the best camp ever—not two adults making things weird and cooking up a tension that no one can name but everyone feels.

I spent my entire childhood that way, and it’s no fun. My parents operated as if difficult feelings would just vanish if you pretended they didn’t exist.

Spoiler alert: they don’t.

I don’t want to ignore all these feelings I have for Noah anymore, but I have to be a professional here. I have to do my job well and give these kids my all.

Thunder rumbles overhead, and a chill hits me so hard my teeth clack. I climb out of the car again to search the cargo area for something warmer than my fleece. Light floods the parking lot when I open the lift gate, but I see what I need. Noah, planning ahead, stashed extra blankets, water, and snacks in the back compartment of each vehicle.

Just in case,he’d said.

“Thank you, Noah,” I mumble as I unearth the two wool blankets. “Bless you and your over-preparedness.” I might feel like I’m sleeping on a rock, but at least I’ll be warm. I grab a bottle of water and close the gate, then fold myself into the back seat again. I’ve just managed to burrow under the blankets and get myself somewhat cozy when a tap on the window makes me nearly jump out of my skin.

Noah’s standing outside the car window, his hand held up in a wave.

When I open the door, he says, “Hey, is everything okay?”

“Sure,” I say, as if finding me this way isn’t one bit unusual.

His brow lifts in that way that says he doesn’t believe me for a minute. He climbs inside, and for a moment, he’s illuminated by the light inside the car. He’s wearing his plaid flannel pants andhis rain jacket, a thin tee shirt underneath. Rain drips from the ends of his hair, the tips of his eyelashes.

“You want to try that again?” he asks.

“Okay, fine,” I say. “My tent’s leaking. I couldn’t sleep.”

He frowns. “You won’t be able to move tomorrow if you sleep in here.”

“I’ll be okay,” I insist, though he’s not wrong.

“Vic,” he says, his voice gravelly. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day. You’ll be miserable.”

No,I think. Miserable is losing someone like him because you’re a big fat chicken.

---