Page 64 of My Star-Crossed Summer

I rake my hands through my hair, trying to stay calm. “What did you tell her?”

She sighs as if she has the weight of the world on her. “I told her that we’re old friends. But a couple of photos went up on the site, and Roxy saw them.” A blush rises in her cheeks, and she tugs on the ends of her hair, a habit I remember all too well. It means she’s nervous and anxious. Scared.

I want to fold her into my arms and tell her it’s going to be okay—but that’s the impulse that created this problem.

“The photos were nothing terrible,” she says. “I mean, it’s obvious that we’re friendly and close, but it was nothing beyond that. It just raised a flag for Roxy because she’s got this ridiculous sixth sense about people.”

“Jesus,” I breathe.

“We have to take a step back,” she says. “I think we have a lot to sort out, and I have a bunch of feelings to untangle, but the point is that we have to be one hundred percent professional, and we haven’t been. My life already feels like a train wreck right now, and I don’t want to screw this up, too.”

I nod, resisting the urge to take her hand in mine. “You’re not screwing anything up with me,” I reassure her.

She blinks at me in confusion. “I mean thejob,” she says. “Roxy vouched for me, and here I am breaking the one big rule. I don’t want to let her down, or ruin this camp for the kids.”

Her words hit me like a knife in the chest. Of course she’s worried about the work, not me. She’s concerned about her reputation, her future with the program. She’s not worried about how we fit together after camp is over.

“And then there’s your job,” she says. “You’ve been doing this for years, and I don’t want to wreck that for you, either. I know how important it is for you.”

I nod, swallowing hard. Although she’s right, these are not words I want to hear.

“I just don’t want to ruin all of this,” she says. “I’ve missed our friendship so much, and being here has helped me see that. I was hoping we could have that again. If you wanted it, too.”

“Friendship,” I say, straining to keep my voice even. “That’s what you want?”

“I hated the way things ended between us,” she says. “I hated that things were unresolved for so long.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

She stares at me for a long moment, like she’s working through a complicated math problem.

I lean closer, daring her to deny what’s written all over her face. Daring her to deny that she wants more than friendship between us. Because that kiss? It didn’t feel like the end of something. It felt like the beginning.

“You want me to be your friend?” I ask her. “Nothing else?”

She practically leaps to her feet, pacing in front of me. “I’m not sure of what I want anymore. You said it yourself—camp time is compressed. Things happen fast, and they feel more intense. I think we need to hit the pause button and think harder about what happens next. Don’t you?” She tugs on the ends of her hair, a dead giveaway that she’s feeling torn. “I just feel like everything in my life is turned upside down right now, and it’s all happening so fast, and—” she pauses, letting out a weary sigh. “Making decisions in the heat of the moment is never a good idea.”

My heart feels as heavy as a brick. I thought we were on the same page—that she wanted to see where this might go, too. She seemed so certain when we were on the camping trip: by the waterfall, at the campsite, after the bridge.

But something has changed. Now she’s saying that she hasn’t been feeling at all what I’ve been feeling. She just wants closure. To smooth out the rough patch of our history and then say goodbye. My stomach’s twisting into a knot. This feels just likethat night on the beach in college, when she kissed me like it was our last night on Earth and then ran from whatever she was feeling and refused to talk to me.

Before I can put any of that into words, she presses on. “When the admins are here, we have to be icebergs,” she says, back to her nervous pacing. “Pretend like you can barely tolerate me. And I’ll do the same.”

When her gaze flicks back to mine, it’s stern and calculating. That look means there’s no room for negotiation. She’s decided what she wants, and it’s not me.

“Can you do that?” she says, her voice softer, but still insistent. Twisting that knife in my chest.

“Icebergs,” I repeat. “Whatever you say.” The words hang heavy between us and my heart sinks like a stone.

Chapter Twenty

VICTORIA

Roxy grins at me. “I gotta say, the wilderness looks good on you.” Her style is chic meets quirky—today, it’s a short knit skirt with harness boots and a navy blouse dotted with tiny pink elephants. Her red hair is pulled back into an updo that’s held in place with a couple of copper hairpins that she bought at a craft fair we visited last summer.

I pull a leaf from my hair and snort. “It took a little getting used to.”

“Never took you for the outdoorsy type,” she says. “But I stand corrected.”

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