Page 72 of My Star-Crossed Summer

“Fair enough.” I follow him into the boys’ cabin, but go no further than the lounge area and kitchenette, which is the mirror image of the girls’ cabin. Everyone’s asleep again now, or at least in their rooms. We did a final check before Sophie rushed Priya to the hospital, because of course some of the kids had heard us and asked what was happening.

While Noah fills an electric kettle and searches for the cocoa, I collapse into one of the two wooden chairs at the dining table. When he sits across from me, his knee bumping against mine, I don’t have the strength to move away.

Or maybe I just need to feel that tiny connection.

“Listen,” he says. “This is not your fault.”

I blink at him, shaking my head.

“I know that’s what you’re thinking,” he says, “because you have that line between your eyebrows that’s deep enough to grow potatoes.”

“But itismy fault,” I counter. “Obviously.”

He cocks his head to the side in challenge.

“In her room. The girls were eating the cookies I got at the bakery. I saw them on the plate.” The words come out in a rush, a painful confession.

“But you told the baker about all the allergies we have here.”

“I sure did. They assured me no peanut products, no tree nut products.” I rest my face in my hands. “I shouldn’t have taken a chance.”

The kettle whistles and Noah fills our two mugs with hot water and cocoa powder. He pushes one toward me when he sits back down, then sprinkles a handful of marshmallows into each mug.

“Even if it was the cookies,” he says, “accidents happen. You took every precaution you could.” His eyes are steady on mine, daring me to disagree.

“But I brought the killer cookies here!” I shout.

He sighs, sitting back in the chair so that his long legs stretch to fill the space between us. “That’s the adrenaline talking,” he says. “And perhaps some anxiety. And also that stubborn little part of you that thinks she’s never allowed to be human and make mistakes.”

I open my mouth to argue and he holds his hand up. “Stop.”

What really stops me, though, is the way he has effortlessly summed up my life. Because that’s me in a nutshell: a people-pleasing perfectionist who would rather shrivel up and die than be told she’s done something wrong—and worse, hurt someone because of it.

“Is it possible,” he says, “that she ate something else that caused the reaction?”

“The half-eaten cookies were right there by the laptop, Noah. It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to?—”

“But,” he interrupts again. “You said there were other candy wrappers there, too. Every kid here showed up with a bag full of snacks from home. I can promise you that.” He stirs his cocoa, theclink-clinkof his spoon driving the words home.

“Priya’s so careful about what she eats,” I argue. “She reads the labels.”

I’m infuriated that he won’t let me wallow in my shame. The punishing thoughts are racing through my brain like jagged bolts of lightning.

“Here’s a wild idea,” he says. “Why not focus on how great you were with her and how quickly you took charge. We’re very lucky you were here to help.”

When I give him another doubtful stare, he says, “Sophie told me all about how you saved the day.”

“Sophie exaggerates.”

He leans closer to me. So close that I can smell that clean cedar-like scent that’s entirely Noah. He stares at me hard, his warm hazel eyes both a comfort and a challenge. “Hear me when I say this. That was scary for Priya, and you made it so much easier for her.”

Tears well in my eyes, but I can’t look away from him when he’s staring at me like this, pinning me with words I desperately want to believe and daring me to push back.

“But that’s what you do, Vic,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You put people at ease. Even in the toughest moments. You make them feel seen. And loved.”

I shake my head, fighting back tears. I do not want to fall apart in front of Noah. Not in this musty room, in a wobbly old chair, in my threadbare pajamas with my messy hair and racing thoughts. “I’ve been kidding myself with this,” I mutter. “I should just withdraw my application and take the stupid job in Florida.” Even as I say it, my gut clenches at the thought—because I’d finally let myself believe that this camp could be part of my new path.

And I let myself believe that Noah could be part of it, too.

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