Page 84 of My Star-Crossed Summer

In another week, I’ll be at the next camp, this one based at one of the satellite campuses outside of Charleston. I hope that Victoria will be there, too—but now that we’re off the mountain and I’m alone on my porch, that possibility seems much less likely than it did a few days ago.

After hanging up, I go inside to check my email. When I pull my laptop from my messenger bag, Victoria’s copy ofReady Player Oneslips out and lands at my feet. She was right, as usual—the story hooked me from the start, and I’ve been trying to savor it, not allowing myself to read more than three chapters each night. I place it on the kitchen counter and then open my laptop.

Roxy indeed sent the mailing label for Derrick’s phone, which I print out immediately.

As I scroll through my inbox, I see another email from her—it’s a follow-up that she always sends when a camp is over, just to check in and see what went well and what could be improved. When I open it, I see that she didn’t use blind-copy to send it to our staff. My email address is fully visible—as are Sophie’s and Victoria’s.

I stare at Vic’s email address for a long moment.

There’s no doubt in my mind that she thinks I’m ignoring her texts, and I don’t want her to feel ghosted. Again.

In two days I’ll have my phone. I can read those messages I only glimpsed, and I can reply.

But right now, two days feels like an eternity.

I start typing, then delete. I repeat this five more times until I have a breezy, friendly message that’s not the hopeless rambling of a man who’s fallen so hard he’s knocked all sense out of his head.

Because that’s exactly what’s happened. I’ve fallen so hard for this woman, I might never recover.

Victoria—

I just wanted to check in and see how your day went. I’m sorry I missed you, but I had to rush home to help Hannah. I was looking forward to talking with you and wanted to at least call. But—funny story—I lost my phone. Or rather, Derrick took mine home by accident (because of course he did), and I have his.

Let’s talk soon. I miss you already.

N.

I stare at the words, then add in the phone number of my landline. It’s worth a try, right? I finish the last of my margarita and make a plea to the universe as I hitsend.

Chapter Twenty-Six

NOAH

But first, pancakes,” Hannah says. Dressed in a hiking skirt and a blue tee shirt that saysAbide No Hatred, she’s blowing through my kitchen like a hurricane. Her dark wavy hair is pulled back into a ponytail that swings wildly as she whisks that bowl of batter like it sassed her. After spooning the batter into the skillet, she moves on to manhandling my espresso machine as she attempts to froth milk to go along with the waiting espresso shots. Hannah only has two speeds: sweet, blinking sloth and cartoon Tasmanian devil.

Right now, we’re a million miles from sloth mode. She’s likely been up for two hours already, based on the disastrous state of my kitchen.

I take the coffee she thrusts toward me and sit down at the breakfast island, which is covered in printouts of apartment listings. She’s already gone at them with highlighter and red marker.

“Fuel up,” she says. “I thought we could go back over to the apartment and pack up the rest of my things while Jason’s at work. Then, we can check out some places that are in my price range. You up for that?”

She says that last part like it’s a question, but it’s not. These pancakes are a bribe, but I’m okay with it. Hannah needs her own space, and she wouldn’t stay here more than a few days even if I offered.

“I mapped out the top contenders so we can do this systematically and don’t drive all over creation,” she says. “We can bring all of my stuff back here and then take my car to scout these places. I’ll drive and you navigate.”

I wince as the coffee burns my tongue. “Deal.” I hadn’t planned to spend my day apartment hunting, but I can’t say no to Hannah and her Big Plan. Even after taking a shower hot enough to melt iron, my shoulders are tight with knots and my neck feels like a horse stomped on it. But that won’t stop me from helping her today.

She flips a few pancakes in the skillet and nods. Next to her is a plate of charred ones that look like hockey pucks. While she waits for golden brown, I open my laptop and check my email, hoping for a reply from Victoria.

But there isn’t one.

I swallow the lump in my throat and tell myself this doesn’t have to mean anything. It’s barely eight-thirty a.m. Vic likely spent last night at the institute, and she’s probably leaving soon to head home if she hasn’t hit the road already. Staff always have the option to stay one extra night, but they have to be out early. Probably, email is the last thing on her mind.

Still, my brain wants to go straight to catastrophizing. Spending the day with Hannah is the only way I can hope to keep my mind off Victoria and not obsessively check my inbox every three minutes.

“Bon appétit,” Hannah says, pushing a plate toward me. “And also, do you have bungee cords and rope? I think we can get all of my stuff into your truck, but there’s a non-zero chancethat it could be aBeverly Hillbilliessituation and we might need to strap things down creatively.”

By mid-afternoon,we’ve rescued all of Hannah’s belongings and ruled out five vacant apartments. Three were a hard pass based on the overwhelming population of college students and their distinct dorm vibes. The fourth smelled like an ashtray and the fifth was a garage apartment that almost definitely had a gas leak.

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