Page 87 of Until Next Summer
We walk down the path to his cabin, Scout trailing behind us. The sun has set; fireflies are dancing on the lawn. I don’t know why I’m going with him, except that I don’t want to say good night yet.
“There once was a camper named Jess,” he says eventually. “Her freckles were surely the best.”
I grin. “Go on.”
“She had pretty eyes, and nicely toned thighs—”
“Whoa!” I burst out. “That’s rather personal, don’t you think?”
“And they called her Camp Barbie, no less,” he finishes.
I groan. “I hated being called Camp Barbie.”
“It was a compliment, though.”
“No. A true compliment is about something you can control, something you achieved, a challenge you faced. Like, ‘Wow, Jessie, you’ve done a great job putting this adult summer camp together.’ That’s a compliment. Being compared to a ten-inch plastic doll is dehumanizing and objectifying.”
He presses his lips together as he studies me. “Point taken. But what about being told that I look like a young Paul Newman? Is that objectifying?”
I scoff. “Paul Newman was one of the most famous actors of the twentieth century, a humanitarian, a devoted husband and father. That’s not just a compliment, Luke, that’s high praise.”
“Or is it a subtle way of saying that I look like him, but the rest of me falls short?”
“Most people fall short of the Paul Newman standard.”
“True. How many people have a successful salad dressing enterprise with their face on the bottle?”
“I love those salad dressings,” I say. “The ranch especially. He wore a cowboy hat. I’m sorry, it was hot!”
“Compliments should be about what someone can control,” Luke says, nudging me with his arm. The contact sends a wave of sunshine through me.
We turn toward his cabin, which takes us up a slope. Scout struggles to navigate a rock in the path, and Luke bends down, guiding her around it.
“There you go,” he says. “That’s a good girl.”
His voice goes husky on that last sentence, and I know he’s talking to his elderly dog, but my dirty mind spins it in a new direction. I wonder what he’s like in bed, if he’s gentle like this. What it would take to make him sayThat’s a good girl.
Heat flashes through my body, and I shake it away.
“Her eyesight is going,” he says, straightening up. We continue walking, more slowly now, letting Scout pick her way across the uneven path. “She can’t hear much, either. She still knows when it’s breakfast time, though—she wakes me up at six o’clock every morning.”
“You take good care of her.”
He shrugs. “She took good care of me when Nicole left. Maybe that’s pathetic, having a dog as your primary emotional support—”
“Not at all. Sounds like you’re lucky to have each other.”
He clears his throat, shoots me a glance. “Yeah. Anyway—I’m sorry about the Camp Barbie thing. I understand why you wouldn’t feel it was a compliment. The boys just thought you were hot.”
“Why would I care what a bunch of boys thought about me?”
“I thought you were hot, too. Frustratingly, maddeningly, distractingly hot.”
Another zing of heat runs through me, but I’m not sure how to take this; there’s a sardonic smile on his lips, like he’s mocking me.
“Ah, youthoughtI was hot. So glad you’ve come to your senses.”
He shakes his head, mildly exasperated. “Jess…”
