Page 28 of Make Out With A Merman

And I hate the answer.

“If we shut the lake,” I say, “we shut the camp.”

She frowns. “So?”

“So every parent pulls their kid. Every sponsor yanks funding. The board panics, and this place turns into an abandoned cautionary tale.”

Callie stares at me.

“So it’s PR,” she says slowly. “That’s what’s keeping us in the water.”

“It’s more than that.” My voice tightens. “This camp is the only place some of these kids feel safe. If we lose it,reallylose it, we don’t get it back.”

She doesn’t say anything at first.

“That’s a hell of a line to balance.”

I nod. “I’ve been walking it for three summers.”

She touches my arm. Just lightly. “Then I guess I better learn to walk it with you.”

And the weight on my shoulders shifts.

Not lighter.

But less lonely.

That night at dinner,I try to focus.

I do.

The kids are loud, the stew’s bland, and Julie keeps sneaking glances at me like I’m going to announce doomsday between bites of cornbread.

But my eyes keep drifting.

To her.

Callie’s on the far end of the table, perched on the bench backward, laughing with the junior counselors as she re-enacts something dramatic with a juice box and a fork. The kids near her are in hysterics. She’s radiant, wild and full of light like a bonfire that doesn’t burn but pulls you in anyway.

And I hate how often I’m pulled in.

She catches my gaze mid-laugh. Doesn’t stop smiling. Just lifts an eyebrow, likewhat are you looking at, lifeguard?

I look away.

Pretend to read the safety roster again. But the names blur. The numbers don’t land.

Because all I can think about is her voice echoing in my head.

Then I guess I better learn to walk it with you.

And that shouldn’t matter more than tide shifts or anchor placement.

But gods help me, it does.

The lake is changing.

But so am I.

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