Page 63 of Fun at Parties
“All good?” I ask Nate when he hangs up, even though his tense expression makes it clear that all is not, in fact, good.
“That was my brother. He heard there’s another bidder. A company that already owns three big day camps up north.”
My stomach plummets. “What? Is he sure?”
He massages his jaw. “Joe from the bagel shop told him, and Joe knows everything.”
“It’s okay. You knew other people would be interested, right? It’s a sign that it’s a good investment. And they can’t compete with your personal connection.”
“Can I compete with them financially? And experience-wise? They have a track record. I doubt Logan’s parents want to see me run the camp into the ground.”
“You’re not going to run the camp into the ground!” I say. “You’re going to maintain its legacy as a locally owned small business that serves the community.”
“You’re really good at spinning things.”
“It’s not spin. It’s the truth. You want this badly, right? You know you’re going to be good at it?” I squeeze his shoulder.
“Yeah.” He sighs, wrapping an arm around my waist and squeezing me closer. He presses his face into my hair. “Thank you. Okay, let’s go. We really need to find Logan now.”
Yeah, we really do, because I am so confused about where we stand. The longer we stay in this gray area, the worse it’s going to be when it’s over.
Chapter 21
The VIP area near thestages is dotted with themed pop-up bars, including an orange kiosk offering apple cider spritzes, the outpost of a local brewery, and a stand selling drinks made with the cherry rum that’s haunting us. There are food trucks and picnic tables under tassel garlands in varying shades of yellow.
On the side opposite the campground entrance sits another set of gates leading to the stages. By the time we make it through, a band fronted by a woman in head-to-toe denim wielding a glittery guitar has just started their set. I don’t recognize them or the song, but it’s high-energy country-rock, and Nate and I agree—in a nonverbal conversation involving just our facial expressions—that if Logan is here, he’s as close to the stage as possible.
We squeeze through the crowd. With every step, my feet sink into the sludgy grass or get squashed by the boot of an overeager dancer. Nate grabs my hand and pulls me along, and I use his torso as a shield to protect my nose from flying elbows. Yesterday, I thought cold and muddy was bad. Turns out hot and muddy is worse. It’ssplattering my legs and commingling with the sweat on the backs of my knees.
We manage to reach the front, but there’s no sign of Logan anywhere. I turn in a circle to assess how far the crowd stretches, but there’s a woman in a frilly gingham romper behind us jumping up and down aggressively.
“In my head this seemed like it would be easier,” I shout. The stage feels bigger up close, and it’s going to be impossible, I realize, to comb through every bit of the crowd to make sure we don’t miss Logan.
“I didn’t expect there to be so many people at the earliest show of the day. I’ve never even heard of this band,” Nate says.
“Then get the fuck out of the way!” the woman in gingham yells, her jumps turning angrier.
“That’s fair.” Nate crowds into me to give her more room to express herself through the medium of stomping giant divots into the ground. “Sorry, I just—”
“It’s okay.” My back is against his front. I try not to move, which makes itreallyhard not to move. Every inadvertent shift feels as shocking as if one of us started grinding on the other.
The guy in front of me bends over and gyrates rhythmically. To avoid inadvertent contact between his grimy cargo shorts and my crotch, I instinctively hinge at the hips, which means my back arches and my butt rolls backward right between Nate’s thighs.
“Gah.” He grabs me by the waist and separates our bodies.
“That wasn’t a dance move!”
“Trust me, I know.” His hands slide from my waist tomy arms, where he maneuvers my elbows into a bent position, angles my wrists down, and grabs my hands. He moves them to the beat of the music the same way I do after two and a half cocktails. “Thisis your dance move.”
“It’s a good one.” My skin lights up at the feeling of his arms around me. All I can think ismoreandcloser.“When’s the last time you even saw me dance?”
“Probably the last time you went to Bailey’s birthday party.” He stops the marionette act but keeps hold of my hands. “And a million times over the years before that.”
“Seems like you’ve paid pretty close attention.”
He laughs and slides his thumbs across the insides of my wrists. “Yeah, I think that’s accurate.”
My blood is like the inside of a lava lamp. “That would be super creepy if I didn’t…” I lick my lips.
