Page 24 of Hate You, Maybe
Sayla looks down at her lap. Says nothing. So I probably said too much.
“What about you?” I ask to switch the topic.
She lets out another long sigh. “Let’s just say my experience was the opposite of yours,” she admits. “My mom always braced for the worst and had her heart broken over and over. Kind of like a self-fulfilling prophecy. Which meant my heart got broken a lot, too.”
“That sounds … not great.” I fight a full-on grimace. “What about your dad?”
“Non-existent.” She hitches her shoulders. “All my mom ever said is that she wanted me, and he didn’t want us.”
“Wow.” I squint, navigating the curve in the road ahead. “That’s rough. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You weren’t the dad who abandoned us. And you weren’t the mom who dragged me to eighteen states by the time I escaped to college.” She lets out a sharp laugh. “I guess that’sonething I can’t blame you for.”
I glance at her and decide to build on that laughter, sarcastic as it was. Might as well keep the mood trending tolight. “Not to get all math-y on you,” I say, “but I think I countedtwothings you can’t blame me for.”
“Well, don’t get cocky.” She smirks. “We’re not at the retreat yet.”
“Man, Kroft.” A smile tugs at my mouth. “This is gonna be a long three days.”
Chapter Eight
Sayla
Spoiler alert: I don’t get a whole lot of productive play-reading done on our drive. As it turns out, absorbing Shakespeare while sitting this close to Dexter’s cedar scent—or whatever woodsy thing he smells like—is more of a challenge than I expected. So I give up once we turn off the mountain pass and onto a winding road lined with trees.
My research said to expect a lot of spruce here, white pine, and eastern hemlock. Hemlock makes me think of the witches inMacbeth. And poison. And Dexter.
My lips twitch.
“I’m pretty sure somebody built this place out of Lincoln Logs,” he says, nodding toward the glimpses of Camp Reboot we’re getting in between branches. At least two formidable lodges dominate the center of the site, and rows of smaller log cabins with green metal rooftops cluster in the clearing between them and the forest edging the property.
By the time Dex steers the car into the dirt parking lot, the spaces are mostly full.
Looks like almost everyone beat us here.
“I told you we’d be late,” I say, as the car crunches to a halt in one of the last remaining spots.
“Okay, Kroft. You get oneI told you so.Now you’re done.”
I stuff my play into my bag. “You are not the boss of me.”
“You’re right.” He stifles a smirk. “Thank goodness.”
We clamber out of the car, collecting our luggage from the back. The outside temperature is cool and crisp. The scent of pine and woodsmoke hovers in the air. Damp and fresh. Kind of nice, actually.
Not that I’ll admit that to Dexter.
“According to the brochure, Camp Reboot can accommodate up to thirty retreat-goers at any given time,” I say.
“Wow.” Dex chuckles. “You really looked into this place.”
“Nothing wrong with being prepared. I like to?—”
“Hello, there!” a man hollers from the center of camp. He waves for us to join him and a group of people already milling around a log cabin with a sign above the door that says Office. One of these strangers will probably be my roommate, and a wave of missing Loren streaks through my heart.
Making friends is hard for me.
As Dex and I approach, the man sticks out a hand in greeting. “Welcome to Camp Reboot!” He’s tall and lanky, wearing baggy cargo pants, a fanny pack, and a straw hat complete with chin strap. “I’m Bob, one of the directors.” His eyes twinkle. “But you can call me Bob.”
