Page 69 of I Hope This Doesn't Find
His expression morphs into something else at once. He jerks back, his brows furrowed. Lifts a hand, the aim unclear. “Sadie,” he says. Tentative. Tender, even. “I—I didn’t mean to—”
“Start paddling,” I say stiffly. “We should go back.”
Then I duck my head so he can’t see me cry.
•••
Neither of us speaks on the way back.
There’s no point; we’ve already said too much. The instant the canoe bumps against the shore, I’m jumping off, barely noticing when the water splashes my legs.
“Had a little fall, did we?” Dave says, grinning, somehow oblivious to the tension simmering between us. “Don’t fret. It happens pretty often—”
“You both need to change,” Ms. Hedge interrupts, looking far less amused. She’s even set her cocktail-mocktail down. “Go shower and put on some warm clothes—god forbid someone gets pneumonia on this trip. You can meet us back here after.”
“Thanks, Ms. Hedge,” I say, genuinely grateful for the opportunity to escape. But as I walk past Abigail, she catches my wrist and pulls me a few steps back, out of earshot from the others.
“What happened out there?” she whispers. “Have you beencrying? Did you tell him you like him? What did he say?”
I almost laugh. “No. I told him I hate him, and he told me he hates me too. So that’s that.”
“What?”Her jaw drops. “But I thought— That wasn’t the plan—”
“It was a terrible plan,” I say. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Okay, wait. Wait. Just—hang on.” She shakes her head. “I’m still trying to understand how you went from wanting to confess to him to fighting with him—”
“I guess old habits die hard.” I try to make it sound like a joke, like it’s already behind me. But maybe it’s true. Maybe, by this stage, we’ve both been hardwired to hate each other. Maybe it’s a fundamental part of our internal coding, and there’s no way to reprogram it without self-destructing, setting everything on fire. Maybe it’s for the best this way.
“Are you okay?” she worries. “Do you want me to punch him for you?”
“No, no, I’m okay.” My mouth strains into a smile. “Really.”
Iamokay. Completely okay. I’m okay when I stomp up to the cabin bathrooms and stand under the hot spray of the shower, letting the heat melt the ice from my bones, scraping the mud from my skin with such force it leaves behind angry red nail marks. I’m okay when I slather my hair with too much shampoo and close my eyes against the water like it’s pouring rain; when I sob into the palm of my hand, alone where nobody can hear me. And I’m definitely okay when I towel myself dry, change into a faded knit cardigan and skirt, and head back to the lake. Julius Gong is dead to me, I vow silently. If I think about him again— If I so much aslookat him, then I deserve to be pelted with ice.
•••
I deserve to be pelted with ice.
In my defense, I manage to hold it together all throughout lunch and after it too. The teachers split us off into our two teams for the afternoon activities, which means I don’t have to worry about stumbling across him. We’re taken to the other side of the lake to fish and bird-watch and color in illustrations of the mountain ranges. Everything’s going well.
But later, we all gather back inside the warm air of the cabin and dim the lights, and my self-control rapidly deteriorates from there.
The screen unfurls. The projector flickers on. Around me, people are lying down, getting comfortable on faded cushions and beanbags and pink wool blankets. Someone’s snuck in a bag of gummy worms, even though we’re technically not allowed snacks, and the candy is passed discreetly from hand to hand like drugs.
Abigail saves me a pillow, and I lean back next to her, dropping my head on her shoulder. That’s when I notice Julius on the other end of the room. The sharp line of his shoulders. The glint of his hair. The cold planes of his profile. He’s changed his clothes as well, discarded his button-down shirt for a dark V-neck that exposes his collarbones.
“What are you looking at?” Abigail whispers. “The movie’s starting.”
“Nothing,” I say hastily, ripping my gaze away.Stop it, I tell myself.I think we’ve established by now that it’s a bad idea.
“It’s not scary by your standards, I don’t think,” she adds. She knows my incredibly low tolerance for blood or gore. She, on the other hand, likes to fall asleep to horror films. Claims she finds the suspenseful music relaxing. “But if it is, you can use my arm to cover your face. Just don’t pinch me too hard like you did last time.”
I shove her with the pillow. “I told you, I couldn’t help it—”
She pushes the pillow back. “There wasn’t even any blood. It was just one dude kicking the wall—”
“Aggressively,” I supply.
