The Rules of Regret

by Megan Squires

  There was a picnic bench just outside the dining commons door and Torin settled his tray onto it, the metal soda can clinking against the wooden surface. “Have you missed me?”

  “What?”

  “Have you missed me, Darby? We did share a pretty intense 24 hours together.”

  “I have.” Did I really just admit that? Out loud? With actual words? “My girls have kept me busy,” I backpedalled, pushing around the food on my plate with my fork, shoving all the fruit to one side, all the meat to the other. “I’m pretty focused on them.”

  “That’s awesome,” he said around a mouthful of raspberry Jell-O. When he chewed, his dimples pricked his cheeks slightly and pulled my gaze like a magnetic field. I’d always assumed magnetic fields to be much, much larger, but apparently they were just the size of a dimple pressed into a cheek. Go figure. “I told you you’d make a great counselor. Especially with them being thirteen and all.” He winked at me and that sucked me completely into the vortex.

  “I don’t know about great.” I poked at my food, stabbing a slice of bologna with my fork so it left a row of five tiny pinholes. “But I’m trying.”

  “That’s all that matters.” With a flick of his wrist, he plopped a purple grape into his mouth. “I’ve got an interesting batch this time. Two former meth addicts and one kid that tried to kill his mom.”

  My utensil dropped from my fingers, clanking loudly against the ceramic plate. I scooped it back up, but my shock was already made embarrassingly, and loudly, evident. I felt the eyes of a few nearby counselors, but kept my head down like a scolded dog’s. Unfortunately, I couldn’t avoid the stare from the boy across the table. Our eyes collided.

  “I know, right? Serious stuff,” Torin agreed, nodding. He chomped down on another bite of his lunch and that dimple reappeared. “I’m glad they’re all out on their canoe trips for a few hours. As much as I love what I get to do and who I get to be in their lives, I need something a little less intense for a few hours.” He smiled, his cheeks puffed up like a chipmunk storing nuts for the winter. I wanted to pinch them. He pointed his fork my direction and muttered around his food, “You are less intense.”

  But I found it crazy that he could say this was less intense than what he’d been experiencing, because for me, this was over the top, about to explode intense. Like a balloon inflated to its bursting point. Maybe because I’d replayed everything that happened between us over and over like a movie during our two-week hiatus. Maybe because every night as I was falling asleep, it was Torin’s lips on mine that flashed before my closed eyes; his scent that filled all of my senses like a toxic vapor. Maybe because for the past two weeks I’d thought—fantasized even—about what our next interaction would be and even prayed for a tick just so he could remove it. Maybe that’s why this was all so intense.

  “I think I have to go.”

  I pushed the tray away from me, extending my arms as far as they could go until it almost collided with Torin’s. My glass teetered precariously and soda sloshed over the side, pooling in my fruit salad in a fizzy, carbonated mess.

  “Why?”

  “I just have to.” I rose to stand, but he caught my wrist. “I really should go, Torin.”

  His hand cuffed my arm, and didn’t let go even when I tugged it away. I turned, still keeping up my stride, and pulled him behind me until we were around the corner near the side wall of the dining hall, out of sight from the other counselors consuming their lunches at the tables that lined the decking.

  “Torin,” I said firmly, though my voice was weak and betrayed my oath to stay strong. “I have to go.”

  “Really?” Torin pulled my arm up so it was pinned against the rough, wooden planks of the wall. The breath in my lungs spilled out in a quiet, shaky rush. “Where do you have to go, Darby?”

  “Somewhere not here.”

  His eyes roved over my face and a familiar throbbing filled me, tugging at my stomach and sucking the air out of my chest. He looked from my eyes down to my mouth. “What did I do? Why are you acting like this?”

  I swiped my eyes with my free hand, the other still pressed against the wall. “This is painful.”

  “The camp?” Torin dropped my hand from his and tossed his head, suddenly realizing he’d pinned me against the wall like some sort of predator. And while my arm fell quickly to my side, his hand slid down the outer curve of my body, just far enough away that he wasn’t actually touching me, but close enough that it was unbearable. “The camp?” he repeated. “Or me?”

  “Yep. Gotta go.”

  “What’s going on, Darby?” Torin demanded again, his voice equally as assertive as it was pleading. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Um, that we made out three weeks ago during that stupid overnighter and since then it’s all I’ve been able to think about. That I can’t be around you without wanting to launch at you and do it all over again. How about that for starters?

  “Nothing. Please just let it go, Torin.” I pushed past two more counselors that headed toward the dining hall for lunch, chatting about what they planned to do with their free time that afternoon. I knew exactly what I planned to do: get out of Quarry Summit. Page break. End of chapter.

  Torin shouldered them out of the way as he raced to catch me.

  “I don’t think I can.” I heard him pull up on his jogging as his shoes clapped loudly against the ground. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “I’m going to go see if I have any messages.” There. Change the subject. Avoid confrontation. Act like a total coward and run like hell.

  Torin pulled back a little as though he was going to allow me to behave like a child. He was quiet for so long that I felt like he was going to retreat, like he was going to give up the fight, like maybe my mule-like ways had finally gotten me somewhere. I was about ready to puff up my chest with stubborn pride when he blurted, “Fine. I’m going with you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “I’m going with you.” Torin stated it again.

  “I don’t think you’re invited,” I said in a controlled, purposefully calm voice.

  “Yes, I am.” He scanned the memo once more, flipping it over to continue reading the message scribbled on the back. With a loud flick of his index finger against the paper he said, “See, right here. It says to bring a friend.”

  “I’m not sure that means you.”

  “Are there a bunch of other friends you have here that you’re keeping hidden?” He rotated at the waist to scan the room. “Because as far as I can tell, I’m it Darby. Maybe you have some little leprechauns you’re hiding in your pockets?”

  I ripped the note from his hands and ran my eyes over it. “I don’t think Lance’s idea of me bringing a friend involves someone like you.”

  “Someone like me… Please elaborate on that illusive statement. Because it could mean any number of things.” Torin’s lashes lowered as he rested against the receptionist’s table, one leg propped up on its surface. He looked so casual and at home, and I hated that I was turned on by his relaxed pose. I hated even more that I was analyzing the fact that I was turned on. “Someone as annoying—or was it amazing—as I am?”

  Of course. He remembered. I was hoping three weeks was enough time to erase that statement from existence, but it was still there, apparently tattooed in his brain. It’s lovely how the mind chooses to imprint the embarrassing moments, while the non-mortifying ones fall by the wayside. Why couldn’t that one have disappeared from his memory?

  “Someone as male as you,” I answered, finally.

  “Maybe we can find someone a little less male then. Patrick didn’t seem overly masculine—I think I saw him rearranging one of the floral centerpieces in the dining commons. Would you like for me to see if he is free to accompany you?”

  “That’s not really what I meant.”

  “It says to bring a friend. I am a friend.” Torin pulled the paper out of my hand, crumpled it up, and tossed it into the wastebasket ac
ross the room in three-pointer-like fashion. “Problem solved.”

  I hauled myself to the trashcan and fished out the memo. My memo. My memo from Lance. This piece of paper wasn’t meant for Torin, but he’d tossed it aside like it actually had something to do with him.

  “I didn’t have a problem to solve.”

  “Okay, maybe not that problem, but you are going to have to figure out how to convince me to let you fly across the continental United States all by yourself. That seems like a pretty big problem to me.” Torin sounded serious. “Because that’s not gonna happen on my watch.” I honestly thought he might actually be serious.

  “Newsflash, but I’m not on your watch.” The room felt small—much too small all of a sudden—and I pushed on the wooden door to escape the confines of the claustrophobia-inducing space.

  “Where are you going?”

  The wind rushed at me as I opened the door and I filled my lungs to the brim with the crisp air until they couldn’t expand another millimeter and then I loudly exhaled, closing my eyes. “Whew. I had to get out of there.”

  “You mean, you had to get out of the building?”

  “Yeah.” I opened my eyes to look at him. “It was getting too hot and stuffy in there. Too confining.”

  The dimple appeared before the full-on smile burst across his lips. “You mean you had to get out of that building and get into nature?”

  My therapeutic breathing halted immediately. “No, I... I just—”

  “You turning all trees and flowers on me? No more buildings and concrete?” His taunting voice irritated me, mostly because it made my gut do these cartwheels that forced my food to flip-flop within it. I didn’t eat much lunch. I’d like to keep what little I did consume within the confines of my stomach.

  “Correction—I thought I had to get out of there.” I thrust a finger toward the reception hall. “Turns out I still can’t breathe, so it’s obviously you I need to get away from.”

  “That’s not going to happen.” Torin dropped his hands onto my shoulders, two palms cupped on my skin. “So you’re going to have to get used to the whole not being able to breathe thing. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Guess it’s a good thing I am, then.” I gripped the memo between my fingers. For a moment I contemplated folding it into a cootie catcher, but instead shoved it into the depths of my jean’s pockets.

  I think Torin stepped forward—he must have—because we were suddenly closer than moments before. I felt the heat off of his body; his chest was a few inches from mine, and my brain went back to the overnighter when I straddled him, thinking he was Lance. Goosebumps flared up across my skin and arrested my breathing.

  Reminding myself to breathe wasn’t something I was used to doing. Reminding myself to take out the trash, to email my college professor about office hours, and to remove the laundry from the dryer were actual things that required real reminders. But breathing was sort of a gift that was given to you; one thing your body knew how to do without thinking. Instinct just took over and completed the work for you. But suddenly, in my case, instinct had something against me and decided to add one more task to my To-Do list. Remember to breathe: check.

  “Did you miss the part where I said I’m not letting you get on that plane alone?” Torin was talking softer; his voice didn’t quite sound the same. It was deeper, but smooth and made me shudder, which drove me nuts because he still gripped me by my shoulders and I knew he felt it. “You cold?”

  “No.” I shook his hands off. Breathe again. “I need to pack.”

  “Good plan. Let’s go pack.”

  “You’re not coming with me, Torin.” I clomped toward my cabin. He wasn’t allowed near the girl’s cabins; that was one rule they made very clear to all of the campers. I was sure the same rules applied to the counselors, too. This might be my chance to lose him. I wondered how long I could lock myself in my own cabin before someone noticed. I had two Tic-Tacs and a stick of gum in my pocket. That might buy me six hours. I wondered if that was enough. Probably not, because three weeks had gone by and he appeared more attached than ever.

  Despite the rules, Torin stayed right behind me.

  “What’s the weather like this time of year in DC?”

  ***

  “You have to take your shoes off.”

  Torin dropped his eyes to his steel-toe boots. They were coated in dust, the yellow laces tangled haphazardly into two messy bows. “Why?”

  “Because you might be hiding a bomb or something in them.”

  With the toe of one shoe, Torin pushed the heel off of the other and tossed it into the empty tray that crept slowly down the conveyer. “A bomb in my shoes?”

  “You know… you’re pretty much Unabomber material, Torin. Raised in the wilderness, totally reclusive.”

  He emptied his pockets, depositing his keys and wallet into a plastic container before unhooking his watch and tossing it in. “I’m not a recluse, Darby.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” I slipped my flip-flops from my feet and placed them into the tray, along with my purse and carry on. I really wished I’d worn shoes with socks. My bare feet stuck to the gritty airport floor, trapping who knows what against my sweaty soles. “You actually have some weird attachment issue and won’t let me travel to see my boyfriend by myself. I take back the recluse comment. You must have abandonment issues.”

  An annoyed TSA officer waved Torin through the x-ray machine. It didn’t buzz, but for some reason they still pulled him aside after he exited it. Another officer mumbled something into his ear and patted Torin down, his hand pressing lightly over the surface of Torin’s chest, arms, and thighs. I tried not to watch, but I couldn’t help it, the way you can’t help but watch a car crash or a train wreck. You know you shouldn’t, that rubbernecking would likely only lead to another accident, but you couldn’t avoid the pull.

  I slipped through the detector and joined him next to the end of the conveyer where our belongings popped out like items on an assembly line.

  “Well that was an experience.” Torin slung my bag over his shoulder as he slid his things back into his pockets. “Would have been more fun if someone else were patting me down, though.” I didn’t dare look at him this time. “So, what do we do now?”

  “We find our gate.” I slipped my feet back into my shoes and pulled my boarding ticket from my pocket to figure out just where we should head. Gate B19, the opposite end of the terminal. “And we sort of need to hurry.”

  The ride to Sacramento had been long—much longer than we’d anticipated—and I pretended to be asleep for the majority of it. Fake sleeping was a good option because I could avoid the silence that pulsed throughout Torin’s jeep, surrounding us with heavy, quiet air. I had a sneaking feeling I’d be doing a lot of faking this weekend to avoid all sorts of undesirable things.

  “Come on,” I said, picking up my speed. “They’re probably boarding already.”

  And they were. In fact, we were the last two on the plane, and the eye rolls and irritated smirks from the passengers already situated comfortably in their seats as we pushed down the aisle indicated we might even be holding things up. Like we had that much power, to keep an aircraft grounded. For a moment, I wished they had taken off without us.

  “Please take the nearest open seat,” an attendant instructed as she pulled a bag from Torin’s hand and slid it into the overhead compartment. She clicked the hatch back into place loudly.

  “We really need to sit together,” Torin explained, motioning toward me.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary.” I shook my head and smiled at the stewardess politely. “It’s fine. Any open seat will do.”

  “No, it won’t.” His tone lowered and both the flight attendant and I widened our eyes. “We really need to sit next to each other.”

  “I can move.” A woman, probably in her early seventies, rose from her middle seat and scooted one over. She lifted her purse from the window seat and tucked it under the chair in front of her,
sliding it forward with the toe of her brown loafers. “There you go, kiddos.”

  “Thank you,” Torin said and smiled sweetly as he slid in past her, his arms holding onto the headrests in front of him. I dropped down into her vacated seat and it was warm, which kind of bothered me. Like when the toilet seat was warm in a public restroom. I ignored it, and focused on the other thing that was making me equally as squeamishly uncomfortable: the persistently endearing blond seated immediately to my left.

  “Why did you insist that we sit together?” I asked as the flight attendant began her instructions over the intercom. She was waving some breathing device around that should only be used in the instance that we lost pressure in the cabin, but I thought how I should probably keep one of those on hand since I was constantly lightheaded and found it hard to breathe on my own. I wondered if it was something I could purchase online or from those SkyMall magazines. I really needed the help of that breathing apparatus. “We don’t have to sit together. Honestly. I’m fine sitting anywhere.”

  “I’m not.” When Torin clicked his seatbelt across his lap, I noticed a slight shake in his hands. Then I looked up at his face, and there was a gleam of sweat that coated it, like he’d just completed a pretty intense workout.

  “Are you scared, Torin?”

  The plane jolted as it pulled back from the gate, rolling on its wheels like a car in reverse. One of the other flight attendants continued rattling instructions, but he did it as a song—almost a rap—so that at least provided a little in-flight entertainment.

  “I’m not scared.” The vulnerable quiver in Torin’s voice did something weird to my nervous system, something that I could feel all the way in my toes. I wriggled them to get rid of it, but it didn’t work. It almost felt like they’re asleep, but much more enjoyable, if tingling in that way could be enjoyable.

  “Yes, you are scared.”

  “Remember?” That shake was still there. “I’m not afraid of anything.” He thumbed through the seat pocket in front of him and pulled out the white barf bag, fingering its opening.