by Emma Lord
“So you think you’ll ever go out and meet Mickey’s cousins?” I ask. “Teach them how to say ‘good morning’ in Elvish?”
“I’m going to talk to Carla about taking a trip next summer.” He pauses, some thought poised on the tip of his teeth, and adds, “And I think—well, this is a long way off, and assuming I don’t get laughed out of New York—but Mickey and I started talking about one day opening, like, a fusion restaurant. Menudo meets Cheetos. Lasagna balls meet banana leaves. Mickey’s childhood meets Leo’s. You know?”
I do know—I can practically see it. Somewhere medium-size and homey and warm, the kind of restaurant where everyone who goes there once immediately finds an excuse to go again.
I wonder if it will be in Seattle. I swallow down the lump in my throat, too scared to ask.
“Well, shit,” I say. “If I’m going to invest in this I’ve gotta find a way to get rich, fast.”
Leo lets out a rushed laugh, like he’s been waiting to float this past me for a while and is glad he finally got the chance.
“We’ll settle for you taking staged food pics for the website.”
“As long as I get to eat everything I shoot, you two have got yourself a deal.”
We both settle into this quiet that becomes less of a coincidence and more of an understanding. The grins on our faces falter at the same time, our eyes struggling to hold each other’s.
“So … tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” I echo, turning back to the water.
“You’re really leaving?”
I lift up my palms in a half shrug. “Doesn’t look like I have a choice.”
“You’re not gonna push back?”
I try not to stiffen. Leo may know that I’m not good at fighting my own battles, but he doesn’t understand this battle isn’t mine. It’s just one I’ve been in the cross fire of since before I was born. “No.”
Leo lowers his voice, the question gentler than the one that came before it. “You’re not mad?”
I don’t really want to talk about it, but it’s Leo. I can tell myself to put him out of my mind, to keep my distance, but nothing can erase more than a decade’s worth of spilling my guts out to him.
“I was. I am. But mostly I guess I’m just—”
I’m going to say scared, but it feels too dumb. These are my parents.
And I’m not scared of them, really. I’m scared of me. I’m scared things are going to change, now that the truth is out in the open. I’m scared that we will be tiptoeing around one another forever, trying not to wake the sleeping beast in every room.
I’m scared I won’t get to see Savvy again.
The fears build up, one on top of the other, one badly constructed, extremely flammable mound. I hadn’t put reason or words to them before, but that’s the thing. Leo is my touchstone. My compass. The steadying force that puts all the shaky things into view.
So I skip past all that and say the thing that scares me most—the one that has followed me since long before I found out about this.
“I’m—I’m scared I’ll always feel like I’m not good enough.”
Leo jumps on this like he’s the lifeguard of my brain, plucking out a drowning thought. “Your parents don’t think that. I know they—”
“It’s not only them. It’s … everything. With this thing with Savvy, with school, with…”
I’m getting too close to us—to the BEI, and what happened after. To how Leo and I are so far apart that I didn’t even get to be a part of the biggest decision he’s ever made. To this perpetual feeling that only gets heavier with every year, that I’m not cut out for what the world has in store.
“Abby … things are always going to move for different people at different times. You’ve gotta be patient. Set your own pace.” His voice goes so quiet that it sounds like one of the little waves that laps on the shore, like he’s pressing some quiet current into my ears. “It’s like I told you at the beginning of the summer. You’re an original.”
I huff out a laugh. I can hear the smile in his voice, even though I’m not looking at him.
“Good things are coming, Abby. I know that because I know you. You’re talented and you’re stubborn and you’re braver than you give yourself credit for.”
I want to believe the words so badly—not just because I’ve been trying to grow into words like that my whole life. But because the words are coming from him.
“I wish you saw yourself the way I see you.”
I press my eyes closed for a moment, but when I open them I’m every bit as shaken. “Leo…” It’s not confronting him, really, but it’s as close as I can get after a day like this. “You didn’t even tell me you were thinking of leaving.”
His mouth opens slightly, fast enough that he can’t hide the surprise on his face.
“Abby, it wasn’t like that, really,” he insists. “I just—I didn’t even think I could get in. I didn’t tell Connie either.”
I wince.
“Yeah, but we’re…” Different, I want to say. But I guess we’re not.
I glance over at him, grappling for a change of subject. But his eyes are so earnest that mine get stuck on them, tipping me over into some part of him that’s always been mine. Some ache under the surface we’ve always shared, except now it’s as plain as ever, the light of the dimming sun exposing it in every plane of his face.
“I’m gonna take your picture.”
Leo watches me for a beat. “No, you’re not.”
“I am.”
“You don’t photograph people. Like, ever.”
“Yeah, well—I’m getting some practice.” This is not exactly a lie, given the Phoenix Cabin shenanigans I’ve been documenting. He’s right, though. I don’t photograph people.
But this—the sky casting its warmth on him, like his face was made to catch light. The gold in his eyes, the straight plane of his nose, the sharp curve of his jaw—these parts of him I’ve tried so hard not to notice, now on such full display that trying to look away would be like trying to deny every moment I pined for him, when it feels like the last thing I want to do is forget.
I pull out Poppy’s camera, glad I snuck into the cabin to grab it during dinner. It takes an extra second to turn on, one that seems to last so long that it’s not the camera, but the universe: Are you sure about this? Is this what you want?
I don’t understand why it’s asking until my eye is in the viewfinder, and Leo is staring at me through the lens.
This isn’t a photo, I understand. It’s a memory. I’ve spent my whole life trying to capture perfect moments, treating each of them like a victory. This is the first one I am capturing out of defeat.
“Abby?”
The next twelve hours will be a minifuneral, saying goodbye to everyone and everything here, but this is a goodbye, too. Leo will spend the rest of summer here, and I’ll spend it in summer school. Then I’ll go back to Shoreline High, with all my classes and tutoring sessions, and Leo will be gone. The problem is solved before it could even become a problem; I’ll never have to tell Leo the truth about how I feel about him. We’re out of time.
I should be relieved. Nobody’s feelings will be hurt. Nobody’s pride will be compromised. And nobody’s heart will break except mine.
I focus Leo in the frame and click.
There’s this uneasy silence that follows, me poised with the camera level with my chest, Leo’s stare fixed on me like the camera was never there at all. I think about uploading the photo, and it scares me, thinking of what I might see. What I won’t.
Leo breaks his gaze first. I’m not the coward anymore.
“I wish…” Leo leans forward, frustrated. “Oh my god. Abby!”
“What—”
“Your camera, get your camera, it’s—”
“Holy shit.”
There they are, off in the distance. A pod of orcas. They’re unmistakable, slick and gleaming as their backs slide in and out of the water, their distinctive fins cresting ove
r the ripples.
“Take the picture,” says Leo. “It’s the perfect shot.”
Poppy’s camera is too old. It doesn’t have a prayer of capturing them at this distance. I could sprint to the cabin maybe, grab Kitty, and get back in time to catch something magnificent. The kind of photo I’ve dreamed of taking for years.
But no photo will capture this—the soar of my heart in my throat, the swell of my whole body, this weightlessness that makes me feel like we’re in free fall, untethered to the earth. Without consciously deciding to, we take off at a run to the edge of the water, giddy and disbelieving, chasing this feeling louder than words.
We watch them in silent awe, our excitement pulsing off each other like something we can touch. Then it happens—one of them leaps out of the water, this joyful, enormous, impossible thing, so far offshore but somehow close enough that it feels like he is leaping just so the two of us can see.
We turn, our eyes cracking into each other’s like the lightning on the first day at camp. It is energy and chaos, but rooted in something so deep that for once, it doesn’t scare me. I feel strangely invincible, like the moments happening right now don’t count for anything, but somehow count for everything at once.
Somewhere buried in the back of my mind, I know I shouldn’t let this happen. It’s the exact opposite of how I was going to handle this. But maybe it’s like Savvy said, about things getting worse before they get better. Well, this is the worst thing I can think of: giving Leo another chance to reject me. And if he doesn’t, giving myself a chance to know what this might feel like, even if it can never be mine.
I’m not seeing anything beyond Leo by the time my eyelids slide shut, something stronger than any one sense guiding us forward, pulling us into each other. It’s inevitable. Thunder after lightning. Order after chaos. Hope after—
“Have you seen Finn?”
The kiss is interrupted before it can begin, but neither of us jump. We’re frozen. His eyes are so wide on mine that I can only assume he never meant for it to happen. I’m the one who has to take control and take the quiet step back before Mickey comes into view. Leo is blushing furiously enough to warrant a trip to the nurse, but oddly, I am calm.
The feeling was enough, I think. Just to know it. To have it in my bones, make it a part of my history. There was a beautiful before, without an after to wreck it on the other side.
“Not since this afternoon,” I answer for us. “Why?”
Mickey didn’t even notice us nearly playing tongue hockey in full view of half the camp. Her brow is furrowed, and she’s rubbing her arms so anxiously that I’m afraid she might peel Princess Jasmine clean off.
“I can’t find him anywhere. I tried to cover for him, but Victoria’s gonna notice soon, and—”
Leo clears his throat, wiping his palms on his shorts. “Have you checked in with Savvy?”
Mickey shakes her head. “I can’t find her either, but I know Jo called, so…”
Leo finally steps away from me. I can sense him searching my face, but when I look over, I don’t know what to make of it. It’s almost like he seems disappointed, but I can’t tell if it’s in himself, or in me.
“Abby has to go pack, but I’ll help you look,” he says to Mickey. “I’ve got a few ideas.”
They talk it over and are off in separate directions within the minute, leaving me out on the beach with my camera still dangling around my neck. I look out over the water, unsurprised to find the orcas are gone.
twenty-seven
Considering I am far less familiar with stories about Gaby the camp ghost than the dozens of Camp Reynolds returners, I should probably be the last person to follow her straight to Finn. But there I am, a mere five minutes later, standing at the base of an allegedly haunted tree with the shadow of a Finn-shaped human making long shapes on the ground.
I crunch down on a spare branch when I come to a stop, and Finn’s face pops down between the branches. He takes one look at me, closes his eyes, and says, “Shit.”
“Good to see you, too.”
He turns his head away, toward the skyline, which is getting darker by the second. “I’m not stuck.”
“That sounds like something a stuck person would say.”
“Is Savvy with you?”
I don’t even have the wherewithal to be offended. Even if I did, we’ve got much bigger problems judging from the sound of his voice, which is very much that of someone trying not to panic and doing a very bad job of it.
“Just me.”
Before he can bleat out some other excuse or Finn-ism, I tug the strap of my bag so Poppy’s camera is on my back, flex my wrists, and start climbing the tree. It isn’t exactly an easy feat without much light, but that’s the problem. There’s no time to turn around and get Savvy, or turn around and get anyone, really. I’ve got about five minutes to coach him down before the sun ghosts us and the whole camp goes dark.
“You don’t have to…”
I’m fast, faster than Finn’s expecting. His eyes go wide at me closing in on him, big and red-rimmed and giving him away before he can turn his head.
“What are you doing up here?”
He’s clinging to the tree and another branch for dear life, but at least he seems to relax once I’m up there. There’s nothing between us but bark and the faded MAKE A WISH sign. Whatever plans he had of not looking at me are immediately foiled when a twig of a branch cracks under my hand and he full-body flinches.
“Don’t you have your own problems to deal with?” he asks, voice strained.
I’m high enough now that I’m eye level with him. “Nice deflecting.”
He’s looking at me without looking at me, half peering and half laser-focused on the arms he has wrapped around the tree.
“Finn.”
He rests his head on the tree trunk. “I … was climbing. And I guess I don’t usually climb it by myself. And I’m … a little bit…”
“Stuck,” I provide.
He blows out an embarrassed breath.
“Well, I’m here now. I’ll help you down.”
It feels like someone else is saying it. I’m not used to feeling like someone with authority, someone with a plan. That was always Connie in our group, or my parents at home, or the army of teachers and tutors at school. I kind of assumed I’d be bad at it.
And maybe I still am, but there’s no time to overthink that now.
“Yeah,” says Finn, except it sounds less like a yeah and more like he choked on his own spit.
I try another tactic. “Why’d you come up here in the first place?”
“For wishing,” he says, a flash of his usual self. “Duh.”
I try to think back to the wishes we made, but it feels like it’s been years since he first brought me here. Leo told me once that all your skin cells replace themselves every two or three weeks, but this time it’s like I felt it, every single one of them dying and being reborn, making some new version of me with edges and pieces I don’t fully know how to use yet.
My wishes were so specific then. I may not have been able to fix my problems, but at least I could give them names. Now I wouldn’t even know where to begin.
Which is how I remember exactly what Finn said, because it’s exactly what I feel all these weeks later.
“For things to be less fucked up?”
He lets out a wheeze that might have started out a laugh, tilting his head away from me. Problem is his limbs are too occupied glomming onto the tree to swipe at his eyes or stop the quick tear that slides down his cheek.
“You know I wasn’t even supposed to go to camp this summer? We were going to go on a big trip across the U.S. together, me and my mom and dad. We’d been planning it for years.”
My chest is tight, wondering what’s on the other end of this, knowing from the look on his face that it’s about to go from bad to worse.
“But then—my mom just—left.”
He says it with the bewilderment of someone it just happene
d to, like he’s not stuck in this tree, but stuck in the leaving. I wait him out, thinking he’ll go on, but he’s miles from these tree branches, somewhere I can’t reach.
“Like she left your dad, or…”
Finn shakes his head, a piece of him coming back. “I mean—she just—came into my room one morning and told me she was going to Chicago to see my uncle, and did I want to come, and I said yeah. She said she’d wait for me downstairs. And I said, ‘Wait, right now?’ and she said yes, and I said ‘I have school,’ and—” Finn’s ramble stops like a train that yanked its brakes, realizing it was about to go off the tracks. “I mean, I was barely even awake. I didn’t think…”
It’s almost fully dark. Whatever chance we had of using the sun’s light to get us down is a lost cause, so I stop trying to rush him. I sit and let the time go with us.
“She lives there now, in Chicago. She just decided she didn’t want to be with my dad anymore, so she left us both.”
I latch on to what he said before, knowing it won’t help but at a loss for what else to say. “But she wanted you to come with her.”
Finn lets out a terse breath, finally moving his forehead off the tree to look at me. “No, she didn’t. Not if she asked me like that, she didn’t. You only ask someone something like that if you want the answer to be no.”
I glance into the murky darkness below, trying to understand what might have been going through her head. She didn’t want him to come with her because she knew his world was here. She didn’t want him to feel like he had to say yes and leave everything behind, but still wanted him to know that she loved him. Because sometimes trying to protect people from your own fucked-up decisions is so impossible that there’s no right and wrong way to do it—everything will explode in the end. You can only try to anticipate which direction the explosion will come from.
The thought sidles a little too close to the anger I’m not ready to let go of yet, pricks like a needle trying to deflate it. The trouble is, I understand exactly why my parents did what they did. It just doesn’t change the way I feel about any of it right now.
