Chapter 30

It doesn’t happen all at once.

That would be easier.

It builds.

All day.

In looks that don’t land.

In conversations that almost start and then don’t.

In the way we keep ending up in the same spaces and somehow feeling further apart than when we weren’t talking at all.

By afternoon, it’s unbearable.

The heat doesn’t help.

The kind that sits heavy on your skin, makes everything feel slower, thicker. The air smells like sunscreen and lake water and something faintly metallic from the docks baking in the sun.

I’m at waterfront again.

Of course I am.

Running a free swim period, whistle hanging around my neck, pacing the dock while campers scream and jump and splash like they’re trying to outdo each other.

I should be focused.

I’m not.

Because Quinn is at the far end of the dock, crouched down fixing something on one of the boats, talking to Noah like everything is completely normal.

And I’m done with that.

“Noah,” I call out, sharper than I mean to.

He looks up immediately. “…Yeah?”

“Can you take over here for a second?”

His eyes flick between me and Quinn.

He knows.

Of course he knows.

“…Uh—yeah. Sure.”

I don’t wait.

I walk straight down the dock.

Each step louder than it should be.

The wood creaking under my feet like it’s announcing me.

Quinn looks up when I stop in front of her.

“…Hey,” she says, like this is casual.

It’s not.

“…Can we talk?”

She glances at Noah.

At the campers.

At the entire situation.

“…Now?”

“…Yes. Now.”

A beat.

She stands.

Wipes her hands on her shorts.

“…Two minutes,” she says to Noah.

He nods, immediately turning away like he does not want to be involved in whatever this is.

Good call.

We walk to the end of the dock.

Far enough that the noise from the campers covers us.

Close enough that we’re still technically “working.”

I don’t ease into it.

“…What are you doing?” I ask.

She blinks. “…Right now? Talking to you—”

“…No,” I cut in. “…This. All of this.”

A pause.

“…I told you,” she says. “…I’m trying to keep things under control.”

“…Yeah, and I told you that’s not working for me.”

Her jaw tightens slightly.

“…Okay, so what does work for you?” she asks.

“…You being honest,” I say immediately.

“…I am being honest.”

“…No, you’re not,” I shake my head. “…You keep picking and choosing when this is real.”

“…That’s not what I’m doing.”

“…It is,” I say. “…One second you’re—” I stop myself, exhaling sharply. “…and the next you’re acting like I imagined it.”

She steps closer.

Not aggressive.

But not soft either.

“…You didn’t imagine it,” she says.

“…Then stop making me feel like I did.”

Silence.

The water laps against the dock below us.

Campers shout somewhere behind.

Everything feels too loud and too far away at the same time.

“…I’m trying not to mess this up,” she says.

“…By pulling away?” I ask.

“…By not letting it blow up in front of everyone.”

“…It already has,” I say. “…People are talking. You acting weird just makes it worse.”

“…So what—your solution is we just go all in? Right here? At camp?” she shoots back.

“…My solution is you stop treating me like a liability.”

That lands.

Hard.

“…That’s not what you are,” she says, sharper now.

“…That’s exactly what it feels like.”

“…You’re twisting it.”

“…No, I’m reacting to it.”

We’re too close now.

Not touching.

But close enough that I can see the tension in her jaw, the way her shoulders are set tighter than usual.

“…You don’t get what this is like for me,” she says.

“…Then explain it,” I fire back.

She hesitates.

And that hesitation?

That’s it.

That’s the thing that pushes it over.

“…No,” I shake my head. “See? That’s what I mean.”

“I’m in a leadership position,” she snaps. “People are watching me differently. Everything I do sets a tone.”

“…So what, I’m a bad look?” I ask.

“…That’s not what I said.”

“…It’s what you’re implying.”

“…You’re making this about you.”

That hits.

“…It is about me,” I say. “I’m in it too.”

“…Yeah, and I’m trying to make sure it doesn’t screw you over.”

“…You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“…Someone has to think about it!”

“…I am thinking about it!” I snap. “…I’m just not scared of it.”

“…Maybe you should be.”

Silence.

That one lands different.

I stare at her.

“…Wow,” I say quietly.

Her expression shifts immediately.

“…That’s not—”

“…No, say it,” I cut in. “…Say what you actually mean.”

“…I mean this isn’t just about feelings,” she says, frustrated. “…It’s about timing, and roles, and—”

“…And what?” I push.

“…And the fact that this ends!” she says.

There it is.

“…So that’s it?” I ask. “…You don’t want to start something because it might end?”

“…I don’t want it to only be a camp thing,” she says.

“…Then don’t make it one.”

“…It’s not that simple!”

“…You keep saying that,” I shoot back. “…But you’re not actually doing anything to make it less complicated—you’re just pulling away.”

She runs a hand through her hair, pacing once, then turning back to me.

“…Because I don’t know how to do this halfway,” she admits.

“…Then don’t do it halfway.”

“…Or maybe we shouldn’t do it at all,” she says.

And that—

That’s the line.

Everything goes quiet.

Like the world just—

drops out.

“…Okay,” I say.

My voice is calm.

Too calm.

“…If that’s what you think.”

“…That’s not what I said.”

“…It’s exactly what you said.”

“…I said maybe—”

“…Yeah,” I cut in. “…You said maybe. Again.”

She stops.

“…You’re not listening.”

“…No,” I shake my head. “…I am. You’re just not saying anything worth hearing.”

That hits.

I see it.

“…That’s not fair,” she says.

“…Neither is this.”

A beat.

We’re both breathing harder now.

Not from yelling.

From holding it in.

“…I like you,” she says suddenly.

It almost stops me.

Almost.

“…I know,” I say.

“…Then why are you acting like that’s not enough?”

“…Because it’s not,” I reply.

Silence.

That one lands.

Deep.

“…Okay,” she says slowly.

“…Okay.”

Another beat.

“…So what—” she starts. “…you want me to just—what—drop everything and—”

“…I want you to choose it,” I say.

“…I am choosing it.”

“…No,” I shake my head. “…You’re choosing when it’s convenient.”

“…You’re impossible,” she snaps.

“…You’re inconsistent,” I fire back.

We just stare at each other.

No movement.

No space.

And then—

“…Fine,” she says.

It’s quiet.

Flat.

“…Fine,” I echo.

And that’s it.

No dramatic ending.

No final line that fixes anything.

Just—

done.

I turn first.

Walk back down the dock.

Past Noah.

Past the campers.

Back into the noise like nothing just happened.

I don’t look back.

I don’t need to.

Because I already know—

She’s not following.

And this time?

She doesn’t.

At all.

That night, I don’t go out.

Don’t walk the paths.

Don’t check the dock.

I stay in my cabin.

Lay on my bunk.

Stare at the ceiling while my campers whisper and laugh around me.

And for the first time since this started—

there’s no anticipation.

No tension.

No what if.

Just—

quiet.

And it feels wrong.

Like something that was there,

constant, loud, consuming

is just…

gone.

But the worst part?

I can still feel it.

Like it hasn’t actually left.

Just—

shifted somewhere I can’t reach it.

And that’s worse.