Chapter 31

The weird thing about fighting with someone at camp is—

you don’t get to leave.

There’s no going home.

No space to cool off properly.

No way to just… not see them.

You still wake up at the same time.

Walk the same paths.

Eat at the same tables.

Hear their voice across the room whether you want to or not.

And somehow—

that’s worse than anything that was said.

The next morning feels wrong immediately.

Not in a dramatic way.

Nothing obvious.

Just—

quieter.

The sky is clear, bright in that sharp, almost too-blue way that usually makes everything feel easy. The air is already warming up, the kind of heat that promises to sit heavy by noon.

Camp looks the same.

Sounds the same.

But it doesn’t feel the same.

I walk down to the waterfront alone.

No Annabelle yet.

No noise except the soft lap of water against the dock and the distant clatter of someone in the kitchen.

Quinn’s already there.

Of course she is.

She’s standing near the boats, clipboard in hand, talking to Tanner.

Actually talking.

Relaxed.

Normal.

That’s the first thing that hits.

She looks fine.

Not wrecked.

Not off.

Not anything.

Just… fine.

It shouldn’t bother me.

It does.

I step onto the dock.

The wood creaks.

Quinn glances up.

Our eyes meet.

And then—

she nods.

Just a nod.

Like I’m any other staff member.

“…Morning,” she says.

It’s flat.

Professional.

“…Morning.”

And that’s it.

No pause.

No lingering.

She turns back to Tanner mid-conversation like nothing just happened.

Like we didn’t just—

I swallow that thought.

Hard.

“…You good?” Tanner asks her.

“…Yeah,” Quinn says easily. “…Just making sure boats are set for first period.”

I hate how normal she sounds.

I move past her.

Drop my bag.

Start setting up.

I don’t look at her again.

I tell myself that’s a choice.

It’s not.

Bronze Med is quiet.

Not for the campers.

They’re loud as always, splashing, complaining, laughing.

But for me—

and Quinn—

nothing.

She stays on the dock, checking things, talking to other staff when needed.

She doesn’t come over.

Doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t hover.

She doesn’t watch me.

Or if she does—

I don’t catch it.

And somehow that feels worse than before.

Because now there’s no tension to push against.

Just space.

At one point, I mess up a demonstration.

Not badly.

Just enough that I notice.

No comment from the dock.

No teasing.

Nothing.

I reset quickly, keep going.

But the absence of it—

of her—

is loud.

By lunch, it’s obvious to everyone.

Not the details.

Not what was said.

But the shift.

“…Okay,” Emily says, dropping onto the bench across from me. “…what happened.”

“…Nothing.”

“…That’s not true.”

“…It is.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“…You guys haven’t looked at each other once.”

“…We’re busy.”

Annabelle snorts beside me.

“…You’re not that busy.”

I stab at my food.

“…We had a conversation.”

“…And?” Emily presses.

“…And now we’re not talking.”

“…Oh,” Annabelle says softly.

That tone—

I don’t like that tone.

“…It’s fine,” I add quickly.

It’s not.

Across the dining hall—

Quinn’s sitting with Kallie again.

Laughing at something.

Leaning back in her chair like she doesn’t have a care in the world.

I look away.

Immediately.

“…You’re lying,” Emily says.

“…I’m not.”

“…You are,” Annabelle adds. “…but we’ll let you.”

“…Thanks,” I mutter.

They don’t push it.

Which somehow makes it worse.

Afternoon is when it really hits.

Because we get paired.

Of course we do.

Waterski.

The lake is choppier now, wind picking up just enough to ripple the surface. Sunlight flashes off the waves in sharp bursts, making it hard to keep your eyes open for too long.

I’m on dock management.

Quinn’s driving the boat.

We find out at the same time.

“…You’ve got to be kidding,” I mutter under my breath.

Quinn doesn’t react.

“…We can switch if you want,” Noah offers.

Before I can answer—

“…No. It’s fine,” Quinn says.

Flat.

I look at her.

“…Yeah,” I say. “…It’s fine.”

It’s not.

Not even close.

The first few runs are strictly professional.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

“Go.”

No extra words.

No eye contact longer than necessary.

Just the job.

But the problem with waterski is—

it requires communication.

Timing.

Trust.

And we have none of that right now.

“…You sent her too early,” Quinn says after one of the campers wipes out.

“…No, I didn’t,” I shoot back.

“…The rope was slack.”

“…Because you slowed down.”

She looks at me from the boat.

“…I didn’t.”

“…You did.”

A pause.

“…Okay,” she says finally. “…Next one.”

But it’s not resolved.

It just sits there.

Like everything else.

The next run goes smoother.

But the tension doesn’t.

By the time it’s my turn—

because of course she makes me go—

I’m already irritated.

“…You’re up,” Quinn says.

“…I know.”

I grab the rope.

Step into the water.

The lake is colder than I expect.

It shocks my system for a second, grounding me.

Good.

I need that.

I position myself.

Adjust my grip.

“…Ready?” Quinn calls.

I don’t look at her.

“…Yeah.”

The boat revs.

And then—

I’m up.

Clean.

Easy.

The water sprays up around me, wind hitting my face, noise rushing past my ears.

This part?

This part I don’t think.

I just move.

Carve slightly.

Shift my weight.

Let the rhythm take over.

It’s the only time all day my head goes quiet.

For a few seconds—

nothing else matters.

Until—

The boat slows.

Too early.

I drop.

Hard.

Water crashes over me.

Cold, sharp, sudden.

I come up immediately, pushing my hair back.

“…What the hell?” I call out.

The boat circles back.

Quinn’s at the wheel.

“…You lost balance,” she say.

“…No, I didn’t,” I snap.

“…You leaned too far—”

“…No, I didn’t.”

We stare at each other across the water.

It’s not about the skiing.

Not at all.

“…Whatever,” I mutter, grabbing the rope again.

The rest of the period is worse.

Short answers.

Clipped tones.

Everything just slightly off.

And by the time it ends—

I’m exhausted.

Not physically.

Something else.

That night, it doesn’t get better.

Camp is loud again, some big group game happening in the field.

I stay on the edges.

Help where I need to.

Avoid where I can.

Quinn does the same.

We orbit.

Never colliding.

But never far.

And that’s when I realize—

This isn’t over.

Not even close.

Because no matter how much space we put between it—

it’s still there.

Under everything.

Unresolved.

Waiting.

And the worst part?

We’re about to get stuck together again.

Whether we like it or not.