Last Chance Summer - Shannon Klare Page 0,68

playing a game of Monopoly near the cabin door. Brie held the dice as I passed. Her eyes landed on my hoodie for a second, her eyebrow arching.

“You can’t seriously be going out on a date for the second night in a row,” she said. “I mean, how is it fair that you get action and we’re stuck in this cabin playing some hokey board game?”

“What she means to say is: If you’re meeting Grant again, could you at least get us some food from the mess hall?” Jess said, nudging her friend. “I would prefer leftover brownies, if possible.”

“Or a jar of those dill pickles they set out when it’s hoagie day,” Steff said, glancing at me. “Those are amazing.”

“But brownies if you can only pick one,” Jess said.

“I’ll do what I can,” I said, quietly opening the cabin door.

Outside, a warm night breeze riffled loose strands of hair. I had made a concerted effort to avoid Grant the rest of the afternoon, but my emotions were in a tailspin.

How could I shut him down, when I cared about him? When the only thing I wanted to do was spend time with him? But how could I not let him go? How could I knowingly let this continue when my own demons were gnawing away at my conscience? When he thought he knew the real version of me but really had no clue?

No. In the end, this would be the best thing for both of us. I could detach before he had the chance to hurt me. He could do the same.

Inside Grant’s side of the cabin, the strum of his guitar drifted through the screen door. He was playing what sounded like an acoustic version of James Arthur’s “Empty Space.” It was hard to tell, though, with guys talking around him and the rhythm too muddled to hear.

I leaned against the porch, drinking in the dark. This time of night, stripped of campers and chaos, was the most peaceful. A stillness clung to the air, chilling despite the chaos of the day.

Releasing a breath, I stared down the opposite end of the road. A flashlight bobbed up and down in the dark, and I heard tennis shoes crunching against the path. The closer she got, the more defined Loraine’s face became.

“Are you doing cabin patrols?” I said, surveying her.

“No, but we need to talk.”

Dread curled up my spine. The tone in her voice walked a fine line between frustration and disappointment. Her expression was a mirror image of my mom’s when she was pissed. That told me everything I needed to know—we had a problem, and I didn’t know what it was.

I pulled away from the rail, mentally prepping myself for conflict. “Is this the part where you tell me I’m in trouble?” I said, stepping off the porch. “You sound like my mom, so I’m guessing yes.”

“I’d rather talk about this in private,” she said, pivoting the other direction.

I let out a long sigh. Another serious conversation was the last thing I needed at this exact moment. My plate was full. Full of worry. Full of chaos. Full of guilt.

“If you’re about to yell at me, it really doesn’t matter where you do it,” I said. “Just spit it out. What did I do and how do I fix it?”

“Madeline turned in your therapy notes today and I was looking over them when I realized you walked out of today’s session five minutes into it. Those sessions aren’t optional,” Loraine said, facing me. “They’re a part of the deal, remember?”

“A deal I didn’t realize I was agreeing to when I got here,” I said, stopping. “You threw that part in after I was already settled. I never would’ve agreed had I known.”

“But you did agree and here we are. You’re skipping out on sessions, and I’m the one who has to explain to your parents why you’ve been out here almost a month and haven’t made any serious headway with the person I told them was the best juvenile counselor this side of Houston.”

“Because as far as I’m concerned, none of my emotions or reactions or thoughts for that matter are anyone’s business,” I said. “I’ll end those sessions when I damn well want to, and if you don’t like it you can cancel them altogether.”

“Did you just swear at me?”

“Damn. Damn. Damn,” I said, putting my hands on my hips. “Why? Have I broken another cardinal rule of camp?”

“You’re about to get yourself written up.”

“Then quit