“It’s supposed to be really hot. Solid coolers are non-negotiable,” he says, trying to act like he didn’t pull out the equivalent of a thousand dollars.
“I thought someone had some we could borrow?” I ask.
“They dropped them off, and they were in bad shape. I’m talking about lids that wouldn’t close. There’s no way they’d actually keep anything cold.”
Colson tries to pull off one of the price tags, but I see the cost before he stuffs it in his pocket.
“These are too much. We can’t accept these,” I protest, my hand pressing on the pit in my stomach. “We can’t afford these.”
“I can. Consider it a donation to the center. You’ll be able to use these for a long time.” He taps his hand on the top of one. “Sadie, let me help you,” he insists, quieter this time.
His eyes are lighter blue than I’m used to, the height of the sun the culprit. He has this look that makes it hard to say ‘no.’
Maren jumps in. “The man has millions of dollars. Let him buy the coolers.”
She’s right. I also know the feeling residing in my chest has nothing to do with pride and everything to do with needing help.
Colson doesn’t rush me. He waits, one hand resting on the cooler like it belongs there, likehebelongs here.
He continues. “Sadie, you know you’d do the same for someone else.”
He’s right and he knows it.
I let out a slow breath and peel my hand away from my stomach. “Fine,” I grumble. “But if anyone asks, I bullied you into it.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Devastating. My reputation may never recover.”
Maren claps her hands once. “Great. Now that the rich guy’s guilt has been accepted, can we get these filled with ice?”
That breaks whatever tension was left.
Colson reaches for my hand, weaving his fingers with mine. When he squeezes, something in my chest dares to explode. It’s sweet, unexpected—sort of like him in general.
He holds my hand like he’s not hiding it. Not from Maren. Not from me. And that might be my favorite part.
thirty-five
Colson
Whiletheschoolhasbeen a saving grace by offering a place to hold camp and practice, it’s not the same as the courts we’re used to. That’s why me and Sadie, and even other volunteers, have been putting in work at the rec center whenever we have a free moment.
This camp, what Sadie is doing for this community, feels like something my mom would’ve relied on when I was a kid. A place for me to spend my summer, being safe and bettering myself in some way. Not to mention it was critical for her to be able to work shifts during the day. That’s one of the reasons I kept coming back to the rec center early on. Feels right to help restore it to a workable space.
The professional cleanup crew packs up faster than I expect. The day seemed to fly by. One minute there’s the steady grind of machines and voices carrying in and out, the next it’s only the sound of trucks pulling out of the driveway.
Sadie doesn’t slow down. She rolls her shoulders, wipes her hands on the back pockets of her shorts, and grabs another stack of broken-down cardboard like she hasn’t already been at this for hours.
If we want to stay on pace with the tentative re-open date, we knew it’d take some extra work.
We. There I go again. Fuck.
I watch as she works like this is normal—like giving everything she has to a place that isn’t glamorous, shiny, or easy is part of who she is. No complaints or dramatics. Just steady, almost stubborn effort.
She’s a different kind of productive. The type where you know she has to dig deep, that her muscles ache, the exhaustion is starting to touch her bones. But she doesn’t quit.
It makes something in my chest tighten. She’s a force and I feel like she barely knows it.
“Hey,” she says, glancing over her shoulder. “Don’t push it.”
