Vesper
My father needs me.
And still, I’m on my way to New York before I head to Oregon.
It makes sense, I tell myself as if I’m making the most logical decision—and not trying to avoid reality for a couple more days.I need clothes that aren’t airport-soft and “I forgot to do laundry” black leggings.I need boots that can survive mud and mornings that taste like frost.I need to pack for Juniper Ridge like I’m not the kind of person who lives out of a carry-on on purpose.
Mostly, I need a buffer.
Because the second I see the lodge and the rink and the lake pretending it can’t remember, the camp is going to swallow me whole.And if Dad is really sick—and if the county really is circling like they’ve been waiting for us to slip—then “helping for a little while” becomes a trapdoor.
Me standing in the office, staring at Mom’s old clipboard like it’s a ghost with a pen attached.Me answering phones, soothing parents who speak about their children like they’re tiny gods.Me arguing with inspectors who say “policy” the way people say “sorry.”Me becoming the person who runs the camp.
Me living there, becoming the person who runs the camp for the rest of my life.
And as much as I adore my father, that’s not happening.
Juniper Ridge was my parents’ dream—Mom’s, mostly.
I refuse to let grief and panic and guilt rewrite my future in one week just because the universe decided to get cruel.That’s what I tell myself.It’s the most practical, reasonable conclusion.It’s also a lie, or at least a partial one, because the truth is uglier:
If I go to New York first, I can pretend I’m still in control of something.Even if it’s only the contents of a suitcase.
Before I board, I send two texts with fingers that feel like they belong to someone else.
To Cally:
Heading home, then to JR.Dad needs me.
To Monty:
Going to NY, then Juniper.Dad’s sick ...or something like that.
I stare at my phone as if waiting for them to acknowledge it—me.This is what we are now.Text buddies.The occasional dinner in a city where one of them is passing through, where we pretend we’re still best friends because we can laugh for ninety minutes without touching the past.Where I act like I don’t know exactly what my heart wants.
Monty responds right away, which tracks.Monty has never been a man of delayed reactions.
Call me when you arrive in New York.
No emoji.No extra words.No “are you okay?”because Monty doesn’t waste language on questions he already knows the answer to.
I swallow hard and shove my phone into my pocket like it might burn through fabric.
Finland to JFK is an entire day of motion disguised as progress.
I’ve been in Helsinki for six weeks filming a short doc series on youth hockey development—tiny rinks tucked into neighborhoods, teens with eyes too bright, coaches who speak in clipped instructions and careful hope.It was supposed to reset me.Shoot, edit, repeat.Keep my mind busy.Keep my body moving.Keep my heart from lingering anywhere too long.
Now every frame on my laptop feels irrelevant.Pointless.
I board with my camera bag pressed against my ribs, passport in my hand, and I take my seat like I’m bracing for impact.First class, because Cally’s assistant apparently has opinions about me flying coach, like my comfort is a line item in Cally’s life that someone manages for him.
Sometimes I wonder if the assistant hovering over me is for Cally’s benefit or mine.It’s weird, how those boys still keep an eye on me—still protect me—while keeping their distance like proximity might reopen something none of us knows how to survive.
Maybe it’s because I never chose between them.
I can’t.I loved them both and my heart wouldn’t survive if I had to leave one of them behind.Now they live in eternal competition.
They’ve been rivals since their rookie year, and the league loves the story: Callaway Livingston Harrington Winthrop, captain of the Colorado Cobras, golden grin, marketable confidence.Alberto Montoya Navarro Wade, elite goalie with ice in his veins, traded to every place that knows how to hate the Cobras properly.
