I threw my arms around him, so grateful. We’d never talked about camp, not really, but he knew how much it meant to me. He’d seen my bedroom walls, covered in photos from color war, and old chore wheels I kept at the end of each summer to press into scrapbooks. He’d felt how soft my ratty camp T-shirts were thanks to hundreds of washes, knowing I could never walk around town in them.
I leaned up against his chest, like being with him was the easiest thing in the world, like my life wasn’t about to change completely within a week’s time.
“I love you, Heller McConnell.” The words came out in one breath.
Before I could be embarrassed or regretful, I felt his heart race against my cheek, his head come down on top of mine.
“I love you, Goldie Easton.”
CHAPTER 11
Now
I don’t see Ava again until dinner. I make my way through the mess line, grabbing spaghetti and meatballs, and a whole bunch of steamed broccoli. I don’t wait for Imogen or Meg or anyone before plopping down at an empty table in the middle of the room. My arms are still heavy from the weight of the dock, and I know sleep will come easy tonight.
After I take my first bite, Ava slides in next to me. Her hair is still wet from the shower and it tickles my arm when she gets close.
“Finally got a letter from my mom in the Hamptons,” she says, dunking a piece of garlic bread in marinara sauce. “She spent about forty-five pages dissecting the housewarming gifts her fake friends brought to the new place. As if Waterford Crystal wasn’t good enough.”
Annoyance fills my stomach, but I keep my eyes forward. “That sucks,” I say, the words clipped on my tongue. I hate being short with Ava, but I can’t help it right now.
“It’s like she doesn’t even care about how I’m doing or the fact thatthe twinsare only days away from ruining my summer.”
“What else is new?” As soon as the words leave my lips, I know they’re the wrong ones. Cutting and cruel. But I can’t take them back.
Ava’s bottom lip drops open and her eyes grow large with surprise. “Ouch, G. What’s up withyou?”
“Heller...” I say, trying to find the words. “What did he say to you at the lake?”
Ava looks down at her food. “He asked me if I was your best friend. That’s it.”
But there’s something about her tone. It’s the same one she uses when strangers ask about her dad, when she’s trying to pretend like everything’sfine. When Stu and Mellie demanded she rat out her senior raid coconspirators when we were campers. When we pretended to have our periods to get out of instructional swim when we were twelve. It’s the tone that means she’s lying.
But why?
“Ava—”
Her fork clatters against her plate and she tenses next to me. “Clearly you two have history. Wanna tell me what the hell happened?”
My face flushes as the words come up in my throat. But I can sense Ava turning, the judgmental, ruthless part of her bubbling to the surface. The dining hall buzzes around me, and suddenly I’m too aware of everything else here, the laughter, the clapping, the clanking of silverware. I can’t tell Ava the truth. Not here. Not now.
Ava doesn’t wait a second longer. She wipes her mouth on a thin paper napkin and flips her hair over her shoulder. “If you want me to fight your battles, the least you can do is tell me why.” Her tone is icy and I know I’ve lost her, at least in this moment.
Tears prick my eyes. It’s easy to forget Ava can be like this, cool and distant when she’s on the defense. Selfish when she’s wounded.In the past, I’ve been able to get back in with an apology. A real one. She may get mad easily. But her rage doesn’t last long. At least when it’s been directed at me.
“It’s complicated,” I say.
“Everything is complicated,” she snaps. “Butweare not supposed to be complicated. World. Complicated. You. Me. Imogen. Not complicated.”
“I know.”
“We’re supposed to tell each other everything.”
“We do.”
“Clearly that’s not true.” Ava picks up her plate and stands. “I’m here for you, Goldie,” she says. “No matter what. All you have to do is believe me.”
I want to respond, to grab her arm and plead with her totrust me, but Ava takes off, dumping the remnants of her spaghetti and meatballs into the trash and heading out through the swinging side doors. Something unlatches inside my chest, and all of a sudden, I want to tell her the whole story—about Heller and the accident and all the bullshit in between. I want to ignore the nondisclosure agreement and sayfuck itfor once. But when I do, everything will change. I squeeze my eyes shut and listen to the sounds of plates hitting the wooden tables, of laughter and Alpine Lake inside jokes. The noises that remind me of my friends, my home.
