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“DeeDee,” Alvin said, my name acting as an invisible rope he could tug on. “Aren’t you going to fill me in on this fun little activity?”

I didn’t want to respond. I wanted to continue to pretend like he didn’t exist. But if I didn’t respond, the kids would notice. If I did respond, they’d notice too.

There was no way to win. So I went for the easiest weapon I had. Acting.

I turned slightly so my body blocked the table, placing myself between Alvin and the kids. Broad shoulders. Firm stance. Voice like a drill sergeant. “What are you really doing here?”

Alvin’s smile widened. “I already told you… I’m working.”

“Then work,” I barked, and I felt the words land like a slap. “Do your job. Don’t—” I stopped myself before I said “don’t look at me,” because I didn’t want that to be true out loud.

Cindy cleared her throat, stepping in and tugging my varsity jacket closer to her chest. She’d mentioned how the air conditioning was making her cold. So I’d run back to the cabin to grab it for her. I’d washed and dried it and for the most part it didn’t smell like lake water anymore. What it did smell like was overcompensation. And not the chivalry I was making it out to be.

“Alvin, you can take over for my group. Dee, you can continue working with your campers,” she said.

Alvin nodded. My throat got dryer. Like I was watching a volcano about to explode in real time. Because there really was no telling what my former best friend was about to say.

The kid who resembled someone whose parents were first cousins grinned, his eyes darting between Alvin and me. “I heard you two were caught kissing by the lake. Does that make you gay too?”

Cindy’s feet halted, her sneakers screeching against the tile floor on her way to the door. Clearly she wanted to know the answer as well.

“What anyone is… is not your business,” I said. “You’re here for today’s camp-mandated activity. You want a label, you label your paper. You want to talk, you talk about choices and consequences.”

The hillbilly rolled his eyes, but he backed off a half-step. The others followed suit, reluctant to lose the excitement but desperate to keep the attention on me, not Alvin.

And still Alvin stood there, letting me take the hits. Like I’d done to him many times over. Like I’d done to him a few hours ago. I’d told him to leave it and this was him… leaving it.

The difference was… he didn’t flinch. And he didn’t hide. He just watched.

Cindy cleared her throat. “Right, well, I’ll see you both later tonight.”

I nodded. “Yep, tonight.”

I couldn’t fucking wait.

The door clicked behind her, and Alvin shuffled closer. “Do you ever think,” he whispered, “that the story always gets told as though it’s about one person’s failure?”

My mouth went dry and I could feel beads of sweat dripping between my shoulder blades. “What are you talking about?”

Alvin exhaled. His carefully curated mask didn’t vanish, but it thinned, revealing a flash of something that looked like pain. “You know,” he said. “Adam and Eve. Choices. The line they draw between good and bad. And how—” He paused. “How some people learn to be ashamed of the parts of themselves that God never actually asked them to hate.”

My chest tightened so harshly it hurt. Because he was right. Because I’d been taught to treat my own thoughts like crimes.

Alvin turned his head slightly, letting his smile return in full force. “Anyway,” he said loudly, as if we hadn’t just touched something raw. “Dee, do you have something to add to the discussion about… bad choices.” He flicked the Eve cutout to the side. It was intentional.

One of the campers spoke up before I could answer. “So what happens if you think something is a good idea and don’t know until later that it’s a bad choice?”

Alvin responded fast. “People tell you it’s punishment,” he said. “But sometimes it’s just consequences. Sometimes it’s judgement from other humans, not God. Sometimes the real damage is what you learn to do to yourself.”

The boy blinked, confused. Maybe because Alvin didn’t fit the image they expected. Maybe because he sounded like someone they could look up to, and not like a target.

I shifted uncomfortably. I wanted to change the subject. Uncomfortable people always did. Uncomfortable people always tried to compress complicated feelings back into categories they could manage.

But Alvin didn’t stop. He looked at me briefly, and I saw the truth under the sarcasm: He wasn’t trying to win an argument. He was trying not to break.

He didn’t waver, though, while I was the one who had to keep pretending I wasn’t shaking.

Something clanged onto the floor. A paint brush? Maybe one of the glue sticks. I didn’t check it. I couldn’t take my eyes off Alvin.