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But then I was sure he had. I’d rolled over, pretending to still be annoyed at him for whatever bullshit he’d pulled during the day. And he’d climbed up onto the top bunk, made some sort of sexual innuendo I also pretended not to laugh at, and then I’d shut off the lights and we’d gone to sleep.

It was too early in the morning for Alvin to have gone anywhere on his own, and too late for him to have gotten up to take a piss. That usually happened around midnight.

Why did I know that? Because the loud fucker had the annoying habit of flicking my nose when he thought I was sleeping. No nose flick. No Alvin.

Where was he?

My heart started sprinting before I even sat up. The bottom bunk creaking under my weight, while I jerked my head towards the window, towards the door, towards anything that might offer some sort of clue or simple explanation.

Nothing. No blanket lump. No clothes thrown over the chair like he always did when he was out at the showers and I was stuck watching a glitter tank top silently judge me for my fashion choices. But most concerning of all wasn’t what I didn’t see. It was what he’d left behind. His stupid spider pin. He took that creepy thing everywhere with him. If for no other reason than to remind everyone of my murderous tendencies—his words, not mine.

I swung my legs down so hard my ankle twisted and stung. I didn’t care. I was already moving.

“Alvin,” I called out as I peeked my head through the cabin door. “Alvin?”

No answer.

My gut twisted. My stomach was empty and at the same time it never felt heavier. My brain, traitorous and efficient about it, started filling in all the worst-case scenarios the way it always did when I was alone with my thoughts.

He’d wandered off into the woods somewhere and gotten lost. If Alvin were here, he would argue and tell me he wasn’t lost. He was just committed to not being found yet.

But that was the problem. Alvin wasn’t here. Where he should be. And I liked things being where they should be. I liked our routine.

“Fucking hell…” I muttered under my breath, tugging on a clean pair of shorts and sliding into my flip-flops before rushing out the door with my whistle and keys swinging around my wrist. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

It was a question I hadn’t been able to answer in years and one I was committed to ignoring for as long as I could.

That would have been a lot easier if I wasn’t back at this fucking camp. How the hell was I supposed to help teach kids how to cope with their poor choices, when I couldn’t even cope with my ex-best friend being more than ten feet away?

We were just gonna ignore the fact that I couldn’t cope with him being close either.

I stomped down the path that led to the chow hall, doubled back towards the rec room, and even peeked in the showers—both relieved and disappointed when I didn’t find him there.

Yeah, I know. That’s fucking confusing. Newsflash! I was fucking confused.

I ran past the bulletin board, past the row of campers’ cabins with their bright painted names, past the sign that said Welcome to Camp Dix. When I reached the open space behind two of the main buildings, my lungs started to burn. I was a swimmer, not a runner, and that quick adrenaline spike I’d woken up with was starting to wane.

I paused and pressed my back up against one of the buildings. It was still early enough that the light looked pale and washed out, as if the world hadn’t decided what kind of day it wanted to be.

I remembered standing in this same spot. Yesterday and a lifetime ago. Because right now it felt like both. Age fifteen wasn’t the first time Alvin became the center of my orbit. My driving force. The instigator for my panic.

Before the kiss, before the twist of memory that still made my stomach clench, there had been nights on my bedroom floor when everything felt safe and soft. When he’d sneak into the bag of Halloween decorations and jump out and scare me, and then collapse laughing when I shrieked. When I’d fallen asleep to the sound of his voice telling stories in a tone that made me feel like I could be myself without consequence. At least around him.

When he’d wait until I’d finally passed out and quickly braid my hair. He’d insist it was my fault for letting it get so long. What he didn’t know, because I was too embarrassed to tell him, was that my ma’s clippers had broken and she couldn’t afford to take me to the barber shop. Instead, I’d insisted that long hair was something I wanted, a phase I was going through. It was probably why I was so adamant about keeping it short now. Long hair reminded me of those sleepovers with him. It reminded me of all the years of pretending…

Back then, being ashamed wasn’t something we carried with us. Back then, our biggest secret was the one we kept from our parents about where the cookies were stashed.

Now, the secrets—and the shame—followed us. And we couldn’t escape them anymore than we could escape the storm clouds forming overhead. Or the graying sky or the rain that was about to start.

I guess the day finally decided it wanted stormy weather…

I found myself jogging past the chow hall again, nearly running into a stack of folding chairs. I was halfway to apologizing to a camper, who didn’t even bother to glance at me, when I stopped.

I could hear him.

It was unmistakable. Obnoxious, loud, and ended on a little snort that told me it was genuine too. Alvin would swear on the Bible that he didn’t snort. And that was how you knew he was lying.

I followed the sound. Back behind the cabins, near the covered porch where staff pretended to rest while still having to keep their eyes on their hordes of kids. Alvin sat there on a bench, shoulders relaxed, knees angled comfortably under him. His camp-issued tee already rolled up around his waist and cinched at the back, in preparation for the day’s events. His face freshly washed and his hair styled but damp. Meanwhile, I still had that just-out-of-bed look.