Lane: Camp is in two weeks!!! You coming, or are you going to hide in the bushes like last summer?
My heart does a hopeful little lurch. Camp. Capital C, as though it’s not just a weekend but a looming beast waiting to devour me. Lane’s text glows in my mind:You coming?As if it’s that easy. As if I can just waltz into a weekend surrounded by Littles, Middles, Daddies, and Caregivers, all bubbly and confident, with their matching backpacks and inside jokes.
The thought haunts me all the way to the bathroom. I grip the sink, splash cold water on my face, and watch an exhausted, wide-eyed version of myself stare back in the mirror.
“You can’t,” I tell him. “You don’t even have a Daddy. You’ll be the guy sitting alone with a juice box while everyone else gets tucked in.”
My stomach knots at the thought. Iwantto go, but I want to from a safe distance. Like… through a livestream. With a pause button.
What if I don’t fit in? What if they can tell I’ve only ever done this online? What if—oh God—someone asks who my Daddy is, and I just…don’t have an answer? Do I point at my phone? Text Keane like,Hey, can you teleport into the woods real quick so I don’t look like a loser?
The truth is, every time my friends talk about it, my chest fills with sharp envy. They get bedtime stories in real life, stuffies lined up in actual bunks, group snack times where no one blinks if you dunk your graham cracker into milk with two hands. They belong. Even the ones who don’t have Daddies aren’t like me. They’re brave.
I’ve got my notebook full of bedtime porn no one’s supposed to see and a Daddy who exists in text bubbles. Who tells me to drink water, who makes me feel grounded when I’m spiraling, who spoils me with praise.
My phone dings again. Another message from Lane.
Lane: Don’t be a chicken. You’d love it if you just came.
He doesn’t get it. None of them get it. I want to go. Iacheto go. But the thought of walking into that campground without Keane by my side makes me feel naked. And the thought of having Keane by my side makes me feel…squirmish-flutter-doomish.
Should I ask him?
Would I dare?
My thumbs hover over the chat window for far too long—typing, deleting, rewriting—until Keane’s message pops up.
Keane: I see a lot of bubbles but no words. Everything all right, kiddo?
My throat goes dry. Of course, he notices. Keane noticeseverything.
I stab out a reply, erase it, and try again. Nothing sounds normal enough, casual enough. How do I tell him my friends are all packing matching pajamas for camp while I’m stuck here inventing new shades of panic? Meeting him in person is more pressure than I bargained for.
Instead, I type the safest deflection I can think of.
I brushed my teeth and remembered to floss!
Three dots appear. My heart does a little freefall.
Keane: Good. Dental hygiene is a very big-boy thing to remember for sleepy Littles.
The corner of my mouth twitches. Damn him for making me smile when I’m supposed to be wallowing.
But then another message blinks in.
Keane: …but that’s not what had you hovering, is it?
My stomach drops straight through my pajama pants. Heknows. He always knows.
I lean back against the wall, clutching the phone to my chest. If I tell him, I’m exposed. If I don’t, he’ll keep poking, keep waiting, and that almost feels worse.
So I settle on the coward’s middle ground.
Just overthinking. Nothing important.
It’s a lie. He’ll see through it. He always does. His Daddy instincts are spot on. I bite my lip and hit send before I can change my mind. The three dots pop up almost instantly, as if he’s been waiting with his thumb ready.
Keane: Everything you think about is important, kiddo. To me, anyway.
