I sigh and shake my head. “I just…” I trail off, watching carefully for his reaction. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
I don’t wantyouto get hurt.
“Hey,” he says softly, “I get that.”
Then, he smirks. “But are you really saying that you want to watch all of this”—he gestures up and down his body—“this summer and not be able to touch?”
I roll my eyes, frustrated that he’s not taking the conversation seriously. “Ugh, Gage, come on.” Although, the man makes a good point. “We have so much history,” I continue. “Can you really say you can keep feelings out of this?”
He shifts his eyes to the ground and shrugs. “I mean, yeah. You?”
My head and my heart screamNo!It’s already too late. I’m as gone for Gage as I was in high school. But if the alternative is not having him at all, am I willing to give this up and still see him every day? Especially when he insists he won’t catch feelings?
“Yeah,” I answer, inspecting my fingernails so I don’t have to look at him while I lie.
“Okay then, problem solved.” Gage nods. “I've got to go get ready for my campers to arrive, but I'll see you later, yeah?”
“Yeah, of course. See you later.”
He turns around and ambles toward his cabin, while I’m left reeling from our interaction.
I rub the side of my fist against my forehead. I feel so jumbled up inside.
On the one hand, it hurts to hear Gage say that he can keep feelings out of a physical relationship with me, becausehow? But on the other hand, isn’t that what I want? Isn’t that what I’m insisting on?
The chaos of another week of wrangling campers keeps me occupied long enough that my uncertainty about my fling with Gage rearranges into missing him. I see him throughout the week, of course, but as usual it’s brief glimpses across the campfire or in passing while he’s leading a group of rowdy ten-year-old boys.
I’m impatient to spend time with him, to relax against his chest, and joke with him. I’m greedy for the opportunity to hear more of his deepest thoughts and feelings.
Finally, it’s Skit Night on Friday before the parents take their kids home. None of the groups asked me to perform with them this week—which is fine with me—so I’m sitting in the back enjoying the show.
Gage’s group of boys stand to deliver their skit, the junior counselor Jayden with them. I dart my eyes around for Gage, but I don’t see him. Maybe he wasn’t invited to perform this week either.
The skit starts with one boy loudly reading from his notes about how there once was a camp counselor with a case of the “sadsies.” When he says “sadsies” all the other kids make exaggerated pout faces and loud wailing noises.
Then Gage walks on “stage” with a similarly over-the-top pout, his puppy dog eyes wide and pitiful.
“The counselor was so sad that all the kids called him Mr. Sadsie, which made him even sadder. And nobody knew why he was sad because he wouldn’t tell and maybe he didn’t really remember anyway.”
Again, the rest of the boys pout and wail, adding emphasis to the action like a Greek chorus.
“Then one day Mr. Sadsie decided to go on a quest to see if anyone knew why he was so sad.”
Gage starts wandering among the rows of spectators, his face still reflecting that melodramatic sad expression.
“Mr. Sadsie saw lots of people and wanted to talk to them to find out why he was so sad.”
Gage sits down next to various people in the audience, leaning toward them with his sad face. They laugh or smile uncomfortably until Gage moves on.
“But no one would ask him what’s wrong.”
Impossibly, Gage’s face turns even sadder, and he hangs his head.
“He decides to try one more time.”
My pulse speeds up when Gage makes a beeline for the back of the audience. He stops at the end of my row, which is mostly empty, and sits on the bench. He slides slowly down the bench until he’s right next to me.
With everyone in the audience watching us to see what will happen next, he drops his head on my shoulder and sighs loudly.
