Page 5 of Tastes Like Summer

“It’s Ms. Perfect, actually.” Ugh, I don’t know why I said that. That’s stupid. Who cares about the clarification? “And anyway, we should probably stop chitchatting, don’t you think? We’re late enough as it is.” I take both my girls’ hands and pull them toward the entrance, ignoring the easy way Michael whistles casually behind us. Camila tugs on my hand, wanting to go to her new friend, but I drag her along. “You’ll see her in camp,” I mutter.

The only year I ever attended summer camp—a two-week overnight experience on the coast of Venezuela—my parents simply dropped us off and drove away. I don’t know if it’s an American thing or a Hamptons thing, but as soon as we cross those front gates, the girls are taken to their designated cabins—small ones that look like they were purchased at the Home Depot, where they can leave their things in cubbies and change into their swim clothes—while parents are guided to a three-hour long orientation. Three hours. And counting. Worst of all, since we were the last two parents to arrive, Michael and I are led to the back of the room and forced to sit together.

I discretely check my watch. The long list of errands I planned on running today and actual work I have to do will now have to be cut down to essentials. Mentally, I remap my tasks for optimal results, moving the non-urgent ones to tomorrow’s to-do list. I adjust my study plan for the paralegal certification, resolving to go through only one unit today and cram three in tomorrow. As for work, that’ll have to be my priority. There are a couple of documents I need to get through for a company one of our clients is trying to acquire—the most important case on my boss’s desk lately, so I have to be prepared. As for errands, I resign myself to hitting the local, over-priced gourmet grocery store instead of the better value one two towns over to save some time. Just as I’m redoing my grocery list in my head, I feel Michael lean into me.

“Psst! You aren’t paying attention,” he whispers. But he’s grinning, a sly smile on his face.

“Yes, I am.” Kind of. "But also, no offense, I really couldn’t care less about how the wood used to make the newer cabins was repurposed from one of the oldest homes in Long Island that was destroyed during some hurricane in the nineties.”

“Whoa. A little harsh, don’t you think?” But there’s a glint of humor in his expression.

I exhale, closing my eyes. “I just… had a lot of things planned for today. And now…” I check my watch again. There’s only a few more hours left in the camp day. Hours that I had set aside to finish setting us up here for the next two and a half months. “How long do they expect us to stay here? The whole session?”

“Why don’t you just leave?” He shrugs, sitting back in his chair.

How he manages to look so comfortable in these metal fold-out things is beyond comprehension. From the corner of my eye, I stare at him: his slightly overgrown hair, face scruffy like he didn’t have time to shave this morning. He could pass for a relaxed Calvin Klein model, in a just-tight-enough white t-shirt and jeans. It’s not super hot out yet, but it’s still summer. How is he not sweltering in those?

“I can’t. I have to talk to my daughter’s counselor about… something.”

He nods. “That doesn’t sound sketchy at all.”

This guy. Jeez. “It’s personal,” I snap.

He raises his hands in the air like he had the other night. I don’t miss the bare ring finger on his left hand. “Got it.”

“Why do you do that? Raise your hands like that. I’m not going to shoot you,” I hiss.

Michael grins, green eyes wide, seemingly thrilled. “Could’ve fooled me. Twice I’ve seen you get protective over your daughters. Twice I’ve felt like my life was in danger.” He laughs softly before turning back to the front of the room.

“I’m not that bad,” I say, a little too loudly. A woman with fiery red hair from the row in front of us turns to glare, pressing a finger over her lips.

“Sorry,” Michael whispers. “She’s just so excited about the reclaimed wood.”

I snort but try to hide it with a cough. “You’re the worst.”

“And you’re just being a good mom. If a little overprotective at times.” He shrugs easily again, his eyes straight ahead.

My breath catches, though it’s thankfully inaudible. I turn to look at him—to really look at him—and smile.

“Thank you,” I tell him.

“For what?” He raises a brow.

“For saying that. That I’m a good mom. I’m… doing this myself. And sometimes it’s a little hard to believe I’m doing the right things.”

“I get that. Especially since I’m in the same boat. It’s why I got so upset with you that night. I’m new to this.”

“Single parenting?” I take a guess.

He hesitates a bit, and nods.

What’s his story? Is he divorced? Has custody over his kid over the summer which is why there seems to be no mother in sight? A widower? I’m annoyed by the fact he only volunteered a minuscule amount of information, but more than that, I’m annoyed at myself for caring.

“What’s your name, by the way? I told you mine, but you never told me yours.”

“Diana.”

He squints at me, as if processing the information. “Goddess of the hunt.”