Page 6 of Tastes Like Summer

I narrow my eyes at him. “What does that mean?”

Michael shrugs once. “Just that she’s the goddess of the hunt.”

“Will you two please stop?” The same woman from before hisses at us. This time, she’s joined by two other parents giving us the stink eye. “Some of us actually care about our children and are trying to hear about the non-chlorinated, salt water pool the kids will be swimming in. Please.”

I lean forward in my uncomfortable chair. “Did you seriously just imply that we don’t care about our children?”

I feel Michael’s hand go to my elbow in an attempt to comfort me somehow, but I shake him off.

“I didn’t imply it. I said it. Because if you did, you’d be paying attention to⁠—”

“What? What exactly would I need to pay attention to, huh? How is knowing what kinds of flowers are planted across the camp, the type of water they use to keep the grounds looking like Versailles, or the camp fight song—sorry, anthem, because apparently ‘fight’ song is too violent—affect my quality of parenting?”

The woman rears back, ready to explode. “Did you⁠—”

“Excuse me.” We’re interrupted by a young woman in her mid-twenties wearing an official camp t-shirt. She points to the navy name tag on her shirt and leans down. “I’m Abby, one of the head counselors here. Is something wrong?” she asks in a low voice.

“Uh-oh. Someone’s in trouble,” Michael whispers, but I can tell he’s just a few seconds away from bursting into laughter.

I steadily ignore him.

Cheeks heating, I take a deep breath before replying, “Just wondering when this orientation will be over. I need to get back to work before picking up my girls. And, well, I still need to talk to someone in charge regarding my daughter’s medical condition.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you knew. The orientation is optional.”

“Optional?” Michael and I both say at the same time, a little too loud, sitting up straighter in our seats.

Abby looks nervously around us and shushes us some more. “Please try to keep your voices down. But yes, this part is optional. Most parents choose to be a part of it, though, because⁠—”

“Are you serious?” Michael asks. “So I could’ve left ages ago? I’m not obligated to be here?”

“That’s what optional means, yes,” I say, irritated.

Counselor Abby presses her lips together and stares down at him. “We offer this only for parents who would like to know more about the camp and its rich history.”

“Parents who are actually interested in their children’s lives,” the rude red-headed woman pipes in.

Michael shifts, immediately gearing up for an argument.

“Don’t listen to her,” I whisper.

Without really knowing what I’m doing, I place a hand on Michael’s denim-covered thigh—his strong, defined thigh. The palm of my hand feels red-hot and ice-cold at the same time. A frisson of electricity shoots through my hand, up my arm, and into my chest. We stare at each other in horror before I drop my hand. Though my intention was to stop him from saying something he might regret, the result was not what I was expecting.

I clear my throat before continuing. “Listen, I just need to talk to my daughter’s counselor about her medical condition. Can you help me with that? I’ve already been in touch with the nurse—but I’d like to meet her in person briefly as well. The camp is lovely, but I have other priorities I need to take care of over learning Sugar Maple’s history.” It’s the most diplomatic way I can think of to say I don’t care about the camp’s “rich heritage;” I’m just here for my girls to have a good time without feeling like a horrible person.

Abby purses her lips and straightens, clearly not too satisfied with my answer. “Of course. Let me take you to the on-site nurse and then we can speak to your daughter’s counselor.”

Finally.

“Thank you.” I get to my feet, stiff as a board from sitting in those damn chairs for too long.

Michael, on the other hand, gets up with the grace of a jungle cat. “I’m outta here, then. I’ll be back at pick-up.”

After an aggressive-aggressive shh! from Red, we head in opposite directions. I look over my shoulder once, watching as Michael jogs over to the parking lot towards his truck, his boots kicking up dirt along the way. Absentmindedly, I wonder what the odds are that the annoying chef from Barbara’s wedding ended up placing his daughter in the same summer camp as I did.

It isn’t until I’m backing out of the camp that I realize he was probably the one who told Barbara about it.

Duh.