Page 11 of Given Our History

I exhale through my nose. I’m still holding the wooden spoon and I’m considering conking her over the head with it. But instead, I grit out, “Fine. I’ll admit that I’m … attracted to him—”

She slaps the counter. “I knew it!”

“—but it doesn’t mean anything. That ship has sailed.”

Reagan watches me with a fascinated expression, like she’s seeing me for the first time, but doesn’t push the issue further. We finish our strawberries and I stick the bowls in the sink, dousing them in dish soap and running the hot water.

“What actually happened with you guys, anyway?” Reagan asks.

I shut off the tap. “Why the sudden interest?”

“No reason.” She rises to her feet and pushes the stool into the counter. “Just curious, I guess, if I’m going to have class with him all semester. Hoping he doesn’t dock my grade when he finds out we’re related.”

“Teddy wouldn’t do that,” I assure her with a heck of a lot more confidence than is due, because the truth is, I’m not sure I know him all that well anymore. We’ve been apart longer than we were ever friends. For all intents and purposes, he’s a stranger, and that’s how it needs to stay.

CHAPTER5

SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO

“Have you drawn your numbers yet?”

Ms. Fischer, the camp director, jiggled a plastic Planters Peanuts container full of folded slips of paper. She was wearing one of those dorky hats that covered her neck and khaki shorts that revealed legs mauled by mosquitos. I shoved my hand into the half-empty container and withdrew a number. Izzy followed suit.

I unfolded my slip of paper as Ms. Fischer shuffled away. Number six. “What number did you get?” I asked Izzy, still holding out hope that we’d be paired up.

“Thirty-one. You?”

“Not thirty-one.” I chewed the inside of my cheek and scanned the crowd. Campers milled around us in the grass, awaiting further instruction. It was a sweltering day for late September, sticky enough that the sky-blue Appalachian Adventure Camp polos clung to everyone’s skin like Saran wrap. The winners of the three-legged race got a two-liter of Pepsi and a whole pepperoni pizza to split. Not much motivation for utterly humiliating ourselves, but after an entire month of choking down tuna salad and deli sandwiches that were drier than the Sahara, it might as well have been a crab dinner sprinkled in Old Bay.

Unfortunately, my dermatologist had made me swear off dairy for a few months in hopes that it might help clear up my skin, so that meant I couldn’t have any pizza. I had little reason to try to win this race, and I already would have preferred to be inside beneath the air-conditioning, so it was only half-heartedly that I flashed my slip of paper at faces I knew and faces I didn’t. “Six? Anybody have six?” The nice thing about assigned partners like this was that it got around the embarrassment of having to ask people to pair up with me, but the process of trying to find whoever drew the same number was still awkward. I spied Brandi, the girl who’d been assigned to the bunk above me that summer, and I shouldered my way past a group of older kids to get to her. “Do you have six?”

With a mournful shake of her head, she flashed me a two.

“Darn,” I said, standing on tiptoe to look for anyone else I might recognize. “Maybe—”

“Did I hear you say you’ve got six?” someone asked behind me.

I turned. There was a slight delay before I recognized him—he looked different without his glasses. Indoors, his eyes were dark brown, but in the sun they were a bright, warm amber, like holding a bottle of maple syrup up to the light. “It’s you,” I said, perking up slightly.

“Me,” Teddy agreed, holding up a scrap of paper with a six scrawled on it.

We hadn’t interacted since the rain let up two weeks ago. In part because—weather permitting—the camp program was chock-full of activities to keep us busy, but it also seemed like that day in the cafeteria had been a matter of convenience. After all, we’d both spent last September at camp as well, but we didn’t interact then, so why would we interact now? Our promise of friendship might have fallen by the wayside, had we not drawn the same numbers for the three-legged race.

“My stride will be quite a bit longer than yours,” Teddy was saying, arms folded as he eyed my legs, “so I’ll have to slow down a bit, and it might help if you lengthen yours.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I had little interest in winning a pizza I couldn’t enjoy. “Physical activity isn’t really my strong suit,” I said instead. In the distance, a whistle chirruped and someone called for us to line up.

“I’ll count our paces out loud, if that helps,” he offered as we crested the grassy knoll, where the cabin leaders had already set to work binding participants’ legs together. “That should make it easier to stay on the same page.”

“Sounds good,” I muttered. I wasn’t sure counting would be all that helpful. I was plenty competitive when it came to board games and trivia. Less so when there was athleticism involved. We stood side by side, our feet positioned close to one another as we waited for one of the cabin leaders to come tie us together. “Do you like pizza?” I asked.

He shot me a quizzical sidelong look. “Pizza’s all right, I guess.”

Ms. Fischer materialized again and gave us a long, scrutinizing look as she measured out the ribbon in her hands. “Stand closer,” she barked.

I was already too aware of the space—or lack thereof—between us. Being tied together would have been embarrassing even if we were friends, but despite our promise, we barely knew each other. Without looking at Teddy, I pressed in close, hoping I didn’t smell as sweaty as I felt. Ms. Fischer crouched to bind our legs together, then ordered us to wait for the signal and moved on to the next pairing.

Teddy shifted on the spot—whether because he was uncomfortable or impatient, I couldn’t tell. “Stop bumping me,” I said.