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Neither of us clarified what that really meant. If it was a pause or an ending or a restart.
I was too stunned—and hurt—to ask her for details or fine print. I got drunk with Finn and Mark, then left for basketball camp early the next morning. And since she never reached out to me, I never reached out to her.
Childish, but it was easier at the time. My logic was she wanted the break, so I would give that to her.
And now? I have no idea what to do.
It feels like I’m losing her. That holding tight or letting go will have the same heart-breaking outcome.
Nothing is more terrifying.
I exit the highway and follow the signs toward the campgrounds’ entrance. My dad and I came here a handful of times growing up, and it’s become an annual tradition with my friends. One I almost missed this year because of my damn pride.
It’s almost laughable that Cassia thinks she isn’t a priority to me. It feels like all my decisions started centering around her a long time ago.
What isn’t funny is that she doesn’t see that.
I park next to Finn’s Jeep, exhaling a long breath before opening the car door.
The smile comes automatically, like slipping on a mask. I’ve always been good at shielding my true emotions.
Maybetoogood.
At a certain point, it became my first instinct.
Finn obviously told everyone I was coming because no one looks the least bit surprised to see me unloading my stuff from the bed of the truck.
Mark ambles over first, grabbing the cooler out after knocking fists.
I inhale deeply when a breeze kicks up, the scent of exposed earth and pine needles soothing. A little of the serenity fades when I catch Grace’s eye. She winks at me, then goes back to sorting food supplies with McKenzie.
I haven’t said a word to anyone about where things stand between me and Cassia. But everyone seems to know we’re in a bad place, which makes me wonder what she’s said or done this summer. If I had a little less pride, I’d ask. It seems like more than just us not talking last night. And I would have handled that differently if I’d had any clue she’d be there. Her mom said she was at London’s.
Peacefulness fades a little more when I spot the guy who was playing with Cassia last night piling sticks in the fire pit. Brent? Brett? Some preppy name.
I shake off the annoyance and focus on unloading the rest of my stuff. This place isn’t as rustic as most campgrounds. Each site has its own fire pit, grill, and water pump. Plus, there are a few outbuildings scattered around the park with showers, sinks, and toilets. But we still have to bring a bunch of equipment, plus food.
There’s a sizable pile of luggage in the center of the clearing. About half the stack is pink or light purple.
Once I get all my stuff unloaded, I carry it over to the spot closest to the woods.
“Hey, Holden.”
I glance at Camila Stuart as I shake the tent poles out of their bag. She’s one of Grace’s good friends, but I doubt we’ve ever exchanged more than a few dozen words.
“Hey.”
Instead of moving along, she lingers. “How was camp?”
I’ve gotten used to people I barely know knowing details about my life, but it’s still strange. At one point, it was because of my talent and notoriety. After my dad died, it seemed like it shifted to some pity.
“It was great,” I say.
She nods, still not moving.
“How was your summer?” I ask, feeling obligated to reciprocate some conversation.
“It’s been awesome!” Camila responds. There’s a peppiness to her tone that was missing when I asked Cassia the same question earlier. And that my answer was probably lacking.
