Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
OREN
Ican’t stop thinking about the kiss. Or the way Keane whispered You might be the perfect boy for me.
Every time I replay it, my stomach flips so hard it feels like jumping from a plane…
or what I imagine it would feel like if I were brave enough to do it.
Breakfast is a blur—I don’t even remember what I ate, just that Keane brushed crumbs off my cheek like it was nothing. Except it wasn’t nothing. Not to me.
Craft time comes next. Picture frames. Popsicle sticks and glue and whatever “nature treasures” we can find.
Some of the Littles are already making a mess, smearing glue on their hands and giggling about it.
I’m not giggling. My tongue pokes out of the corner of my mouth as I press a tiny fern leaf just so on the frame.
The glue oozes out a little, but I blot it fast. I want this to be good.
Not ugly or silly. I want it to be nice enough to frame a picture of me and Keane.
He crouches behind me, close enough that I feel his shadow, his warmth.
“Careful, sweetheart, or you’ll glue yourself right to it.”
I duck my head, ears hot. “I want it to look nice.”
“It looks perfect already,” he says softly, just for me.
That word again. Perfect. It settles in my chest more firmly than the glue on those popsicle sticks.
When the frames are drying, we move out to the clearing for a trust exercise. I fold my arms and chew my lip while I watch the others. Littles close their eyes and fall back, squealing, while their Daddies catch them. Some laugh, some drag their feet.
Then it’s my turn.
Keane steps up behind me, voice low enough that it prickles my neck.
“You ready?”
“What if you don’t catch me?” My voice comes out smaller than I mean it to.
“I will,” he says confidently. “Always.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, hold my breath, and let myself fall. For a second, the world tilts so badly I think I might hurl. Then—arms. Strong, certain, wrapping around me as if I was never in danger of hitting the ground at all.
The others clap and laugh. I can barely hear them. All I feel is Keane’s chest against my back, the steady thump of his heart, his breath warm at my ear.
Safe. Held.
You might be the perfect boy for me. Maybe… Keane is the perfect Daddy for me.
When the frames are dry, everyone’s buzzing to shove a photo in theirs, already talking about hanging them on their walls at home. I clutch mine as if it were precious.
The fern leaf is crooked, and the acorn cap keeps threatening to fall off, but I don’t care. It’s mine.
Keane leans over my shoulder, looking at it.
“Turned out real nice, sweetheart.”
I can feel my pulse in my throat. The words are out before I can catch them.
“I want a picture with you in it.”
The second it leaves my mouth, I freeze. My ears burn, and I wish the glue would dry fast enough to seal my lips shut. The other Littles are giggling, showing off goofy faces in their frames, but me—I’ve just confessed something I can’t take back.
Keane doesn’t laugh. He just crouches so he’s eye-level with me, and for a second I think he might kiss me again right there in front of everybody. Instead, he smiles slow and soft, bright as the sun breaking through clouds.
“You got it,” he says. “We’ll make sure you have a picture worth framing.”
My heart does that bear-stomp thing again. Only this time, it doesn’t feel scary. It feels exciting. Exhilarating.
The final exercise of camp is supposed to be a test of teamwork. Each Little has to dismantle their tent using only their Daddy’s voice for instructions. No helping hands, just listening and following directions.
I kneel in the grass, pursing my lips in concentration as Keane calls out directions: “Undo that clip first, sweetheart… now fold the pole toward me… careful, don’t pinch your fingers.
” His voice is calm, patient, as if it’s no big deal that I’m fumbling half the time.
Every word makes me want to do better for him.
Across the lawn, Timmy is whining. “I’m not sure I’m doing this right,” he keeps repeating to his counselor, bending over so much it’s a miracle he doesn’t topple. “Maybe if you came closer and showed me…” His tone is a little too sweet, and Lane cackles as though he’s watching a sitcom.
I roll my eyes, but Keane chuckles under his breath, the sound warm and private, meant only for me.
By the end, my tent’s in a heap that barely fits back into the bag, but Keane claps his hands as if I just performed a magic trick.
“Perfect job, Oren.”
We load the car together, the sun slanting low through the trees. I carry the cooler; he hefts the bags. When he thinks I’m not watching, I see him scoop something from the shadows of our tent bag—my undies from this morning, balled up and obviously sticky.
My breath stutters. He tucks them carefully into his own bag, as if they’re something valuable, not embarrassing.
A flush rushes through me, hot and tingly, right down to my toes. My underwear. My mess. Keane wanted them.
I can’t look straight at him when he slams the trunk shut, but I don’t need to. My body already knows the truth: I’ll be thinking about that moment every single time I picture him.
The courtyard is a storm of voices, hugs, and promises.
Littles cling to each other like it’s the last day of summer vacation, which, for some of them, it kinda is.
Timmy’s bawling so hard his shoulders shake, Theo keeps saying “We’ll group chat, we’ll group chat, I swear,” as if we don’t every day, and Lane is already writing names and numbers on everybody’s arms like a tattoo artist gone rogue.
I’m swept up in it—squeezed, tugged, kissed on the cheek, and handed half a dozen sparkly trinkets that might’ve started life as craft supplies. Everyone’s loud, messy, and too much. And perfect.
“Happy you came?” Lane asks, voice teasing but eyes soft, like he already knows the answer.
I swallow, my throat suddenly tight. I hug him, then Theo, then even Timmy with his wet face pressed against my shirt.
“Yeah,” I say, louder than I expected. “Thank you. Really. For making me come.”
They cheer and squeeze me tighter, and my chest aches in that way that feels good. Over their heads, I spot Keane waiting by the car, arms crossed, patient as ever. He catches my eye and tilts his head—my anchor in the chaos, my Daddy in a sea of Daddies.
The noise swirls around me, but in the center of it, I feel grounded.