Chapter 28
By day three of my week-long mini vacation between camp sessions, I’m bored as hell and ready to resort to illegal methods to have a good time. Nothing major, probably. Unless driving five miles above the speed limit is considered major.
With my mom on a work trip—as per usual in the summer—our big house in Wears Valley, a suburb of Gatlinburg and a pretty great place if you ask my mom, is all mine.
Well, all mine and the cats’. Plus the housekeeper, who comes every morning when we’re gone to make sure the cats haven’t gone crazy and all three of them are fed.
As if they know I’m silently badmouthing them and thinking about how they’re manipulating my mom into feeding them way more than they need, one of the Siamese cats saunters into the living room, her eyes fixed on mine as she gets closer and closer. Sure enough, Mint doesn’t hesitate before hopping up onto my chest and digging her claws into my skin under my shirt hard enough to make me wince.
“Ow. Ow,” I mutter, reaching up to unhook her claws. “This is a little much, Mint. If you’re pissed at your boyfriends, go take it up with them.” Since Yarrow and Parsley aren’t here, I have a feeling they’re locked in mock-battle somewhere else in the house. Meaning Mint is bored of them and seeking someone else to inconvenience.
And without Mom, her clear target is me.
She proves this when she starts purring, her green eyes fixed on mine as she kneads her claws into my shirt and skin. Out of the three of them, Mint is probably the cutest. Though she’s a little cross-eyed, if you look at her long enough. But to me, that just makes her that much more adorable.
My hand comes up, finger extended to scratch behind her left ear. Immediately, Mint’s eyes narrow, and her purr gets louder as I stroke her favorite spot. She’s needy, sure, but uncomplicated at least.
But I’m still bored as hell, even with her on my chest and the television at low volume playing some random summer camp horror movie that seemed like a good idea to put on an hour ago.
Instead of watching though, I find myself replaying the events of the past week through my head over and over again. It’s impossible not to think about Kayde, about Melody. About Darcy, though my thoughts towards her aren’t exactly positive. If I’m lucky, she’ll break a foot or get the consumption before Sunday, so that I won’t have to deal with her for one more week before schools start picking up and I have to go back to the real world.
Not that I really know what I’m going to do now that summer is almost over. I’m not like Kinsley, who has it all figured out. Or, at least, did have it all figured out. According to her, she’d made a very concrete plan to move to Pigeon Forge, get a job at her cousin’s coffee shop, and finish up her finance degree. It seemed—and still seems—like a great idea. She’ll be able to save money, finish school, and probably get just about any job that she sets her sights on.
But now I wonder if Liza will change all of that.
“Must be nice,” I mumble to the cat on my chest, feeling myself sink into another self pity party. “You know? To have someone that you might want to derail your plans for. Do you think it’s nice?” My cat doesn’t answer, but she does continue to purr in satisfaction at the feeling of being scratched.
“I’m not jealous.” I let my head fall back onto the pillow, refusing to look at the coffee table where my trash from the last couple of days is starting to accumulate. If I let her, our housekeeper would totally clean it up for me while I lay here like a lump that’s starting to assimilate with the couch. But thanks to my guilt complex and a lifetime of being afraid to inconvenience others, I’d rather die than let Elena anywhere near the trash that I could and should take care of myself.
“I’m really not.” Seriously, I have no idea who I’m talking to as I sit up slowly and push Mint down onto my lap. She prowls away, only to curl up on my blanket where my legs had been until now. “It’s fucking Kayde.” My hands inch for my phone on the end table, and I bring it to me before collapsing onto the sofa again, this time with my legs drawn up so that I don’t bother Princess Mint where she’s currently trying her best to ignore me on my blanket.
Right where I want to put my legs, of course.
Without hesitating, and refusing to think about how fucking obsessed I must seem, I type Kayde’s name into my phone’s internet browser. Figuring that he’d either given me a fake name or that he, like the serial killers I’ve seen on tv, is smart enough not to have any kind of social media presence, I’m not expecting anything to come up.
But clearly I’m overthinking things.
Especially when multiple entries with his name and picture pop up, and my eyebrows shoot toward my brows as I bury myself into my blanket burrito once more.
Star High School Basketball player only survivor of mountain bus crash.
High School Star Kayde Lane, of Warsaw, Arkansas, presumed dead.
There are more of them, but I click on the first article and skim through it, noting that the date is from six years ago.
Holy shit.
It’s certainly not what I’d been expecting, and I find myself completely obsessed and absorbed in reading about the bus crash in the mountains that had taken the lives of all of Kayde’s swim team.
He’d been the only survivor.
But he’d also been out in the woods for eight days before he was found.
No article talks much about what had happened after, and while I find small entries about his swim times when he’d been in high school, I can’t find anything at all for after the crash. Had he quit swimming?
Is this what had turned him into a murderer?
There’s no point in wondering, I know. Not when he’s gone to look for some other camp to terrorize and is out of my life forever. But I still skim a couple more of the articles before getting to my feet with Mint in my arms to trudge to the kitchen and forage for food.
Armed with potato soup from my favorite restaurant that had been waiting for me in the fridge and a glass of soda, I make my way back to the living room, settling on the couch. With my freshly microwaved soup in hand, I inch for my phone once more, oblivious to the cat hopping up to burrow into my blanket again.
There’s nothing more to find out about Kayde Lane. And not only that, there’s no reason to. If I was really that interested, I should’ve looked him up during the week at camp. At least then, if I’d had the balls, I could’ve actually asked him about what I’d found.
…Not that I think I would’ve had the courage to bring it up to him.
Nothing gives me much more than the first article had. There are a few scattered details, such as his family wouldn’t respond or comment and neither would Kayde himself. One article states Kayde had seemed ‘suspiciously quiet’ about the whole thing. Especially when his teammates had been brought up.
But part of me thinks that isn’t suspicious. After all, if my best friend had died, hell if I had been the only survivor of the hypothetically averted Camp Crestview massacre, I don’t think I’d want to talk about anyone that had died. And I definitely don’t think I could’ve talked to anyone about Kinsley. Not if she’d died and I had to live with that.
My stomach clenches around the spoonful of soup, and I close my eyes to stop myself from retching or chucking it all up. That would be such a waste of really good soup.
With my stomach settled, I skim through articles again, landing on one that had been from his local paper, and focused on Kayde as an up-and-coming swimmer in his high school. He’d been made swim captain junior year, and everyone had expected him to go to college on a swimming scholarship.
Now I wonder if he made it to college in any capacity, since it seems he certainly didn’t go on with swimming, if these articles are to be believed.
A picture of him from when he was seventeen catches my eye; he had just finished a race that had set his team up for the championships. He’s smiling at the camera, golden curls bouncing, and his caramel eyes are warm, filled with mirth, and nothing like I know them to be now.
He looks so…different. So fucking young it’s unreal, and just happy to be there. Really, it’s nothing like the Kayde I know, and I feel as if I’m looking at a doppelg?nger, or a twin of my Kayde.
Not mine, I remind myself, my voice small and hesitant in my brain. He was never mine. Hadn’t he proved that by just leaving without a word? Without waking me up to say anything?
But that was surely his plan all along. And the fact he’d left me wishing I’d gotten something more is enough for me to know that in the end, he really did win our game. I couldn’t maintain my aloofness. I couldn’t keep hating him.
No matter how many times a day I went through it in my head. No matter how many times I tried to hate him over and over again. I don’t love him, sure. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t end up with some kind of feelings for him after all was said and done.
Did he know? I wonder, blinking down blankly at my soup. Had he been able to tell? Maybe that’s why he’d left the way he did.
Maybe that really was his goal and his plan all along. Even though he didn’t stick around to soak up his victory at my hurt and my feelings from being abandoned. I take another bite of soup and try to swallow that and the feeling that’s gnawing at my insides, though I know I’m not doing anything other than consuming cheesy, perfect carbs. Still, aren’t carbs the cure for being sad? I refuse to say I have a broken heart, or anything so dramatic as that.
After all, I was not and never would’ve been in love with Kayde.
Settling back on the sofa, I let out a sigh and dump the last of my soup into my mouth, forgoing the spoon and instead just upending the bowl. My movie is maybe halfway through, I think, though if forced to answer to save my life, I honestly really have no idea what’s going on in whatever’s playing on my television.
But I try to pay attention. It’s not like I have anything else to do, and I’m on vacation for a few more days before going right back to Camp Crestview for the last session of the year. As the summer’s sessions go by ages, this will be another group of twelve- and thirteen-year-olds, compared to the eight-year-olds we end up with in the beginning of the summer. Personally, I prefer the older kids. At least their brains work a little better, and they tend to have more personality than the younger kids.
When I hear the sound of the door opening, I barely even blink. Elena comes at three on the dot once a week on Wednesday, and today is no exception. But when she sees me, our housekeeper blinks, her smile widening and expression warming.
“I forgot you’d be home this week,” she tells me, coming to the couch and leaning down a little awkwardly so that she can hug me in a tight, reassuring embrace. I hug her back just as tightly, because Elena has always been like a second mom to me, even when she was first hired when I was thirteen. She’d taken one look at me, my nervousness, and my shyness around her, and had made it her mission to make me feel more at home.
“Just until Saturday,” I admit as she pulls away, only to sit beside me on the couch after she evicts Mint from her spot. Not that I mind. Talking to Elena is sometimes the best part of my week. Especially when it’s been a rough one.
And God, last week really had been more than a little rough.
“This is your last week of being a camp counselor for the summer, right?” she asks, letting Mint climb into her lap and stroking the Siamese cat absently. Mint stares up at me as she does, as if to make a point, and her eyes cross a little more as she relaxes and starts to purr.
What a traitor.
“It is,” I tell her. “Then I’m doing…something. Guess I gotta figure that out, huh?” Even if it is a little late to figure out my post-summer plans when it’s already the end of August. But I refuse to admit, even to myself, that I’ve really put this off and will most likely end up with some boring job as I camp out here in the house I grew up in.
And maybe literally camp out in the backyard, if the tent in my closet is still in one piece.
“You’ll figure it out,” Elena promises, getting to her feet. “We have to get you out of the house, though. At least sometimes.” She picks up a few of my empty bottles before I can stop her, and Elena smiles blithely at me as I self-consciously try to pull my mess away from her. Though, when I discover I have an armload of trash, I get to my feet and follow sheepishly after Elena to dump all of it in the kitchen trash under her watchful, approving eye.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think this was her plan all along. She gestures for me to sit at the table, and as I watch, she goes to the cabinet and gets out her cleaning supplies before continuing with her explanation.
“You need to meet someone,” Elena urges. “You seem so lonely in this big house when your mother is away.” She’s not wrong, but I do duck my head and stare at my hands while she starts with the counters. I always feel so awkward when she’s here cleaning and I’m not doing anything, but she really is the second mother I never had, and sometimes is better at putting a bright spin on things than Mom is.
“Maybe I did meet someone,” I say, not really meaning it. But Elena stops and looks at me, the surprise on her features making me scrunch my nose. “Okay, you don’t need to look so surprised.”
“I just thought the only way you’d end up in a relationship is if your mother takes me up on being your matchmaker,” Elena admits casually. “Never thought you’d take that step all on your own. Who is he? Is it a he? Did you and Kinsley finally admit your love for each other?”
That makes me snort, and my smile turns genuine. Kinsley loves Elena, and from what I know, the feeling is mutual. Especially when Elena brings over homemade brownies, which are absolutely Kinsley’s favorites. It helps that Elena saves the corner pieces for Kins, knowing she can’t resist them.
“Actually, Kinsley has met her soul mate. And it isn’t me,” I say, then tell her about Liza, thrilled to see how happy Elena is for my best friend as she smiles and nods along. “I want them to be it for each other,” I admit, sitting back in my chair. “I want them to get married and I totally want to be in the wedding. Pretty sure I’d make such a good flower girl.”
Elena appraises me with one raised brow. “You’re a bit old,” she tells me dryly, prompting me to snort. “Now tell me about this boy of yours. You can’t leave me here with just ‘I met someone,’ Summer.” She almost sounds like she’s chastising me, though I recognize the gleam in her eyes and the way her mouth quirks in a grin.
But I find myself deflating in my chair, and I sit back with a soft huff. “Yeah, that’s the thing,” I admit. “I don’t know how I feel about him. Felt about him. It wasn’t worth bringing him up.”
“Why’s that?” Her face falls to one of concern, and my heart twists hard in my chest, protesting even talking about this.
“Because he left.” Me, I almost say, before I swallow the word hard. “He—he left before camp was over. He was a new counselor. I thought…” I trail off, shrugging my shoulders. After all, what the hell did I think?
That he liked me?
That he wanted to actually be my boyfriend?
That Kayde the murderer had fallen for me?
What a fucking joke.
Abruptly I get to my feet, mood soured, and huff out a sigh. “Sorry,” I tell her, hating that all of my negativity from the week is back after I’ve tried so hard to beat it back with a mental stick. “I’m just a little sore about it. Forget I said anything about meeting anyone. He clearly didn’t think I was worth sticking around for, so he doesn’t exist anymore.” God, I wish I could so easily write him off in my head.
I wish he wasn’t so good at making me remember him.
Before I can register what she’s doing, Elena wraps her arms around me, drawing me into a hug with my head against her shoulder. “You’re worth sticking around for, Summer,” she murmurs, rocking me slightly in the best mom-hug I’ve had since I came home. But that’s probably because Mom’s schedule meant I haven’t seen her in about three weeks, or else I’d be getting my daily fill of mom-hugs.
Still, I can’t help but bury my face in her shoulder, eyes closed hard. “Thanks Elena,” I whisper, wishing I could muster up some kind of rage or anger toward Kayde, instead of the gnawing sadness and soft fear that Darcy is right, and maybe I’m really not worth sticking around for.