14. （Mostly） Tuesday
CHAPTER 14
(MOSTLY) TUESDAY
D aniel Becker didn’t usually have a lot of trouble sleeping, particularly during the summers. But he’d read the same paragraph about what precisely had led the Medical Examiner to rule the death a homicide twice, and he neither had any idea what had killed the victim nor felt at all drowsy. He tossed the book across the mattress and rolled to his other side for the hundredth time since getting in bed.
He’d been caught in a mental loop, running through his last two interactions with Maggie McArthur, trying to decide which had gone worse. During the first one, he’d caused an evening-ending hiccup attack. During the second one, he’d shown up unannounced at her place of employment with his best friend who, unbeknownst to him, was one of Maggie’s former half-night stands, and who had, almost as soon as they were reintroduced, referred to Maggie as “his” Maggie, sending him into a panic about what he might have said to Drew that she might see fit to repeat. He’d then become singularly focused on getting both Drew and himself the hell out of there, which, in hindsight, did sort of make it seem like he was leaving in a huff about the discovery that Maggie and Drew had once made out.
It was a tough call, but he was leaning toward the second interaction being worse. The first one was really Parton’s fault.
The thing was, if Maggie felt weird about the Drew situation, if Maggie didn’t want to sleep with him again, he would understand. (He would be taking a lot of cold showers, but he really would understand.) What Daniel didn’t want was for what he considered a budding friendship to end because he’d made it awkward . And even if that wasn’t salvageable, he at least didn’t want Maggie to slip back into her Pantsuit persona. Because in the last few weeks, he’d seen her shed the metaphorical blazer. And if she was eventually going to leave, if whatever they were to one another was just a flash in the pan, then he wanted her to be leaving behind Camp Blue Harbor, not Blue Harbor Time Shares and Vacation Rentals.
It has been more than 24 hours since they’d talked.
He knew Drew would tell him to stop worrying about it and just text her. Drew had been kvelling, or as close as she ever got to kvelling, which was sort of an especially forceful interest, when he’d filled her in that past Sunday about everything that had gone down during the week. It had taken him from the back of the line at the Chuck Wagon all the way through getting their orders and finding a picnic table to catch Drew up. Once they were settled in under a shady sugar maple, she’d told him, in the weary tone of someone who had given the same advice over and over and had, at this point, no hope of it being taken, that he should just text Maggie if he wanted to see her again so damn much.
He hadn’t. And she’d known he wouldn’t. Because Daniel Becker went with the flow. And most of the time, that worked out pretty well for him. Drew, however, had very much the opposite approach.
Aaaand he was just now realizing that bumping into Maggie McArthur had maybe not been an accident. Drew had access to Google and an occasionally problematic fondness for meddling in his life. Daniel had clearly piqued her interest with his manifest lack of chill about Maggie. Drew had probably found a photo of Blue Harbor’s interim director and realized who Maggie was before she’d even gotten home from Sunday lunch. Knowing Daniel wouldn’t be taking her up on her suggestion to just text her , she’d apparently decided that Chuck’s invitation to the Blue Harbor July Fourth Cookout provided the perfect opportunity for an ambush.
Yeah, that tracked.
She’d probably thought it would be a nice bonding moment.
He rolled on to his other side like he was roasting on a spit. Which he sort of was, if the spit were made of anxiety.
Daniel had gone through a period in college when he’d had trouble sleeping, and his therapist at the time had gotten him started on an alternate version of counting sheep: pretending he was a contestant on Chopped by picking four random basket ingredients and inventing as many dishes as he could. He hadn’t played the game in years, but there was no time like the present.
A morning glow was beginning to seep through the cabin’s shades by the time he was brainstorming a third option for a dessert basket of radishes, honeysuckle, sticky rice, and ketchup.
He flopped hopelessly onto his back. He was past the point of no return.
Fuck it, maybe Drew was right. Just this once. Because, at the moment, it seemed like Maggie McArthur could take him or leave him, and leaving him was probably the path of least resistance. As long as both options were on the table, though, he had a pretty strong preference about which one she chose. He might want to stop going with the flow and instead dip a metaphorical oar in the metaphorical river.
And his mother said he wasn’t getting any use out of his literature degree.
Rolling onto his side, Daniel grabbed his phone from where he kept it charging on the floor next to the bed.
Truth or Dare? he typed out, hitting send before he thought better of it. If she was asleep, it wouldn’t bother her. He could make something up whenever she eventually got back to him. At least they’d be talking.
He stared at the screen, willing the telltale ellipsis to appear.
Ah, yes. This feeling, right here, was why he just let things happen the way they happened. Wanting things was overrated.
His phone chirped.
Someone’s up bright and early.
And then the ellipsis was back.
Dare.
Perfect. He’d been pretty sure she’d pick Dare.
Race me to the top of Whippoorwill Hill.
The response was almost immediate.
You’re going to regret this.
He didn’t think he would. He sat up and threw his legs over the side of the bed as he typed: Meet you at the trailhead in twenty?
The response was immediate: You’re on.
Daniel had been right. He didn’t regret it. Although he did lose the race. In his defense…she was in better shape. Just how much better was up for debate, but, as they jogged back down the hill, he did notice that she wasn’t nearly as winded as she should have been. Had she been going easy?
Regardless, she was clearly enjoying her win. She kept teasingly asking if he wanted to rest or if the humidity was getting to him. He was actually pretty tired, but he decided to keep that to himself. His aching legs were the result of his near sprint up the hill, but the general exhaustion was probably due to the lack of sleep. Or the sheer relief that Maggie had seemed perfectly happy to see him at the trailhead. Well, not happy, but no more wary than she would have been before The Incidents. She seemed even a little pleased. He could work with that.
When the Blue Harbor sign came into view, they slowed, coming to a stop at the entrance to the trail. Daniel bent to rest with his hands on his thighs.
“So. Rematch tomorrow?” he asked, deciding to press his luck, just a little.
“If you think you can take it.” Maggie McArthur was, apparently, quite competitive. Which of course he found hot and was actively trying to ignore.
He stood and gave her a very tired, slightly wobbly version of his most charming smile. “Apparently I need the exercise.”
She looked so vivid in the morning sun. Cheeks flushed, green eyes bright, copper hair escaping from her ponytail and glinting in the slanted light. Her breathing was heavy but measured, causing her chest to rise and fall in an almost mesmerizing rhythm under her black sports bra.
And he was staring at her boobs. Really excellent work cultivating this friendship today, Daniel.
He raised his eyes, pretending to be looking at an interesting bird in a tree over Maggie’s shoulder, feeling all the redness that had been leaving his cheeks turning right around to rush back.
Seconds before the lull in conversation reached full-fledged awkwardness, Maggie’s phone trilled. She pulled it from the pocket in her spandex leggings, glanced at the screen, and let out a huffy sigh.
“Something wrong?” Becker asked.
“It’s the fucking geese again.”
He hummed understandingly. “I am generally opposed to sport hunting, but…”
“It would be self defense. No jury would convict,” she said, tucking the phone back into her pocket. “Duty calls.”
She turned and headed for the Blue Harbor waterfront at a jogging pace that implied that she had, in fact, been taking it easy on him.
He ran after her, a little stiff on his tired legs. By the time he caught up to her he was breathing hard again. She shot him a questioning look.
“I thought I could lend my expertise.”
“This isn’t really the kind of thing that requires expertise,” Maggie replied in, annoyingly, a single phrase not interrupted by intermittent panting. “It’s mostly yelling and waving around kayak paddles and trying not to take a wing to the face.”
“Sure.” Pant. “Which I’m very practiced at—” Pant. “—by the way. But—” Pant. “Do you know why it’s mostly yelling?”
“I know I’m new here Becker, but it’s my understanding that several of the parents would frown on us shooting animals in front of their children.” She had to almost yell to be heard as they approached the waterfront. The honks of the geese and the cries of the Blue Harbor staff were beginning to sound like a brawl that had broken out in the woodwinds section of an elementary school band.
“Well, yes.” Pant. “But shooting them is also illegal.” Pant. “Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1918.”
“That can’t be right.” Maggie slowed to a halt as she reached the edge of the main dock. “There has to be an exception for birds migrating straight from hell.”
Daniel came to a stop next to her, wheezing to catch his breath, and surveyed the carnage. There were about a dozen Blue Harbor counselors, mostly still in their pajamas, spread out across the wooden jetty brandishing canoe and kayak paddles and screaming like extras in Braveheart. He thought he could pick out some of the lyrics to one of his favorite camp songs being shouted like a battle cry.
A tall Black counselor whose name Daniel was pretty sure was Jordan caught Maggie’s eye and grinned. “Nice of you to join us, McArthur!” They splashed the water with their double-bladed paddle as a goose started swimming malevolently toward them. “And you brought reinforcements!”
Daniel hadn’t stopped to think that his presence at Blue Harbor this early in the morning might seem odd. He knew how quickly gossip could spread. Summer camps were like small towns that way. But he was clearly dressed for a run, as was Maggie, which seemed innocent enough. Which had been innocent. Not that they should feel guilty if—Maggie helpfully interrupted his train of thought by tossing him a paddle. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she called back to Jordan as she stepped onto the dock with the air of a general heading onto the field. She seemed remarkably in her element, all things considered. Like she was in control. Like she fit there. Like she might know it.
Maggie glanced back at him, eyebrows raised, and he followed her into battle.
* * *
The thing, Maggie mused, about joining a dock full of counselors screaming out the lyrics to Princess Pat at the top of their lungs while brandishing paddles like medieval quarterstaffs in a desperate attempt to fend off a horde of aggressive waterfowl is that, actually, it was kind of cathartic. And a great bicep workout. Someone should monetize it.
She hung her paddle in one of the storage sheds scattered along the jetty and shook out her tired arms. They’d successfully scared off the geese, or, at least, sufficiently annoyed them into leaving for the day, and her counselors were all heading back to their respective cabins to oversee morning chores before breakfast.
“Good work, McArthur.” Jordan grinned and clapped Maggie on the back as they passed by her. They nodded at Becker, who touched two fingers to his head in a salute.
“Always a pleasure, Johnson,” Maggie called after them.
Daniel came up beside her as she clicked the padlock onto the shed door and rattled it to make sure it was locked.
“You’re hovering,” she observed, after a solid fifteen seconds of his silent hovering.
“Can I ask you something?” He sounded nervous.
“For the record, that is a terrifying way to start a conversation. But yes,” she said, making her way along the dock to ensure that the next shed was secure, even though she’d definitely seen Jordan lock it. Better safe than sorry.
Daniel followed, half a step behind. “It doesn’t bother you? The Drew thing?”
Oh. So they were going to talk about this. Except— “Bother me ? It doesn’t bother you ?”
“No,” he said simply.
Maggie glanced at him over her shoulder. “Becker, I’m serious.”
“It doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you.”
She reached the second shed and checked the padlock with a firm tug. “I know it was…rude. To disappear on her like that.” She hadn’t thought twice about it at the time, actually, but seeing it through Daniel Becker’s eyes did make her feel like a bit of a jerk. And, god help her, she didn’t want that marshmallow of a man to think she was a jerk.
“Her ego can take the hit,” he said in a fond tone that reminded her of the way Teddy talked about his dog. “It’s been my new favorite embarrassing Drew story for weeks.”
Maggie made it to the farthest shed and tugged the lock, which was, of course, perfectly secure. With no other distractions, she turned to face Daniel. He was leaning with one hand up against the wooden door, the other twisting in his messy hair. “I can’t say I’ve ever—I don’t want to say ‘sloppy seconds,’ because Jesus what a horrible term, but—what I mean is, I’ve never…I mean, that I’m aware of, I’ve never…been involved with one of Drew’s…” he trailed off and gestured vaguely with one hand.
Maggie’s brain glitched. “ Involved ?”
“I don’t know. Whatever you’d call this.” He repeated the vague gesture in the space between them.
“But you know it’s not…serious. You know I’m leaving at the end of the summer. I have a real job.”
Becker tilted his head quizzically in a way she was sure she’d seen Parton do. “I’m pretty sure my job is real. I get paid and everything.”
Maggie valiantly resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I’m no expert,” she said, “but I think you’d call this a classic ‘friends with benefits’ arrangement.”
“So,” he met her gaze with smiling eyes, “you admit that we’re friends?”
“Shut up.”
And then he wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her toward him, and kissed her. Which, technically, was a form of shutting up. She loved a good listener.