27
IT WAS DARKoutside when the reply landed in my inbox, short and to the point.
Clara—No work emails on micro-sabbatical. Amaya says you two can discuss next week.—Abe
Abe.
She’d had her assistant respond as if she couldn’t even be bothered to answer herself. My fists clenched with actual rage, fingers cracking as they dug into my palms.
Over my thirteen years working for her, I’d become masterful at deciphering Amaya’s moods simply based on her email sign-offs. Most of the time it was simply “Amaya,” but occasionally on a good day, or a weekend, I’d get a random “xx.” I always assumed those came after some sort of bottomless mimosa brunch. Ones signed with “—A” were sent when she was short on patience, on time, on giving a shit.
It was never good to get the “—A.” But for her to not even bother to reply herself felt like an incomparable insult. She was clearly trying to send some sort of message, and if her goal was to leave me seething, then she’d accomplished it.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I huffed under my breath, pacing next to a paint-covered wooden table.
It was almost nine o’clock; Sam had headed off to bed an hour ago, not long after we’d scarfed down a large pepperoni pizza an awkward teenage boy had delivered to us. I’d wandered down to meet him at the entrance of camp, my hands covered in glue and glitter from the poster I’d been crafting all afternoon. It was part vision board, part unbridled release of tension. Feathers glued together in one corner, torn-out magazine spreads of hikers and beaches in another. In the middle of it all, I’d painted the word “Discover” in neon pink.
Did I know what any of it meant? Not really. But putting it together as our conversation meandered from topic to topic had felt amazing, exactly like Sam had suggested. Art therapy.
I was still riding that creative high when Sam started yawning after our impromptu dance party to “Take on Me,” which crackled on the ancient boom box in the corner. I offered to clean up our mess myself, sending her off to go read in bed.
But now with Amaya’s rejection leaving me spiraling, I couldn’t focus on anything.
I dragged the metal chair back out from under the table and plopped down, opening up the browser on my phone. With a sigh, I tapped out the words Burnout work signs how can you tell and then scrolled through the results that appeared on my screen.
Irritability
Lack of motivation
Exhaustion
Low self-confidence in ability
My anxiety kicked on with each line that I read, heart-thumping adrenaline that went straight to the negative-thought-churning corner of my brain. The list felt like a mirror for exactly how I’d been feeling for months, and this reflection staring back at me through these words was terrifying. It meant that maybe Amaya was right after all.
I swiped the page closed quickly, glancing back at the sink full of glass jars of murky gray water and dirtied paintbrushes that needed scrubbing. I was too wired to walk out of here just yet. Fuck it, I decided. I’ll make a friendship bracelet, then I’ll clean up.
Sam and I had been so swept up in our collaging that we’d skipped bracelet-making completely. Luckily the bin marked EMbrOIDERY STRING was easy to find, labeled clearly on a top shelf, almost as if the ghosts of my past had left it there for me to find.
But for all my gung-ho enthusiasm, I had completely forgotten how to actually weave the string together into something resembling a bracelet. I had foolishly assumed this—an activity I had done so frequently as a camper I could quite literally do it with my eyes closed—would come back to me, but other than cutting the string and knotting it, I was completely lost.
Just as I opened YouTube to search for bracelet-making tutorials, a voice came out of nowhere from behind me, causing my heart to try to eject itself from my body.
“Hey.”
I spun around, and it only took me a second to make out the shape of Mack, looming tall in the shadow of the door frame.
“Jesus Christ, you scared the crap out of me,” I hissed, clutching my phone to my chest. Mack made a sympathetic face as I scowled at him, heart still racing.
“Making friendship bracelets?” He shoved his hands in his jean pockets and sauntered over next to me, peering at the knotted mess of green, white, and blue string I’d Scotch-taped to the table.
“No,” I said, scrambling to yank it loose, tossing it in the nearby trash can. I wasn’t making it for him. But I wasn’t not making it for him, either.
“So sneaky, my Millen.” His use of the word my pinged something warm and affectionate inside me, but I shoved it aside and willed myself to instead remember how cold he’d been last night in the boat. That was the Mack I needed to focus on right now.
“What’s up?” I asked, crossing my arms across my chest as if that could somehow protect my heart from him. As if he hadn’t already wrecked it.
“I stopped by Sunrise.” Mack leveled a look at me, those forest-colored eyes narrowing, like he was figuring out the fastest route to get inside my head. “Sam said you were still down here.”
“Well, you found me.” I was determined not to let him back in.
He cleared his throat. “I came here to apologize for how I acted last night.”
I watched as he fidgeted with the torn hem of his T-shirt.
“And?” I said finally.
“I’m not saying this as an excuse,” he started, and it took everything in my power not to roll my eyes. “But I’ve had some big decisions to make, and by the time I finally figured out what I wanted, things fell through. It’s not going to happen. And I really wanted it to happen.”
He palmed his brow, frustrated, as if he still couldn’t find the right words.
“Sometimes stuff just doesn’t work out, you know? Maybe it’s fate. I don’t know. But I was upset about it, and when we started talking about life plans, I overreacted. I took it out on you. And I’m just really, really sorry I did that.”
It was straightforward enough, no teasing or flirting. I thought back to this morning and how I’d angrily reduced him to a checked box on my list and felt a slight pang of guilt for dismissing him so quickly. But I pushed it aside, because I couldn’t help but worry about what he wasn’t saying.
“You’re being really vague,” I said. Is this about us? I wanted to ask. Are we “stuff that doesn’t work out”?
But I didn’t. I just glared.
He let out a tired sigh as his eyes scoured the room, avoiding mine. “I know. Sorry. It’s too much to get into right now.”
“Well. I appreciate the apology,” I said, my voice curt, arms still tight and protective. Definitely about us.
“Can I make it up to you?” he asked, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he finally gazed down at me.
“How?” I questioned, my voice softening. It was so easy to let him back in, too easy. He was like a gin and tonic at happy hour, the perfect mix of sweet and tart.
“I planned something for us tomorrow morning,” he said with a shrug, and if the light were better in there, I could have sworn I’d have picked up a faint blush on his cheeks.
“Kind of like a date, as much as it can be, at a camp.”
“Okay,” I said, softening a bit, as the word date spiraled through my thoughts like a hurricane. “What are we doing?”
“It’s a surprise,” he said, taking a small step closer to me, his hands still in his pockets. “Just be at the soccer field at ten in the morning tomorrow, and wear sneakers.”
He wrestled his hands free and dragged them through his hair, the pieces still sticking up waywardly despite his best attempt at taming them.
“And a sports bra?” I flicked my brows up, eyeing him. I was still pissed, prickly and sensitive even with his apology. But I couldn’t resist flirting with him; it was like the only things I wanted to say to him were laced with innuendo.
“I guess?” He shrugged, giving me a clueless face.
“You guess?” I explained, half teasing, half serious. “How am I supposed to trust you if you don’t know how my boobs will handle whatever it is you have planned?”
“Okay, yes, wear a sports bra. And I promise, you’ll love it.” He moved closer until he was standing between my legs, hands on my shoulders. “Trust me. I know you.”
He did know me, and I couldn’t quite understand how he did it. How after years away and time apart, Mack was somehow wired to the workings of my brain, for better or worse. For a moment, I considered unloading it all on him: Abe’s terse reply, and the Google search results that hit way too close to home. How I’d been clinging to my old letter like a road map, and the stinging shame I felt at my life being nothing like I’d hoped it would be when I was fifteen. The way something as basic and vital as joy had escaped me for years, and now it was here, standing right in front of me.
But instead, I just ducked out from under his hands, even though every part of me wanted to throw myself against him, wrap my arms around him, and drag him to the floor. Sex felt simpler than parsing all my painful, unfiltered feelings, or asking him what this was between us, what any of this meant, or if it meant anything at all.
“Good night, Mack,” I said, pushing the door open behind me.
I waited for a moment, hoping he’d say something; beg me to stay, tease me, dare me to run back with him to the boathouse, escape all the anxiety coursing through me under the sheets of his bed.
But this time Mack, who always had something to say back to me, said nothing at all.