4. Chapter Four Theo
Chapter Four: Theo
I t was her .
Lucy.
Lucy… I can’t remember her last name. All I can recall is that the name tag she wore on the first day of camp had Lucy M. written on it. Lucy Moore? Maxwell? Mason? No, it was something fancy. Something with a lot of syllables.
I shake my head, my footsteps crunching in the gravel on the narrow lane leading to my rental cottage. Whatever her surname is, it took only a matter of seconds for me to realize why her face was so familiar. She hasn’t changed much from twelve years ago, other than a slight sharpening of her features. Her hair is longer now, too.
Not that I paid that much attention to her at divorce camp.
Scoffing under my breath, I kick a smooth stone across the road. This part of town is quiet and fairly empty, a safe haven compared to Main Street. The only things here are private bungalows and luxurious beach houses. Ever since meeting Elijah and Harry for coffee, I’ve mostly been wandering around on my own, sticking to these peaceful pathways.
Perhaps I didn’t need to come to Mermaid Shores two days before the real wedding festivities were scheduled to begin, but I’m the sort of person who struggles to fly by the seat of his pants. I don’t travel much, and when I do go somewhere new, I need time to settle and get my bearings. Call it the curse of being an introvert or something else entirely, but I don’t do well when I feel like a fish out of water.
Luckily, however, Mermaid Shores is turning out to be a decently pleasant little town. If I avoid the pier and the public beach area and most of Main Street, that is.
Is Lucy vacationing here, too?
Does she live here?
I don’t remember much from that summer, least of all the various personal details we were forced to share during icebreaker activities and group therapy.
I let out a snort of laughter. Divorce camp. Also known as Camp Hannefort, located just beyond Amish country in rural Pennsylvania. It’s where kids of all ages can be sent for eight entire weeks while their divorced parents deal with their messy, complicated lives.
I was seventeen, just about to start my senior year of high school, when my parents decided it was best for me to get out of their hair for the summer. I didn’t even bother protesting. Daphne Shay and Laurence Danvers had the sort of relationship that was constantly talked about, not only because of my mother’s fame but also because my father is a celebrated movie producer. Daphne and Larry , the tabloids called them. A star-studded romance.
Yeah, right. Growing up, my parents hardly ever saw each other. They might have worked in the same industry, but Dad was always traveling to shoot on location all over the world, and Mom spent more time in Hollywood’s various studios than she did at home. When they were in the same room, they bickered constantly. I may have been a kid, but I saw the divorce coming from miles away. I saw the media storm that would come with it, too.
So, when my father suggested that I spend the summer in the middle of nowhere on the other side of the country, I agreed. Anything to avoid the paparazzi who were posted up outside the house in LA, desperate to feed the flames of the summer’s most dramatic breakup.
Camp Hannefort wasn’t that bad. It was definitely rustic, and there were more mosquitoes and black flies than I’d ever like to deal with again in my life, but there was electricity and running water and decent food. Set on Lake Arthur, there was also swimming and kayaking and paddle-boarding. Plus, a horse farm nearby, which is how I discovered that I actually enjoyed trail riding. Horses were a lot easier to deal with than people, after all.
Kids as young as ten were sent there for the summer, but I usually only saw people in my own age group. And when they weren’t entertaining us with enough outdoor activities to keep us distracted from the turmoil at home, we attended group therapy sessions and private counseling. They encouraged us to keep a journal for the duration of our eight-week stay and told us it was important to express ourselves—even the negative stuff. Some kids got pretty angry with it, creating oddly disturbing paintings during our arts and crafts time or hiking deep into the woods just to let out furious screams.
For the most part, I kept to myself. I managed to get absorbed into a decent circle of friends in my cabin and earned a reputation for being likable simply because I didn’t speak much.
But, Lucy… She was the star of the show at Camp Hannefort. Pretty, popular, and unshakably positive, everyone adored her. Most of the guys had huge crushes on her. Most of the girls were constantly vying for her attention. She would always speak up in group therapy about how important it was to stay positive and look on the bright side of things and the sun will come out tomorrow. Ugh.
She was infuriating. And it was even more annoying that I seemed to be the only one immune to her charms. Everyone else thought she was the sweetest little thing. Or rather, not little , considering she was—and still is—quite tall for her gender. Even the staff were under her spell, cooing over the pink ribbons that she braided into her hair and praising her incurably optimistic outlook on life.
My mouth twisted into a frown, I turn down the stone walkway leading to the back door of my cottage. It’s a tiny place, painted sky blue with white shutters, but it has private beach access and the neighbors are partially obscured thanks to the pine trees, beach grass, and sand dunes.
I haven’t thought about Camp Hannefort in years. I definitely tried to avoid thinking about the last night of those tumultuous eight weeks, at all costs. Lucy—whatever her last name is—became a distant memory soon enough. I never thought I’d see her again.
But, no matter how many times I replay that awkward moment on the street, there’s no denying that it was her.
Best case scenario: she didn’t recognize me at all. Nor did she realize that I recognized her instantly. With any luck, she has absolutely nothing to do with this wedding and I can avoid running into her for the next few days until it’s time to leave again.
I really don’t want to relive the past. Especially because Lucy is the one person in this world who has seen me at my most vulnerable and pathetic.
Taking a deep breath, I step inside the cottage and kick off my shoes. The wedding festivities begin this evening, but I still have several hours to myself before I have to socialize. Rather than risk stumbling into any more familiar faces, I decide to ignore the group chat that Harry looped me into, where a bunch of Elijah’s closest acquaintances are planning to meet on the beach this afternoon.
I need to be alone. I need to distract myself.
Heading over to my suitcase, which is neatly unpacked into the bureau, I grab my laptop out of its carrying bag and bring it over to the creaky little table in the corner of the room. There’s a massive window beside it that overlooks the sandy-yet-grassy path between the dunes leading down to the grayish Atlantic. The coast is so much rougher here than it is back home, and I honestly really like it. There’s something raw and authentic about it. Something beautiful, yet unforgiving.
But I’m not going to spend the next several hours admiring the view. I brought my computer for a reason. I’m going to work on some code I started writing on the plane. That’ll pass the time nicely, and it’ll require just enough mental energy to help me forget about Lucy.
At least, for the most part.
***
[ Twelve Years Ago ]
The girl across the table from me won’t stop talking. I’m tempted to think it’s because she’s obsessed with the sound of her own voice, but the fact of the matter is that the reason she won’t shut up is simply because everyone keeps begging for her attention.
It’s embarrassing to watch, really. The way the boys and the girls smile and bat their lashes at her, complimenting the ribbon in her hair or the dangly strawberry earrings in her lobes. They fawn over her the way that otherwise respectable people tend to trip over themselves when my mother is around.
If I could move to a different table, I would. Unfortunately, I was told that I can’t sit in solitude at one of the empty tables in the corner of the room today. That’s my so-called challenge to overcome on this cloudy, humid Tuesday in July.
It’s nauseating.
You should participate more, Theo, Dr. Sans said in our private session earlier this morning. I’m concerned that you’re isolating yourself.
I like to be by myself, I replied.
That’s not normal, though, according to Dr. Sans. Seventeen-year-old boys aren’t supposed to prefer their own company. They’re supposed to have lots of friends they like to hang out with all the time. They’re supposed to flirt with girls and joke with the guys. If I don’t like to do those things, then there’s clearly something very wrong with me.
I’m not introverted because my parents are getting divorced, I tried to explain to Dr. Sans. That’s just how I am. I’ve always been like this.
I remember he nodded thoughtfully and then murmured, “ Let’s unpack that.”
“Oh my goodness , Lucy! That’s the cutest thing ever!” squeals the girl beside her. She has thick red hair piled into a bun atop her head like a ballet dancer and a spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Abby—that’s her name. She’s very loud.
“Wait, let me see!” whines the black-haired Katrina on Lucy’s other side. She leans in, admiring the bracelet Lucy is weaving with colorful embroidery floss. Katrina gasps appreciatively. “How did you do that? Can you teach me?”
Lucy giggles. “My cousin and I love making these. Here, Trina, let me help.”
I remain quiet a mere three feet away from the gaggle of girls, unheard and unseen as I frown down at the tangle of thread that’s supposed to be a decorative lanyard on a keyring. Unsurprisingly, I’m not very good at crafts. I’m not very good at most things at Camp Hannefort, because it’s not like they have a computer lab where I can show off my true skills. I like swimming, though. And the horses. People can’t talk underwater, and horses don’t talk at all.
While Lucy helps Katrina start a new bracelet, patiently teaching her how to twist the knots, Abby leans in close to the girls and whispers, “Lucy, Brandon is totally looking at you.”
I watch as Lucy laughs and rolls her eyes. “Brandon looks at every girl.”
Katrina pouts. “He doesn’t look at me .”
“Well, then there must be something wrong with his eyesight, because you’re super pretty, Trina,” Lucy replies.
I hold back a scoff. Katrina is pretty, but Lucy’s comment is just ridiculous.
“I think Jake is way cuter than Brandon,” Abby whispers. “And I heard he has a tattoo!”
It’s like they don’t even see me sitting here. Either that, or they know that I barely talk to anyone, so they don’t care if I know all their secrets. I glance around, hoping to be rescued by one of the guys from my cabin, but they’re all sequestered at the opposite end of the long oak table. My session with Dr. Sans ran late, so I didn’t get a chance to grab a seat near them.
Instead, I’m stuck over here in Princess Lucy’s court.
“Jake is nice,” Lucy admits. “You should go talk to him.”
“You think?”
Lucy gives her a bright, encouraging smile. “Totally.”
Abby bites her lip, smooths down the front of her neon blue tee, then pushes away from the table. Lucy and Katrina giggle as she saunters confidently toward the boys.
“Lana told me that Ben said Jake likes redheads,” Katrina tells Lucy. “One smile from Abby and he’ll be a goner. They’re totally gonna fall in love.”
Lucy huffs out a laugh, but it’s not her usual musical trill. Weird.
I keep fumbling with my stupid lanyard, utterly ignored by everyone around me and trying to enjoy the illusion of solitude that offers me. At one point, Katrina tells Lucy she’s going to grab them some lemonade from the snack table, and everyone’s beloved princess is left alone for the moment. Well, relatively alone. I’m still here. Not that Lucy has bothered to glance in my direction once in the past week since we all arrived.
Not that I want her to.
I glare at the lanyard. I hate this. I hate crafts. I still have to endure seven weeks of this camp before I can go home. How many more textile skills are they going to try to drill into me during that time? Can’t I just go down to the lake? By myself? I mean, I turn eighteen in October. I don’t need a chaperone.
“Do you want help with that?”
It takes me a second to realize that the question is directed at me. I glance up, shocked to see that Princess Lucy has fixed her regal gaze upon me. She has nice eyes. They’re larger than average, which would probably look weird on anyone else, but her long eyelashes and dark irises sort of balance it all out. Which she’s probably well aware of, since I always see her blinking those big eyes at all her devoted admirers like she’s using her lashes to fan the flames of their adoration.
Lucy points to my lanyard. Her fingernails are painted a glittery purple.
“No,” I say. “I’m fine.”
“It doesn’t look fine.” Her tone isn’t rude or judgmental, but I bristle anyway.
“I like it this way.”
“You like massive, tangled knots?”
I stare at her sternly, hoping my glare is cold enough that it deters her from saying another word to me.
Unfortunately, Little Miss Sunshine is undeterred. She brushes a strand of brunette hair off her shoulder and leans forward, eyes twinkling with some endless source of inner light. Even though it’s rainy and cold today, I suddenly feel the urge to put on sunglasses.
“You should pick brighter colors,” Lucy tells me. “It’ll help you see the individual threads better.”
“I like these colors.”
She purses her lips. “They’re kind of… boring.”
I look down at the thread colors I chose. Various shades of blue and gray. I thought it was a sensible, masculine choice. It’s not like I want to carry around a frilly pink keychain for the entire summer.
“Well, then it’s a good thing that this is going to be my lanyard, not yours,” I quip.
Lucy snorts. “It’s not going to be anything at all if you don’t let me help you.”
Again, I note that her tone isn’t mean, just practical. In fact, I think she honestly believes that she’s being helpful right now with all this gentle criticism.
I toss aside the knotted tangle of strings. “Whatever. I don’t want a stupid keychain anyway.”
She purses her lips. “You shouldn’t give up on something just because you’re not immediately good at it.”
I stand up from the table, vaguely aware that Katrina has returned with the lemonade and is glancing warily between me and Lucy. Both girls have to lift their faces considerably to look up at me, thanks to my freakish height. It’s been two years since the growth spurt that stretched me over six feet tall and I’m still getting used to it.
Fixing Lucy with the chilliest glare I can muster without alerting any of the staff members to the conflict, I shrug my shoulders as if her so-called advice is beneath me.
“I really don’t care,” I tell her.
Her brow furrows, almost like she’s confused about why I’m not scraping and bowing at her feet. I roll my eyes at her reaction and turn on my heel. I don’t care what Dr. Sans says. I’m not in the mood for playing nice with anyone right now, and especially not Princess Lucy. I just want to be alone.
I’m vaguely aware of the girls whispering to each other as soon as my back is turned, but I don’t bother trying to hear what they have to say about me.
Unlike Lucy, I don’t give a damn about being liked.