17. Matt
seventeen
Matt
J une 16
The days following Casey's birthday were complete chaos. The counselors arrived, and we had to train them, show them the new plan, get the schedules set and finalized, and prepare for arrival. And arrival day was even more chaotic, and it always left me feeling like I'd been hit by a truck. Nothing ever went perfectly — there were housing snafus and missed flights and kids who were so homesick they cried through the night.
The second full day of camp was much calmer, and as I stood on the porch of the lodge after afternoon activities, I could see that things had started to settle. I watched a frisbee arc lazily across the meadow, cutting through the golden afternoon light like it had all the time in the world. Sutton jogged up the stairs and leaned on the rail beside me, watching the kids.
“It was a good day,” Sutton said, bumping my shoulder with his. “The new schedule is going smoothly so far. And it always feels better once we’ve put out the arrival day fires.”
“It does.”
There was something about that first full day of camp—when everything clicked into place—that made the chaos worth it. The kids had already started to settle in, to make friends, and enjoy the activities we had to offer. Three kids who hadn’t known each other before yesterday now looked like best friends as they chased after the frisbee, their laughter carrying across the grounds of Camp Eagle Ridge, filling the emptiness that had been there all winter.
Yesterday had been the usual beautiful disaster. A bus had arrived forty minutes late, throwing off our entire check-in schedule. Two sets of parents had gotten into a heated argument about whose car should be unloaded first. Three kids had shown up with paperwork listing severe allergies that hadn't been mentioned in their online registrations. Five campers had decided they absolutely... couldn't be separated from their new best friends they'd met on the bus ride in and needed room changes immediately.
And that was all before lunch.
By evening, I'd rearranged seventeen room assignments, swapped eight activity schedules, talked down one homesick twelve-year-old, and sent Sutton to town for the additional EpiPens doctors had called into the local pharmacy. My ADHD brain thrived on the problem-solving aspects of arrival day, even as the administrative side of things made me want to climb the nearest tree and refuse to come down.
Somehow, all that chaos had transformed into this—kids scattered across the camp property, laughing and playing, settling into their summer home, enjoying their free time after activity. I stretched my arms above my head, feeling the pull in my shoulders where tension still lingered.
“So, you gonna ask him out or what?”
I blinked, turning to Sutton with my brows up. “What? Ask who out?”
“You two were so cute at his birthday party, but since then you've both thrown yourselves into work."
"Because it's busy. Or maybe he doesn't want more."
"Doubt it. When you’re not looking, Casey stares at you like he wants to lick you from head to toe. Don’t tell me nothing happened between you two.”
My cheeks felt hot as I kicked at a glob of dirt on the porch. “Something happened, and he backed off.”
“Are you sure he backed off? Maybe he’s just busy, because camp just started.”
“Hopefully that,” I said, but I didn’t quite believe it. "I kind of expected him to... hang out more after work, I guess."
"So ask him to hang out after work, dumbass," Sutton said, rolling his eyes.
"Matty! I missed you!" A loud screech from my left interrupted me before I could admit anything to Sutton. A girl with braided hair and braces barreled toward me, almost knocking me over with her enthusiastic hug.
I stepped back and ruffled her hair. "Emily! How's the cabin working out? I saw Zoe didn’t return this year."
Her face lit up. "It's okay—my new roommate is awesome."
I felt a small glow of satisfaction. Remembering details about returning campers was one of my strengths—something my father had taught me was essential to making kids feel seen and valued.
Emily dashed off to join a game of soccer starting up near the flagpole, and I separated from Sutton and continued my rounds, greeting campers and counselors at their various free-time activities, even as my mind drifted back to Casey. It had been days since our sexy evening after his makeup birthday party, and I'd tried to make a little time for him each day, walking him to lunch, or helping him train the art counselors, but nothing came close to what I wanted.
Between busy counselor training days, the arrival day chaos, and the first day of activities, we'd both been swamped with work. And I hated to admit it, but I missed him. Hell, I even missed his unsolicited feedback and tendency to challenge things at every turn.
Sex with Casey had been... unexpected. Intense. I'd wanted him, for sure, but the way he'd felt in my arms had been an awakening in more ways than one. The memory of Casey's skin against mine, of his gorgeous, slender back arched as he challenged me to thrust deep inside him, sent a flush creeping up my neck, and I quickly redirected my thoughts. This wasn't the time or place.
A faint sound caught my attention—musical notes carried on the breeze. I turned my head, trying to locate the source. It was coming from the direction of the new music cabin, and I was drawn to the possibility of spending a few minutes with Casey, too tempting to ignore. I waved to Sutton and wandered in that direction, following the music without thinking.
As I approached the clearing where the music cabin stood, I slowed my pace, not wanting to interrupt whatever was happening. Through the trees, I could see a cluster of kids gathered around the cabin's wide wooden deck. And there, perched on the edge with his legs dangling, was Casey. His pastel hair — now lavender — caught in the afternoon sun like cotton candy at a fair. He cradled the guitar I'd given him in his lap, and around him, a semicircle of campers watched with rapt attention, their eyes tracking his every movement.
Somewhere along the way, the music cabin had gone from being a huge pain in my ass to one of my proudest additions to Camp Eagle Ridge. I’d given Wade creative license, and he’d built something beautiful; a cedar structure with large windows and a wraparound deck, designed specifically with acoustics in mind. Seeing eager campers flock to it during their free time made me consider that Casey might’ve been right all along about the arts program. The kids craved this.
Casey adjusted his position, the wooden deck creaking. His baggy gray cargo pants hung loosely from his frame, contrasted against the slim-fitting black t-shirt that hugged his torso. He placed the guitar properly in his lap, and the rich wood gleamed against his dark clothes. He looked comfortable with it already, and that made me happier than I’d ever admit to anyone. Behind him, there was a rolling rack of the guitars we’d had donated just sitting there, inviting campers to pick one up.
"So who here has played before?" Casey asked, looking around at the group of about twelve campers sprawled on the benches he'd arranged in a semicircle. Several hands shot up. "Cool, cool. And who's never touched a guitar but wants to learn?"
More hands. Casey nodded, beaming at the kids.
"Perfect. Here's the thing about music—there's no right or wrong way to connect with it. You're here because something about it speaks to you, and that's all that matters." His voice carried clearly across the clearing, confident and gentle in a way I hadn't heard before. This wasn't the confrontational Casey who'd challenged me about the camp's traditions, or the quietly reserved Casey who'd avoided my gaze across the dining hall. This was someone wholly comfortable in his element.
And it was so damn beautiful.
A small, dark-haired girl raised her hand. "But what if we suck at it?"
Casey laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Then you'll fit right in with every musician ever. Seriously—you should hear my first recordings. Total garbage. And I wasn’t even brave enough to record myself until I’d been playing for quite a while."
The kids laughed, and I leaned against a tree as I continued to watch. I should have moved on—there were a thousand things demanding my attention around camp—but I couldn't bring myself to walk away.
"Music saved my life," Casey continued, his fingers idly strumming soft chords that somehow made his words more impactful. "Middle school was... rough. I didn't have many friends. I was figuring out who I was, and a lot of people didn't like what they saw." He shrugged, but I caught the shadow that crossed his face, a flicker of old pain. "Then my mom got me a secondhand guitar for my birthday." He tapped his new guitar with this palm. "This one was a birthday gift too, more recent. From someone special."
My chest tightened.
"The cool thing about music," Casey said, his eyes scanning the circle of attentive faces, "is that you can fuck up—" A couple of kids giggled at the casual profanity, "—and even then, you’ve still made something beautiful."
A lanky teenage boy with braces spoke up. "But what if you mess up in front of people?"
Casey's lips curved into a small smile. "I used to worry about that, too. But then I realized that I was my own worst critic. Usually, the audience couldn’t even tell if I’d missed a note or messed up a chord. If you’re confident, they’ll think you meant to do it all along. I’m sure you didn’t even notice my most recent fuck-up." He waggled his eyebrows, and the kids laughed. "Seriously though, the best musicians I know have made more mistakes than anyone. But they learned from them. That's how they got good."
I watched as Casey demonstrated a simple chord progression, his hands moving with practiced ease. The new guitar produced a rich, full sound that carried beautifully in the outdoor space. As much as I wanted to take credit for choosing the perfect instrument, it was Casey who brought it to life, coaxing music from it as naturally as breathing. It made me realize that we’d spent more time arguing than listening — hell, I’d never even heard him play.
"I have some guitars here. Who wants to try?" Casey asked, and to my surprise, nearly every hand shot up. He smiled—a real smile that reached his eyes—and selected a shy-looking girl, showing her how to hold it, and cheering as she cautiously plucked at the strings. As more kids crowded in close, Casey stood and retrieved several more guitars from the rack, distributing them to eager campers. He'd clearly prepared for this impromptu lesson, anticipating interest from the kids during free time. It spoke to a level of dedication that impressed me. He'd thrown himself completely into creating a meaningful music and arts program, and the results were already showing.
"Okay, everyone, find a spot," Casey directed, helping arrange the kids with guitars on the benches. "We're going to learn the easiest chord progression in the history of music. Four chords that make up like ninety percent of pop songs."
He demonstrated slowly, breaking down each movement, each finger placement. His teaching style was natural and intuitive, mixing technical instruction with humor and encouragement. I found myself wondering if he'd considered music education as a career path rather than performance.
"Music's about connection," Casey told them as they practiced. "It's about finding your voice when words aren't enough. And sometimes—" he strummed a dramatic minor chord, "—it's about being dramatic as hell." More giggles from the campers.
I was rooted to my spot, mesmerized by this side of Casey I'd never seen before. His passion was infectious, drawing in even the most fidgety kids. In the span of twenty minutes, he'd created a community within our community, united by music and his guidance.
"Okay, let's try playing together," Casey suggested, returning to his spot on the deck. "Don't worry about being perfect—just feel the rhythm. We're going to start super slow."
He counted them in, and a halting but recognizable chord progression emerged from the circle. Some campers were more confident than others, but Casey nodded encouragingly, tapping his foot to help them keep time. When they finished the sequence, he grinned widely.
"That was awesome! Seriously—first time playing together and you already sound like a band. Let's try once more, and this time, I'll add a little melody over the top. Just keep doing what you're doing."
The second attempt was more cohesive, and Casey improvised a simple melody line that somehow made their basic chords sound intentional and beautiful. The look of wonder on some of the kids' faces made my chest tighten. This was what camp was about—these moments of discovery and connection.
As I watched, my admiration for Casey's teaching abilities warred with a more complicated appreciation for the way his slim fingers danced across the fretboard, how his lips parted in concentration, the glimpse of collarbone visible at the neck of his t-shirt. I shifted my weight, uncomfortable with the direction of my thoughts. This was neither the time nor the place.
Yet I couldn't deny the pull I felt toward him, stronger even than that morning in my tiny house when we'd given in to whatever this was between us. There was something about seeing someone in their element, completely confident and sharing their passion, that was undeniably attractive. And Casey, with his lilting laugh and his gentle guidance of struggling students, was magnetic.
One of the younger campers fumbled a chord and made a frustrated noise. Casey set his own guitar aside and knelt in front of her.
"Hey, it's okay. You know what my music teacher used to tell me?"
She shook her head, eyes downcast.
"She said that every great guitarist has played a million wrong notes. That's how they found the right ones." He gently repositioned her fingers. "Try again—just this chord for now."
When she successfully played it, his smile was warm. "See? Just one step in your million. You're on your way."
I tried to tell myself to go check on the waterfront activities, or see how the nature hike had gone, or literally anything other than standing here watching Casey like some lovesick teenager.
As the impromptu lesson approached its natural conclusion, the circle of campers had relaxed into something resembling a casual jam session. The initial stiffness of concentration had melted away, replaced by easy laughter and spontaneous attempts at recognizable songs. Casey sat cross-legged now, the guitar balanced on his knee, his fingers occasionally reaching up to push a strand of hair. The late afternoon sun slanted through the trees, casting dappled shadows across the wooden deck and turning the scene into something from a summer camp brochure—exactly the kind of moment I'd always tried to create at Eagle Ridge, but could never quite manufacture.
A lanky boy with shaggy hair leaned forward eagerly. "Will you play us a song?" There was a ripple of excited agreement from the other campers.
Casey hesitated, glancing around the circle. "I don't know. It's almost dinner bell, and—"
"Please?" The request was echoed by several others, their faces eager, and I found myself echoing the request silently.
Casey's expression softened. "Alright, one song. This one’s one of mine.."
He repositioned the guitar once more, took a deep breath, and began to play. The introduction was simple—just a few chords strummed with a syncopated rhythm that somehow captured the essence of summer itself. Then, to my surprise, he began to sing.
His voice was nothing like I'd expected—rich and slightly raspy, with a controlled power that seemed at odds with his slim frame. The song was about summer adventures and fleeting connections, the lyrics clever and evocative without being pretentious. I found myself completely mesmerized, not just by his technical skill, but by the emotion he conveyed.
"Summer vibes and borrowed time. Sunset chasing, feeling fine. No need to worry 'bout tomorrow. Just breathe in deep and let it go..."
The chorus was undeniably catchy, and on the second verse, a few campers joined in quietly. Casey's face transformed as he sang—his usual guarded expression replaced by something open and vulnerable. His eyes half-closed at times, losing himself in the performance. When he reached the bridge section, his fingers flew across the fretboard with practiced precision, drawing appreciative murmurs from the campers.
The kids were transfixed, many swaying to the rhythm. One boy with behavioral issues, was intensely focused, watching Casey's hands with laser focus, his own fingers mimicking the movements of an invisible guitar. Others had closed their eyes, simply enjoying the impromptu concert.
I leaned against the tree, feeling strangely privileged to witness this moment. Casey was good—really good. Not just camp-talent-show good, but genuinely talented in a way that made his decision to spend a summer as a camp counselor all the more intriguing. He could clearly be pursuing his music career more actively, yet here he was, sitting on a wooden deck in the middle of the woods, playing for a handful of kids during their free time.
As the song built to its final chorus, Casey's eyes lifted and met mine. "Didn't come here looking for you. Didn't think that we'd break through. But summer vibes and open skies, got me seeing you with new eyes..."
He brought the song to a close with a final flourish on the guitar, letting the last chord ring out across the clearing, holding eye contact for a long moment. He blinked, and the moment shattered. His expression shifted subtly—not quite closing off, but retreating behind the polite, professional mask he'd worn during our few interactions since that morning in my house. The corner of his mouth quirked up in what might have been acknowledgment or dismissal, and he turned his attention back to the campers, as they erupted in enthusiastic applause and cheers.
"That was awesome!"
"You're like, a real artist! You should be famous."
"Can you teach us that song?"
The kids' excitement washed over him in waves, and Casey accepted their praise with a mix of gratitude and self-deprecation. "It was nothing," he said, shaking his head. "But thanks. And yes, by the end of session, I bet some of you could learn a simplified version."
This promise was met with more excitement, and I found myself smiling at their enthusiasm. Casey had managed to do something remarkable—he'd made these kids believe they could create something beautiful themselves, that music wasn't just for listening but for making.
I remained frozen, unsure whether to approach or retreat. Had that moment of connection been real, or just wishful thinking on my part? The rational side of my brain told me I was reading too much into a random glance. Casey was performing, scanning his audience. Making eye contact was just part of that.
I hesitated as the kids dispersed, watching as Casey carefully, lovingly put away his guitar. Then he glanced my way once again.
“You just gonna stand there and stare, or…” He trailed off, raising an eyebrow.
A surge of reckless confidence replaced my good sense. “Drag you into the music cabin and have my way with you?”
“Help, I was going to say help.”
I moved in closer, dropping my lips near his ear and lowering my voice. “I’ve missed you. And if you want me to back off, that’s fine. But if you’ve just been busy and distracted and waiting for me, you should know that you’re never far from my mind.” I tilted my head and smirked. “Even if you’re not falling for me.”
“Shut up,” he laughed, playfully slapping my chest, then freezing like that, palm over my heart, as he stared up into my eyes.
“Tuesday is all-camp water day.”
He opened his mouth to protest, and I put a finger over his lips.
“Which you will be participating in, whether you like it or not. We’ve never done it before, but it’s going to be all hands on deck to keep the kids safe in the chaos, and you’ll be in a tandem kayak with me, keeping an eye on the kids who are paddling. And afterwards…”
“Afterwards?” he breathed.
“Well, that’s up to you. But I’d very much like to take you out to eat… and then maybe back to my cabin to eat you out.”
He shivered, his fingers digging into my pectoral muscle as he stared up at me, his big brown eyes wide. He swallowed hard, then a cheeky grin passed over his lips as he seemed to regain his composure. He stood on his tiptoes and whispered in my ear. “I do want to feel your tongue all the way inside me.” Then he brushed a soft kiss across my lips, letting his teeth graze my bottom lip.
With that, he turned and took his guitar inside, leaving me to manage my erection.