26. Casey
twenty-six
Casey
J uly 7
"What are you freaking out for? They already like you," Matt said, grabbing my hand as we walked through the woods two days later, headed down a path I hadn't been down, towards a building they all called The Homestead.
This wasn't my first time meeting Matt's family—I'd been working at Camp Eagle Ridge all summer, crossing paths with Walter during his occasional visits, exchanging polite nods with Linda when she dropped by with paperwork or snacks. But something about the formal dinner invitation, about Matt's hand on the small of my back as he guided me toward the imposing oak door of the Homestead, made my stomach twist into a pretzel. This wasn't just meeting the family—this was being presented to them.
"Don't panic," Matt said, his voice a low rumble as he pushed open the heavy door. His fingers pressed a little firmer against my back, a gesture that was both reassuring and possessive. "Just be yourself."
Easy for him to say. Matt Blackstone belonged here. I did not.
The scent hit me first—something savory and rich that reminded me of my mother's kitchen on holidays, when the whole house became an extension of her culinary genius. The Homestead dining room unfolded before us, a space that felt both grand and lived-in. A long wooden table dominated the center, set with mismatched China that looked simultaneously antique, but well-used and worn in. Candles flickered in antique holders, casting a warm glow over seasonal centerpieces—wildflowers arranged in what looked like repurposed mason jars, casual yet deliberate.
"Casey! Welcome, welcome." Linda Torres approached with outstretched arms, her smile bright enough to rival the candlelight. She embraced me before I could prepare, a quick but genuine hug that smelled faintly of rosemary and expensive perfume. "I'm so glad you could join us."
"Thanks for having me," I managed, the words feeling stiff in my mouth. My hands were clammy, and I wiped them discreetly on my jeans—the nicest pair I owned, which wasn't saying much.
Walter Blackstone rose from his seat at the head of the table, a solid presence with the same piercing blue eyes as his son. Unlike Matt's easy warmth, Walter's welcome came as a firm nod and an outstretched hand. "Casey. Good to see you again."
His handshake was firm, authoritative. I fought the urge to wince.
"Good to see you too, sir." The formality slipped out before I could stop it, and I heard Matt's soft chuckle behind me.
"Walter, please," he corrected, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "No need for 'sir' unless you're speaking to my father. And he's dead."
Was that... a joke? I managed a smile, unsure if I was supposed to laugh.
The moment was interrupted by the arrival of Ben and Sutton, who entered from what I assumed was the kitchen. Their hands were intertwined, fingers locked together with the easy comfort of a long-established couple. Ben, with his perpetually tousled black hair, gave me a nod that wasn't unfriendly but wasn't welcoming either. Sutton, always cheerful, waved and dragged Ben over to talk to us, giving us both hugs.
"Big step, bringing Casey to Sunday dinner," Sutton said, pulling out a chair for Ben before taking his own seat. "Does that mean you guys are–"
Matt cleared his throat, interrupting Sutton. "Casey just wanted to meet the family, that's all." That was a total lie, he'd dragged me here against my will. But why was he avoiding Sutton's question?
"Well, I think this is great," Linda interjected, returning from the kitchen with a big salad as Walter walked up with a steaming dish. "The camp needed fresh ideas. And Sutton, you and Casey, both of you have been a breath of fresh air." She rubbed Matt's shoulder. "Matt and his dad have a tendency to get a bit... stuck in their ways."
I felt heat rise to my cheeks, unused to such direct praise. Matt settled into the chair beside me, his knee bumping mine under the table in what felt like a deliberate touch.
"Wine?" Walter offered, already pouring a deep red into the mismatched glasses.
"Please," I said, perhaps too eagerly.
The initial conversation flowed around me like water around a stone. I nodded, smiled, and offered brief answers when directly addressed. Linda asked about my family's restaurant, and I found myself describing my mother's fusion cuisine with more animation than I'd intended. Walter inquired about my studies, his interest seeming genuine if slightly formal. Ben remained quiet, observant, while Sutton and Matt told stories of all the hijinks the campers had gotten into so far this summer.
The clink of cutlery punctuated the exchange as Walter served the main course—roast vegetables and a pasta dish that smelled divine. The conversation shifted, flowing more naturally now, and I found myself relaxing into it. Walter shared stories of Matt's childhood camp adventures, most of which involved either climbing to dangerous heights or finding inventive ways to get muddy. Linda spoke about her recent case, her passion for environmental law evident in every word.
Throughout it all, Matt's presence beside me remained constant—his knee pressed against mine, his occasional side glances checking in, the way his hand would briefly find mine under the table. Small touches that felt like anchors in unfamiliar waters.
I watched Ben and Sutton across the table, the way they existed in each other's space without needing to speak. A casual touch on the arm. A knowing look. The seamless way Sutton refilled Ben's water glass without being asked. It was the kind of comfortable intimacy that made something twist in my chest—longing, maybe, or recognition of what Matt and I were still figuring out.
"Casey designed the entire camp talent arts program," Matt said suddenly, pulling me back to the conversation. His face was flushed with either wine or pride—possibly both. "He's incredibly talented."
"You're exaggerating," I murmured, but my protest lacked conviction.
"I'm not," Matt insisted. "Casey's created a talent show for the end of each session, and he's got the kids doing everything from traditional Korean folk dancing to rock band covers. And for the art students, there's an art show, and opportunities to do set design. It's the highlight of each session."
"We're looking forward to seeing it," Linda said warmly. "Walter has already cleared his schedule for the final show."
I glanced at Walter, surprised. The older man nodded, his expression softening slightly. "Wouldn't miss it. The arts program has been a valuable addition."
The words hung in the air between us—simple praise, but somehow weighty. I felt a warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that spread outward. Not guilt exactly, but something adjacent to it—the realization that I'd misjudged these people, at least partially. I'd expected judgment, resistance to the changes I'd brought to their traditional camp. Instead, I was being welcomed, my contributions valued.
Matt's thumb traced small circles on my knee under the table, and I fought the urge to lean into him completely.
"Tell them about your plans for next summer," Matt urged, his eyes bright with something that looked dangerously like hope.
Next summer. The words caught me off guard. I hadn't thought that far ahead, hadn't allowed myself to consider that this—whatever this was between Matt and me—might extend beyond August. The summer had always had an expiration date in my mind.
"I, uh—" I stammered, caught between honesty and the expectant faces around the table. "I haven't really planned that far ahead yet."
A flicker of something crossed Matt's face—disappointment, maybe—but it was gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
"Well, there's plenty of time," Linda said smoothly, filling the awkward silence. "Walter, why don't you tell Casey about the original camp buildings? He has such an appreciation for history."
Dessert arrived like a peace offering—Walter's homemade blackberry cobbler topped with vanilla ice cream that was already melting into creamy rivers across the warm fruit. I'd just taken my first heavenly bite when Walter cleared his throat, his expression shifting from relaxed dinner host to something more businesslike. "Matt, you promised me some boring budget talk tonight," he said, leaning back in his chair with an expectant look. My spoon froze halfway to my mouth as I watched Matt's easy smile tighten at the corners.
"Right," Matt nodded, setting down his own dessert spoon with obvious reluctance. "Sutton, you brought the folder?"
Across the table, Sutton straightened, all business. The transition was jarring—one moment we'd been laughing about Walter's story of Matt falling into the lake during his first attempt at kayak instruction, and now the air had thickened with something that felt uncomfortably like a performance review.
Sutton pulled a neat folder from beside his chair and slid it across the table to Matt. The movement was practiced, professional—a reminder that beneath the family dinner setting, Camp Eagle Ridge was still a business, with Matt and Sutton at its helm. I shifted in my seat, feeling like an intruder in a private meeting.
Matt flipped open the folder and unfurled a stack of papers, spreading them across the cleared dinner plates. Numbers, charts, and graphs stared up at us. My eyes caught on dollar figures that made my breath catch—far larger sums than I'd ever considered when proposing my arts curriculum.
"So here's where we stand mid-season," Matt began, his finger tapping steadily on one particular column of figures. His voice had taken on a different cadence—more measured, more director and less storyteller. "We've increased overall enrollment by twelve percent compared to last year, which is significant."
Walter leaned forward, studying the numbers with a frown that deepened the lines around his eyes. "And expenses?"
Matt's shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. "Up by eighteen percent."
I swallowed hard, my cobbler suddenly tasteless in my mouth. Eighteen percent. The number hung in the air like an accusation.
"That's a considerable overrun, Matt," Walter said, his tone neutral but his expression concerned. "What's driving it?"
Matt turned a page, revealing more detailed breakdowns. "Several factors. We had some unexpected maintenance on the kayak shed after the spring storms. Had to replace more of the dock than we anticipated." His finger moved down the page. "And as you know, we expanded the arts program significantly this year, and added Wade and Casey's salaries."
My stomach clenched. The arts program. My program.
"The new cabin was a one-time expense, and Wade did most of the labor, and sourced a lot of donated materials," Matt continued, a note of pride creeping back into his voice as he glanced at me. "Many of the instruments were donated as well, but we did have to purchase some equipment. It's been a substantial investment, but the payoff has been incredible. Camper satisfaction scores are the highest they've ever been."
I forced a smile, but my hand tightened around my fork. The muted clatter as I accidentally knocked it against my plate seemed unnaturally loud.
Walter studied the figures, his expression unreadable. "Satisfaction doesn't pay the bills, Matt."
"But retention does," Sutton interjected, leaning forward with the confident air of someone wielding data like a weapon. "We're seeing a ninety-two percent re-enrollment intention rate in our mid-season surveys. That's fifteen points higher than last year."
I glanced between them, trying to follow the financial chess match. My parents owned a restaurant—I understood profit margins and operational costs in theory, but this was different. Camp Eagle Ridge wasn't just a summer diversion; it was Matt's inheritance, his passion, his life's work.
And I'd pushed him to spend more money. Encouraged him to expand beyond the traditional outdoor focus into arts and music. Insisted that the renovated studio space needed proper acoustics, quality instruments, and sustainable materials.
"The arts program is a hit," Matt was saying, his enthusiasm palpable as he pushed a different set of figures toward his father. "And believe me, I was resistant. Look at these participation numbers. Kids who never showed interest in our traditional activities are fully engaged now. It's broadening our appeal, diversifying our camper base."
Walter nodded slowly, acknowledging the point. "I don't disagree with the direction, Matt. The vision is sound. It's the execution I'm concerned about. This—" he tapped the expense column "—is not sustainable."
"I'm happy to put up additional funds," Linda offered, her hand covering Walter's on the table. "The arts program is exactly the kind of expansion we've talked about for years."
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Linda was funding my ideas? Out of her own pocket? The cobbler turned to cement in my stomach.
"That's generous, Linda," Walter said, his voice softening as he looked at his wife, "but we can't keep dipping into your salary to cover spending gaps. Not forever. The camp needs to be profitable on its own."
"I make plenty of money, Walt," Linda said, rolling her eyes. "If we can invest in our children's future, it's worth it."
"It will be profitable, though," Matt insisted, flipping to another page. "These are projected revenues for next season, assuming we maintain the enrollment increase and implement the modest fee increase we discussed."
Sutton leaned in. "And now that we have the arts program, I have some ideas about expanding our offerings into the off-season. Why let all of these buildings sit empty."
Walter frowned. "It's a summer program. We'd have to clear snow, maintain a staff–—there are substantial expenses to staying open."
"But substantial opportunities for profit, too," Sutton insisted.
Projected revenues. Next season. The words swirled in my head, colliding with the memory of Matt's earlier comment about my plans for next summer. Had he been counting on me staying? Factoring my continued involvement into his financial projections?
I studied Matt's profile as he continued explaining the numbers to his father. Sutton, for his part, seemed undeterred by Walter's questions, hurtling forward with new ideas.
What had I done?
"Even with the fee increase, these projections seem optimistic," Walter was saying, his finger tracing a line on one of the charts. "You're assuming every family will be willing to pay more for these new offerings."
"They will," Sutton said, leaning forward with a confident smirk. "We've done the market research. Comparable camps with arts programs charge twenty percent more than we're proposing, and we have the entire outdoors curriculum that none of them can offer. It's a blend of both worlds, and the curriculum can expand. Spring break camps, fall hikes, winter music classes."
"And you're also assuming Casey will be here to run it," Ben spoke up, his voice quiet but pointed. All eyes turned to him, including mine, widened in surprise. It was the first time he'd joined the budget discussion. "The program's success is tied to his expertise. If he's not here next summer—"
The room seemed to shrink around me, five pairs of eyes awaiting my answer. My mouth went dry. Would I be here next summer? I hadn't planned that far ahead. My life was in Portland, my studies at Oregon State. Camp Eagle Ridge had been a summer job, an experience to add to my resume, a chance to implement some of my ideas about inclusive education. And I didn't even like the outdoors, I was a city boy at heart.
And then it had become something else entirely. A place where Matt Blackstone pulled me behind the boathouse to kiss me senseless. Where morning coffee meant watching mist rise off the lake from the porch of his tiny home. Where I'd started to imagine possibilities I'd never considered before.
But now...
"I... haven't committed to anything yet," I managed, the words feeling inadequate. "I haven't decided if I want to do a graduate program—"
"Of course," Linda cut in smoothly, saving me from the awkward fumbling. "No one expects you to make career decisions over dessert. But we'd love to have you back, if it works with your studies."
Matt's hand withdrew from my knee, leaving a cold spot that seemed to spread throughout my body.
Matt had overspent, taking financial risks for my ideas. His family was covering the shortfall. The camp's future financial stability was partly riding on my continued involvement.
The rest of the budget discussion passed in a blur. Numbers, projections, strategies. Matt defending his decisions with the passionate certainty that had drawn me to him in the first place. Walter tempering that passion with pragmatic concerns. Sutton providing analytical support. Linda mediating with gentle suggestions.
And me, silent, picking at the remains of my cobbler, the sweet taste now cloying and excessive.
How could I make this up to him?