27. Matt
twenty-seven
Matt
T he talent show made me more convinced than ever that Casey was right about the arts program. It added a whole new dimension to camp life, giving the kids a way to express themselves that hadn't been available before, and I could see the way Casey had built community. I just didn't know how to convince him of it.
The days leading up to the Session 2 Talent Show had been busy for Casey, and he hadn't had time to talk, so I'd waited, giving him space. Now I was second-guessing myself, wondering if it was the right move. He was still sleeping in my bed, but more often than not, he was too tired. Something had shifted, making him more reserved, more worried than usual.
Perhaps it was just his anxiety flaring up.
Our bonfire area had transformed into something magical tonight. String lights zigzagged overhead, casting soft golden pools that melded with the dying sunset. The plywood backdrop—painted just yesterday by Casey and his art campers—depicted a stylized mountain landscape that echoed the real peaks silhouetted against the darkening sky. It wasn't fancy, but it was perfect in its earnest, handmade glory, just like everything else about Camp Eagle Ridge.
I made a big speech at the beginning of the talent show, then hung back at the edge of the crowd, letting Casey and Sutton take the lead with the kids, watching music, dance, and even magic tricks. It was amazing, hilarious, and beautiful, and it had gone off without a hitch, exactly as we'd rehearsed it.
At least until Casey had come on stage, his pastel pink hair catching the glow of the single spotlight we'd rigged up over the makeshift stage. The sight of him there—confident yet vulnerable, so utterly himself—sent a warm current through my chest, an electric sensation I recognized as love, followed by the uncomfortable prickle of regret for all the words I'd left unspoken.
I scanned the crowd, tallying faces automatically—a camp director's habit. Every counselor, every staff member, and nearly all the campers had shown up. Even my brother Ben and his wife Sutton had claimed spots near the front, their hands intertwined in that casual, unconscious way of people who never questioned their connection. I envied that certainty.
Casey adjusted the microphone, sending a brief squeal of feedback across the clearing that made everyone flinch and laugh. His smile flashed in response—that disarmingly sweet expression that somehow managed to be both apologetic and not sorry at all.
"Sorry about that." His voice was carrying easily now. "My campers insisted I share a song tonight." He glanced toward a group of teenagers who whooped at the mention. "I tried to get out of it, even warned them my songs are pretty personal, but they didn't seem to care."
The crowd laughed, and someone toward the front—probably Javier from Cabin 12—shouted, "You got this, Casey!" which triggered a cascade of cheers and playful catcalls.
Casey laughed, the sound light and genuine. My attention snagged on the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, how he ducked his head in a moment of shyness that contradicted his outspoken nature. These little details about him collected in my mind like treasures, continually surprising me with their abundance.
He settled the guitar across his lap—the one I'd given him for his birthday, which was never far from his side. I'd stretched my personal budget thin to afford it, but the look on his face when he'd unwrapped it had been worth every penny. Even now, I watched him stroke his thumb reverently across the polished wood inlay before positioning his fingers on the strings.
The first chord rang out clear and true, silencing the last whispers from the audience. I'd heard Casey practice countless times over the summer—through cabin walls, across the meadow, by the lake at sunset—but never like this, never with such deliberate intent behind every note. This wasn't just playing; this was offering something of himself.
I found myself holding my breath as his voice joined the melody, beautiful and strong. The lyrics started simply enough, painting vignettes of summer days and starlit nights that could have applied to anyone at camp.
Then the second verse began, and my pulse quickened.
"City boy with opinions sharp as knives," he sang, "fighting battles with his words, not afraid to criticize." A few knowing glances turned toward Casey, who smiled self-deprecatingly without missing a beat. "Pushing boundaries, questioning the rules, finding beauty in the broken, making music out of fools."
The chorus posed a question that hit me like a physical blow: "Have I pushed too hard, demanded too much? Can someone love a heart that's always rearranging?"
Wait. Was this—could this possibly be—about us?
My mind raced backward through our summer together, cataloging moments: Casey challenging our outdated activities schedule, insisting we needed more arts programming; Casey arguing passionately for gender-neutral cabins; Casey pushing the budget for a music program that had transformed our talent show into this vibrant celebration. Each memory flickered through my consciousness like slides in an old projector, illuminating patterns I'd somehow missed.
I'd always seen his suggestions as ways to improve the camp—which they were—but now I recognized them as something more: attempts to carve a place for himself here, in my world.
The song continued, shifting focus in the third verse: "Nature's son with patience deep as lakes, listening heart that bends but never breaks. Tied to land his family always knew, giving others room to grow while staying true."
My throat tightened. This was me—unmistakably me—through Casey's eyes. I'd never thought of myself as particularly patient or understanding. Running the camp my family had owned for generations just meant doing what needed to be done, adapting when necessary while preserving what mattered. But hearing Casey describe me this way—as someone steady and nurturing—made me want to live up to that perception.
The chorus returned, but with new lyrics that pierced straight through me: "Can we bridge the gap between your world and mine? Make something last beyond just summer time?"
There it was—the worry that had been shadowing our relationship all along. Casey would return to Oregon State in just over three weeks. I would stay here, bound to Eagle Ridge by duty and love for the place. We'd never discussed what would happen after the summer ended, both of us avoiding the topic as if saying it aloud would make it real.
I'd been telling myself that uncertainty was fine, that living in the moment was enough. But now, hearing the naked vulnerability in Casey's voice as he sang about our differences—city versus country, activism versus tradition, his academic future versus my rooted present—I realized how deeply unfair that had been to him.
Because the truth was, I wasn't uncertain at all. I loved him. Not casually, not temporarily, but with a solid, grounded certainty that matched how I felt about these mountains and this lake. I'd known it for weeks but had hesitated to say the words, afraid they might pressure him into promising something he couldn't deliver once he returned to his real life.
Casey's final verse dropped to almost a whisper, forcing everyone to lean in: "What if distance is just space and not goodbye?"
My vision blurred. The hundred little details I'd been noticing all night—the way the fireflies had begun to flicker at the edges of the clearing, how Casey's fingers moved so surely across the strings, the collective held breath of the audience—suddenly coalesced into perfect clarity. Casey wasn't just singing about our differences; he was asking if they mattered. If we could find a way despite them.
And I knew, with an absolute certainty that vibrated through my bones, that we could.
As the last note faded into the twilight, leaving nothing but the soft crackle of the bonfire and the distant call of a loon on the lake, I felt something shift inside me. The hesitation that had held me back dissolved, replaced by a surge of emotion so powerful it demanded action.
I'd spent the whole summer responding to Casey's challenges, letting him push the boundaries of what Camp Eagle Ridge could be. Now it was my turn to push—not against him, but toward him. To show him that some risks were worth taking, that some bonds couldn't be broken by mere distance or difference.
The crowd erupted into applause, startling me from my revelation. Casey ducked his head again in that endearing way, his smile tentative as he acknowledged their appreciation. But I saw the way his eyes scanned the audience, searching, until they found mine in the shadows at the back.
I moved before my brain caught up with my body, propelled by the certainty coursing through my veins. The crowd between me and the stage seemed to part like magic—or maybe I just pushed through them, I couldn't tell. My focus had narrowed to a single point: Casey, still perched on that stool, cradling his guitar as the applause washed over him. His eyes found mine again as I approached, widening slightly with a question I intended to answer in the most unmistakable way possible.
The fifty feet between us collapsed in heartbeats. As I crossed the clearing, I registered fragments of the scene around me—Sutton's knowing smile, a younger camper tugging at her friend's sleeve and pointing, the warm glow of the firelight painting everything in amber and gold. These details registered like snapshots, filed away automatically while my mind raced ahead to what I was about to do.
I felt exposed, visible in a way I rarely allowed myself to be. As camp director, I'd always maintained a certain professional distance—friendly but removed, the steady hand guiding rather than participating. Now, with every step toward Casey, I was shedding that protective layer, letting everyone see the man beneath the title.
Someone whispered as I passed. Someone else whistled low. I didn't care. The hesitation that had plagued me all summer—born from my own fears about long-distance relationships, about disrupting the delicate balance we'd established—evaporated like morning mist off the lake.
I reached the edge of our makeshift stage—just a raised platform of old deck boards we'd salvaged from last year's renovation. Casey watched me approach, his brow furrowing in confusion as I stepped up, my boots landing with a solid thunk against the wood.
"Matt?" he asked, just loud enough for me to hear over the diminishing applause. The golden spotlight caught the uncertainty in his expression, the flicker of hope he was trying to suppress.
I didn't answer with words. For once in my life, I didn't overthink, didn't plan, didn't consider all possible outcomes before acting. Instead, I moved directly to him, my hands reaching to frame his face. His skin felt warm against my palms, flushed from the heat of performance and the intensity of the moment.
Our eyes locked for one suspended second. His dark brown gaze, normally so quick and sharp, now wide with surprise. I saw everything in that gaze—his questions, his fears, his desire. Then I closed the final distance between us and pressed my lips to his.
The kiss wasn't gentle or hesitant. It carried all the certainty I'd discovered listening to his song, all the love I'd been holding back. His lips were soft against mine, slightly parted in surprise. For a heartbeat, he remained frozen, and my stomach tightened with sudden doubt.
Then his guitar shifted between us as his hand rose to my arm, fingers curling lightly around my bicep. Not pushing away—holding on. He kissed me back with a soft exhale that felt like surrender, like relief, like coming home.
The crowd's reaction registered peripherally—a collective gasp followed by scattered cheers and applause. Someone wolf-whistled. Someone else shouted something encouraging that was quickly lost in the growing chorus of approval. It all faded to background noise as I pulled back just enough to rest my forehead against Casey's.
"I love you," I whispered, my voice rough with emotion. "Not just for the summer. Not with conditions or uncertainties. I love who you are, how you challenge me, how you see the world." My thumbs traced small circles against his cheekbones. "I don't have all the answers about how we make this work with you in Oregon and me here, but I know we can figure it out together."
Casey's fingers tightened on my arm, and I felt a slight tremor run through him. "Are you sure?" he asked, voice so quiet it was almost lost beneath the noise of the crowd. "I'm not easy. I push too hard, I get caught up in my causes, I— I don't want to be a burden–"
"You make this place better," I interrupted. "You make me better. Maybe it won't be easy, but nothing worth having ever is." I smiled, letting all my feelings show plainly on my face. "And you, Casey Kim, are worth having."
A smile broke across his face—not the careful, measured one he often showed the world, but something raw and real that reached his eyes and crinkled the corners. His free hand came up to touch my jaw, fingers cool from the metal guitar strings.
"But the distance—"
"We'll figure it out. Weekend visits. Holiday breaks. Summer will come again." I pressed another quick kiss to his lips. "And in the meantime, we have phones and computers and all that modern technology you're always telling me to embrace."
He laughed then, a bright sound that seemed to rise above the continued noise of the crowd. "Using my own words against me, Blackstone? That's fighting dirty."
"I learned from the best." I grinned, feeling lighter than I had in weeks.
Around us, the camp had erupted into celebration. Campers were standing on benches, counselors were exchanging knowing looks, and I was pretty sure I saw money changing hands—apparently, our relationship had been the subject of camp-wide speculation. Ben caught my eye from the front row and gave me a thumbs up, while Sutton beside him was wiping suspiciously at her eyes.
Someone shouted something about a wedding.
Casey closed the distance between us again, kissing me with a deliberateness that left no room for doubt. When we separated, his eyes were bright with emotion and promise, and the crowd hooted, making his cheeks pink. He laughed.
"Me too," he whispered. "I love you, too. And it's so fucking scary."
As the cheers around us swelled into whistles and applause, I wrapped an arm around Casey's waist and turned to face our audience—our community. The uncertain future still waited beyond summer's end, with all its complications and logistics to navigate. There would be hard conversations and compromises ahead. But in that moment, with Casey solid and real against my side, I felt nothing but certainty.
We would make it work. Not because love conquers all—I was too pragmatic to believe in fairy tales—but because what we'd built was worth fighting for. Worth adapting for. Worth driving four hours each way on weekends for.
I frowned. Right, step one in this might be to teach Casey to drive.