22. Miller
Becca may play her cards close to the vest when it comes to a lot of things, but when it comes to her emotions, she’s an open book. I watch them play out across her face as she tries to figure out a tactful way to get out of spending the night in close proximity to me.
Her initial confusion gives way to protest as she opens her mouth. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, guys,” she says. She looks at me to back her up.
This seems like exactly the type of thing I’d try to plan, but this time, it’s just good luck. Who am I to fight fate?
“It could work,” I say.
Becca’s eyes shoot daggers at me. “It could not work.”
Lena uncrosses and recrosses her arms, looking between the two of us. “If we split up the girls, someone’s going to be left out. Do you want someone left out?”
Oh, she’s good. She’s very good.
“Well, no…” Becca trails off. I can’t tell if she’s cracking under the pressure, if she just hates confrontation, or if she, like me, is intrigued at spending the night close to me. I can only hope it’s the latter.
And the outcome will be the same. Becca and me in one tent, alone.
“Tell you what, guys,” I say, clapping my hands together. “Let’s do this. My campers in one tent. Becca’s campers in the other tent. Becca and I will take the last tent, but if there is any noise—I’m talking like a peep—after we tell you to go to bed, we’ll make everyone get up and switch to the original plan.”
“Deal!” Noah says, jumping up and down.
Lena gives a serious nod.
“Also, you have to gather wood. Don’t go anywhere that you can’t see me from where you are. If you guys bring back enough, we’ll have a campfire.”
They squeal with delight and run off. I mentally pat myself on the back. I may not have a lot of experience with kids, but I remember a former teacher using a tactic like this. I’m feeling pretty proud until I turn to Becca.
She looks like she wants to murder me. “I can’t share a tent with you.”
“You can sleep in the hammock if you really want. Probably pretty buggy out here, though,” I say with a casual shrug. “Plus, look at it this way. I got them to gather the firewood, and I’ve guaranteed that they’ll shut up and go to bed. What more do you want?”
She sets her mouth in a thin line. I get the sense that what she wants is to be far away from me.
I give her a playful nudge, my arm to her leg. “But seriously, Becs. I’ll behave. I promise. This is good for the kids to bond. Really. I’m not trying to be shady.”
The last thing I want to do is come off as a sleaze or force her into something that she truly doesn’t want. But from the hardened nipples I can see through the thin fabric of her t-shirt, she’s not entirely opposed to the idea of one-on-one time with me.
Becca sighs, then shifts on the hammock. “We’ll figure it out.” She climbs out of the hammock, sending it twisting and me scrambling to grab on and balance it to avoid being dumped on the ground.
* * *
“Anyone want to go exploring?” I ask. The campers have finished moving their sleeping bags into the tents, and we still have a couple of hours until it would be a reasonable time for dinner.
All seven of them jump at the idea. Becca is less enthusiastic, but she joins the group as we head back out to the trail.
“I figured we’d hike up part of the way that we were going to go,” I say, pointing. “Get a little of that even if we’re camping down here. And it should be faster since we don’t have our backpacks.”
We left the huge backpacks inside the tents and are walking with just a few water bottles held in our hands. It’s amazing how much lighter I feel after taking it off, practically ready to sprint up this trail. I’d imagine the campers feel the same way.
Becca brings along a smaller backpack that she apparently had stowed inside the bigger backpack, carrying some water and a first aid kit.
Chocorua’s key feature, I learned from searching the internet yesterday during rest hour, is that its peak is above the tree line. So, once you get above a certain point, there are no more trees—just rock. We make it to the tree line and keep going. Without the foliage in the way, we can see for miles.
Everything looks so small from up here. The lakes are tiny dark patches amid forest or surrounded by thin lines of road. The other mountain peaks stand out against the blue sky.
At least, over us it’s blue. It’s darker off in the distance.
“Whoa! Cool!” Liam exclaims, pointing. “Did you see that?”
I follow his finger to the mountain range we were viewing. “What?”
He doesn’t have to answer, because then I see it too. A lightning bolt hits the top of the mountain. The sky behind it isn’t just dark; it’s practically black. It jolts through me like I was struck, rather than just a spectator.
“I think there’s a storm rolling in,” Becca says, her brows knitted together. “We should head back down. It could be dangerous if we get stuck up here in a storm.”
The clouds look like they’re moving quickly. We’re not quite to the tree line when it races over us. The sky above us darkens, blocking out the sun until it’s as dark as late evening, even though it’s closer to three in the afternoon. A crack of thunder rents the air, followed by fat raindrops pelting down.
“Stay together,” I order. The campers link hands. Becca takes up the rear this time, and I lead us down as quickly as possible.
My heart pounds in my chest, and I force myself to keep my fear hidden from the campers. Fuck, don’t let us get hit by lightning. Had I known the storm was coming, I never would have suggested leaving the campsite.
The campers, for their part, are having the time of their lives, almost certainly because they have no idea how much danger we’re in.
Through the fog, I can almost see Becca. Her face is pinched with worry. I mentally kick myself again. Every time I try to prove to her that I’m not just a guy who likes to screw around, I mess something up.
“Great job, guys,” I say, raising my voice over the wind. “Keep it going.” I keep repeating lines like this, over and over.
Becca hasn’t said anything since we started hiking back.
I slip on a wet rock and catch myself before I fall. “Careful of the rocks,” I say, looking back.
Is Becca okay?
The fog is less dense when we get below tree line, and I can see her face more clearly. She’s not just worried; she’s terrified.
“Almost there,” I say, loud enough for the group to hear, but I’m talking to Becca. I’m going to get us back safely if it’s the last thing I do.
It seems to take twice as long to get back as it did to hike up, even though we’re going downhill. We make it to the tents just as the rain starts to let up, all of us wet and a little cold but safe. I let out a sigh of relief.
“Go into your tents and change,” I order, pointing. It’s a good thing we had them put all of the backpacks in the tents before we left, and that we fixed the upside-down tarp thing on top of the tent that Becca called a rain fly.
All of our stuff—other than the wood that’s stacked in a clearing between the tents—is clean and dry.
I motion toward our tent. “Come on. You can change first if you want.”
Becca doesn’t make a move.
I step closer to her. “Becca?”
She’s trembling.
There’s a time to give a girl space. I get it. Thanks, Holly. But this isn’t it. She’s not just worried about campers.
I take her hand and lead her toward the tent. “In you go,” I say, crawling in behind her.
Becca sits cross-legged on the floor between our two sleeping bags. She blinks, like she suddenly remembers where she is. “Sorry. I was a little—sorry. I’m good now.”
“You’re still shaking,” I point out. “Come here.” Without waiting for her reply, I scoot around until I’m sitting next to her. I put my arm around her shoulders and draw her into me.
I wait for the protest, for her to push me away, but it doesn’t come.
She leans on me and slowly, the shaking stops.
“How are you doing?” I ask when her breathing evens out.
“Um,” she stammers. “I’m okay. Sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry. You did a great job getting those kids down the mountain.” I pull her closer.
“Fuck,” she whispers.
I crack a smile. “I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you swear.”
This earns me a small smile. “I don’t swear at camp. You’re not supposed to, either.” The smile fades. “I just… the idea that one of the campers might get really hurt. I was on the verge of a panic attack back there.” She shakes her head. “It’s just… why am I such a fuck-up when you’re around?”
Why is she what?I shake my head. “What are you talking about, Becs? You’re a great counselor.” She really is. I’ve seen her with the kids. She has infinite patience, is a great teacher. Any kid would be lucky to have her as their counselor.
“I know,” she says with a small shrug against my chest. “I used to be, at least. But this summer… I came back here because this is what I know. What I’m good at. Before this summer, I’d never turtled a sailboat, or gotten campers stuck in a thunderstorm, or had a camper get a black eye. It’s like the one year I need this, need to do something right, everything falls apart.”
The rain has eased to a gentle patter on the walls of the tent.
“Why?” I ask, because I have a lot of questions that start this way.
Why does she think she’s not good enough? Why does she need to prove to herself that she’s good at something? And why does she think things are falling apart?
She shrugs again under my arm. “We should get back to the campers.”
“The campers are fine, Becca. I promise.”
She nods. “I failed,” she says, so softly I think I mishear her.
“You failed? No, you didn’t, Becs. You got them safely back to camp. Everything is fine.”
Becca finally looks up at me. Her eyes shine bright with tears. “I failed a class at school. I have to repeat the year. That’s why I needed to come up here. To prove that I’m not bad at everything.”
My heart twists at the sight of the tear that squeezes from a corner of her eye and traces a trail down her cheek. I have to force myself not to wipe it away with my hand. “Fuck, Becs. You’re great at a lot of things. I’ve only known you for two weeks and I can see that already. Who cares about school?”
Jesus, how can she think she’s anything less than perfect?
“My parents,” she sighs, looking down. “My dad’s a surgeon. He always wanted me to follow in his footsteps. I think I always wanted to follow in his footsteps. It’s just… harder than I thought it would be. And I hate the idea of disappointing him.”
Suddenly, it all makes sense. The reason she didn’t want to talk about what she does when she’s not at camp. How upset she was after some of the minor incidents this week. She’s viewing everything as a reflection on her.
I’m still not quite sure I understand the reason she’s so upset now, though. Everyone is fine. We got caught in the storm, but it wasn’t something we could control.
No one messed up, least of all her. And we all got back here safely.
“Becca?” I ask after a moment of quiet.
She sniffles in response. “God, you must think I’m so pathetic.”
Does she really not see it? “That’s the last thing I think about you, Becs. You’re amazing. Why do you think I’ve been trying so hard to spend time with you and get to know you?”
She scrunches up her face in confusion. Pieces of hair have fallen out of her usually tight braid, and with the wet strands stuck to her face from the rain, she looks like an adorably confused puppy, one of those long-haired types.
Maybe I’ll just keep that thought to myself.
“I thought you just liked annoying me.”
I hold back my laughter. I do, but only because she’s fun to tease. “Well, maybe, but that’s not all I like. But why were you so upset with the storm? There wasn’t anything we could have done to avoid that. Was it just the thought of the campers getting hurt? We’re all fine.”
“Oh.” She pushes a strand of hair back from her face to join the braid in the back. “It was mostly being terrified that we wouldn’t get back with everyone okay. But also, I’m, um, scared of thunderstorms.”
This time, I can’t hold back my smile. “Aww, Becs,” I say, pulling her in again. “That’s fucking adorable. You’re this hardcore, tough-as-nails chick who’s super smart and on top of everything. And you’re scared of thunder.”
She stiffens, but this time I see it for what it is. It isn’t me, at least this time. She’s scared of not being perfect, or at least of people finding out she isn’t perfect.
I let her go and pull her backpack across the tent toward us.
“I like that about you. It makes you human. And for the record, I’m sorry,” I add.
She stops digging in her backpack and looks at me. “For what?”
“I should have noticed. I should have been there for you. The campers were all having a great time, and you were freaking out. I’m sorry I didn’t see it.”
She pulls a dry shirt out of the backpack and balls it up in her fist. “It’s okay. But, um, thank you.” Her cheeks are stained pink.
“Are you good now? Do you need a hug?”
“I’m good now.” She looks at the exit to the tent, where the rain has stopped as suddenly as it started, then back at me.
Right. “I’ll let you get changed. Then can you show me how to work this insane stove thing we brought with us?”