Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Vesper
My father needs me.
And still, I’m on my way to New York before I head to Oregon.
It makes sense, I tell myself as if I’m making the most logical decision—and not trying to avoid reality for a couple more days.
I need clothes that aren’t airport-soft and “I forgot to do laundry” black leggings.
I need boots that can survive mud and mornings that taste like frost. I need to pack for Juniper Ridge like I’m not the kind of person who lives out of a carry-on on purpose.
Mostly, I need a buffer.
Because the second I see the lodge and the rink and the lake pretending it can’t remember, the camp is going to swallow me whole. And if Dad is really sick—and if the county really is circling like they’ve been waiting for us to slip—then “helping for a little while” becomes a trapdoor.
Me standing in the office, staring at Mom’s old clipboard like it’s a ghost with a pen attached.
Me answering phones, soothing parents who speak about their children like they’re tiny gods.
Me arguing with inspectors who say “policy” the way people say “sorry.” Me becoming the person who runs the camp.
Me living there, becoming the person who runs the camp for the rest of my life.
And as much as I adore my father, that’s not happening.
Juniper Ridge was my parents’ dream—Mom’s, mostly.
I refuse to let grief and panic and guilt rewrite my future in one week just because the universe decided to get cruel. That’s what I tell myself. It’s the most practical, reasonable conclusion. It’s also a lie, or at least a partial one, because the truth is uglier:
If I go to New York first, I can pretend I’m still in control of something. Even if it’s only the contents of a suitcase.
Before I board, I send two texts with fingers that feel like they belong to someone else.
To Cally:
Heading home, then to JR. Dad needs me.
To Monty:
Going to NY, then Juniper. Dad’s sick . . . or something like that.
I stare at my phone as if waiting for them to acknowledge it—me.
This is what we are now. Text buddies. The occasional dinner in a city where one of them is passing through, where we pretend we’re still best friends because we can laugh for ninety minutes without touching the past. Where I act like I don’t know exactly what my heart wants.
Monty responds right away, which tracks. Monty has never been a man of delayed reactions.
Call me when you arrive in New York.
No emoji. No extra words. No “are you okay?” because Monty doesn’t waste language on questions he already knows the answer to.
I swallow hard and shove my phone into my pocket like it might burn through fabric.
Finland to JFK is an entire day of motion disguised as progress.
I’ve been in Helsinki for six weeks filming a short doc series on youth hockey development—tiny rinks tucked into neighborhoods, teens with eyes too bright, coaches who speak in clipped instructions and careful hope.
It was supposed to reset me. Shoot, edit, repeat.
Keep my mind busy. Keep my body moving. Keep my heart from lingering anywhere too long.
Now every frame on my laptop feels irrelevant. Pointless.
I board with my camera bag pressed against my ribs, passport in my hand, and I take my seat like I’m bracing for impact. First class, because Cally’s assistant apparently has opinions about me flying coach, like my comfort is a line item in Cally’s life that someone manages for him.
Sometimes I wonder if the assistant hovering over me is for Cally’s benefit or mine. It’s weird, how those boys still keep an eye on me—still protect me—while keeping their distance like proximity might reopen something none of us knows how to survive.
Maybe it’s because I never chose between them.
I can’t. I loved them both and my heart wouldn’t survive if I had to leave one of them behind. Now they live in eternal competition.
They’ve been rivals since their rookie year, and the league loves the story: Callaway Livingston Harrington Winthrop, captain of the Colorado Cobras, golden grin, marketable confidence.
Alberto Montoya Navarro Wade, elite goalie with ice in his veins, traded to every place that knows how to hate the Cobras properly.
A rivalry that sells tickets.
Once, it got so intense, they literally punched each other on national television—during the All-Star Game, when they were allegedly on the same team. Same jersey. Same bench. Same mission statement: Have fun, promote the sport, don’t commit a felony.
Naturally, they chose violence.
Yes. Their hatred has always been . . . artisanal. Handcrafted. Small-batch. A limited-edition rivalry with premium ingredients and zero chill.
And the funniest part? It’s a rivalry with a strict gag order. No one’s allowed to mention the camp. Or the lake. Or the nights we were kids and convinced ourselves we could have everything—friendship, love, each other—without consequences.
Because if we say it out loud, it stops being “competitive tension” and starts being “three idiots sprinting away from their feelings.”
When the plane lifts off, the cabin pressure shifts and my stomach does that stupid little flip it always does. I press my head back against the seat and close my eyes.
I try to breathe without picturing Dad on a clinic bed with wires on his chest.
I try not to picture the camp sign weathered and torn down.
I fucking fail.
Sleep comes in fragments. Short, jagged naps broken by turbulence, by the flight attendants’ carts, by my own thoughts slamming into me the second my brain tries to quiet down.
At some point, I open my laptop and stare at my editing timeline. The teenage goalie on the screen smiles into the camera, telling me about his dream like dreams are guaranteed.
I almost laugh.
Instead, I close it again and scroll through photos on my phone I haven’t looked at in a year.
Juniper Ridge.
The rink in early morning light.
Cabins lined up like they’re bracing for laughter.
A blurred photo of my mother mid-shout, her face fierce and bright.
A shot of my brothers—two large bodies in too-small camp T-shirts, grinning like they owned the world.
And then—because my brain is cruel—I hit the folder I pretend doesn’t exist.
Callaway at sixteen, sunburned, shirtless, holding a hockey stick like it’s an extension of his arm. His grin aimed straight at the camera like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Monty at the same age, half-shadowed, leaning against the rink boards, eyes fixed on something outside the frame. He looks like he’s holding himself together with stubbornness alone.
A photo of all three of us in front of the lodge, so young it almost hurts to look at. Me in the middle, smiling like I’m safe—like the world can’t touch us if we stand close enough. Like we’re a secret the universe approves of.
I’m smiling like we were perfect together, like love was something you could hold in your hands and never drop. As if it would last just because I wanted it to.
I lock my phone so fast my thumb slips. I sit there with my hands clenched in my lap, staring at the blank screen like it’s going to explain what to do with a life that keeps dragging me back to the same two people. The plane lands with a jolt that feels like a warning.
Welcome to the city, where the air tastes like coffee and fumes and ambition. Where people move like they’re late even when they’re not going anywhere. Where no one pauses long enough to hear their own fear.
JFK is the opposite of Juniper Ridge in every way. Loud. Crowded. Bright. It doesn’t leave room for feelings. I stand in the aisle with the rest of the passengers, shoulder-to-shoulder, and let the crowd carry me forward. My body is on autopilot—passport, customs, baggage claim.
And yet, the second I step into the terminal, my phone vibrates again.
For one awful second, my heart stops because I think it’s Dad.
It’s not.
It’s Callaway.
No words yet. Just his name on my screen, ringing.
I stare at it, my pulse tripping over itself, and all I can think is—fuck. I’m not ready for any of this.