2. Diana #2
I discretely check my watch. The long list of errands I planned on running today and actual work I have to do will now have to be cut down to essentials.
Mentally, I remap my tasks for optimal results, moving the non-urgent ones to tomorrow’s to-do list. I adjust my study plan for the paralegal certification, resolving to go through only one unit today and cram three in tomorrow.
As for work, that’ll have to be my priority.
There are a couple of documents I need to get through for a company one of our clients is trying to acquire—the most important case on my boss’s desk lately, so I have to be prepared.
As for errands, I resign myself to hitting the local, over-priced gourmet grocery store instead of the better value one two towns over to save some time.
Just as I’m redoing my grocery list in my head, I feel Michael lean into me.
“Psst! You aren’t paying attention,” he whispers. But he’s grinning, a sly smile on his face.
“Yes, I am.” Kind of. "But also, no offense, I really couldn’t care less about how the wood used to make the newer cabins was repurposed from one of the oldest homes in Long Island that was destroyed during some hurricane in the nineties.”
“Whoa. A little harsh, don’t you think?” But there’s a glint of humor in his expression.
I exhale, closing my eyes. “I just… had a lot of things planned for today. And now…” I check my watch again.
There’s only a few more hours left in the camp day.
Hours that I had set aside to finish setting us up here for the next two and a half months.
“How long do they expect us to stay here? The whole session?”
“Why don’t you just leave?” He shrugs, sitting back in his chair.
How he manages to look so comfortable in these metal fold-out things is beyond comprehension.
From the corner of my eye, I stare at him: his slightly overgrown hair, face scruffy like he didn’t have time to shave this morning.
He could pass for a relaxed Calvin Klein model, in a just-tight-enough white t-shirt and jeans.
It’s not super hot out yet, but it’s still summer. How is he not sweltering in those?
“I can’t. I have to talk to my daughter’s counselor about… something.”
He nods. “That doesn’t sound sketchy at all.”
This guy. Jeez. “It’s personal,” I snap.
He raises his hands in the air like he had the other night. I don’t miss the bare ring finger on his left hand. “Got it.”
“Why do you do that? Raise your hands like that. I’m not going to shoot you,” I hiss.
Michael grins, green eyes wide, seemingly thrilled. “Could’ve fooled me. Twice I’ve seen you get protective over your daughters. Twice I’ve felt like my life was in danger.” He laughs softly before turning back to the front of the room.
“I’m not that bad,” I say, a little too loudly. A woman with fiery red hair from the row in front of us turns to glare, pressing a finger over her lips.
“Sorry,” Michael whispers. “She’s just so excited about the reclaimed wood.”
I snort but try to hide it with a cough. “You’re the worst.”
“And you’re just being a good mom. If a little overprotective at times.” He shrugs easily again, his eyes straight ahead.
My breath catches, though it’s thankfully inaudible. I turn to look at him—to really look at him—and smile.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
“For what?” He raises a brow.
“For saying that. That I’m a good mom. I’m… doing this myself. And sometimes it’s a little hard to believe I’m doing the right things.”
“I get that. Especially since I’m in the same boat. It’s why I got so upset with you that night. I’m new to this.”
“Single parenting?” I take a guess.
He hesitates a bit, and nods.
What’s his story? Is he divorced? Has custody over his kid over the summer which is why there seems to be no mother in sight? A widower? I’m annoyed by the fact he only volunteered a minuscule amount of information, but more than that, I’m annoyed at myself for caring.
“What’s your name, by the way? I told you mine, but you never told me yours.”
“Diana.”
He squints at me, as if processing the information. “Goddess of the hunt.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “What does that mean?”
Michael shrugs once. “Just that she’s the goddess of the hunt.”
“Will you two please stop?” The same woman from before hisses at us. This time, she’s joined by two other parents giving us the stink eye. “Some of us actually care about our children and are trying to hear about the non-chlorinated, salt water pool the kids will be swimming in. Please.”
I lean forward in my uncomfortable chair. “Did you seriously just imply that we don’t care about our children?”
I feel Michael’s hand go to my elbow in an attempt to comfort me somehow, but I shake him off.
“I didn’t imply it. I said it. Because if you did, you’d be paying attention to—”
“What? What exactly would I need to pay attention to, huh? How is knowing what kinds of flowers are planted across the camp, the type of water they use to keep the grounds looking like Versailles, or the camp fight song—sorry, anthem, because apparently ‘fight’ song is too violent—affect my quality of parenting?”
The woman rears back, ready to explode. “Did you—”
“Excuse me.” We’re interrupted by a young woman in her mid-twenties wearing an official camp t-shirt. She points to the navy name tag on her shirt and leans down. “I’m Abby, one of the head counselors here. Is something wrong?” she asks in a low voice.
“Uh-oh. Someone’s in trouble,” Michael whispers, but I can tell he’s just a few seconds away from bursting into laughter.
I steadily ignore him.
Cheeks heating, I take a deep breath before replying, “Just wondering when this orientation will be over. I need to get back to work before picking up my girls. And, well, I still need to talk to someone in charge regarding my daughter’s medical condition.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you knew. The orientation is optional.”
“Optional?” Michael and I both say at the same time, a little too loud, sitting up straighter in our seats.
Abby looks nervously around us and shushes us some more. “Please try to keep your voices down. But yes, this part is optional. Most parents choose to be a part of it, though, because—”
“Are you serious?” Michael asks. “So I could’ve left ages ago? I’m not obligated to be here?”
“That’s what optional means, yes,” I say, irritated.
Counselor Abby presses her lips together and stares down at him. “We offer this only for parents who would like to know more about the camp and its rich history.”
“Parents who are actually interested in their children’s lives,” the rude red-headed woman pipes in.
Michael shifts, immediately gearing up for an argument.
“Don’t listen to her,” I whisper.
Without really knowing what I’m doing, I place a hand on Michael’s denim-covered thigh—his strong, defined thigh.
The palm of my hand feels red-hot and ice-cold at the same time.
A frisson of electricity shoots through my hand, up my arm, and into my chest. We stare at each other in horror before I drop my hand.
Though my intention was to stop him from saying something he might regret, the result was not what I was expecting.
I clear my throat before continuing. “Listen, I just need to talk to my daughter’s counselor about her medical condition.
Can you help me with that? I’ve already been in touch with the nurse—but I’d like to meet her in person briefly as well.
The camp is lovely, but I have other priorities I need to take care of over learning Sugar Maple’s history.
” It’s the most diplomatic way I can think of to say I don’t care about the camp’s “rich heritage;” I’m just here for my girls to have a good time without feeling like a horrible person.
Abby purses her lips and straightens, clearly not too satisfied with my answer. “Of course. Let me take you to the on-site nurse and then we can speak to your daughter’s counselor.”
Finally.
“Thank you.” I get to my feet, stiff as a board from sitting in those damn chairs for too long.
Michael, on the other hand, gets up with the grace of a jungle cat. “I’m outta here, then. I’ll be back at pick-up.”
After an aggressive-aggressive shh! from Red, we head in opposite directions.
I look over my shoulder once, watching as Michael jogs over to the parking lot towards his truck, his boots kicking up dirt along the way.
Absentmindedly, I wonder what the odds are that the annoying chef from Barbara’s wedding ended up placing his daughter in the same summer camp as I did.
It isn’t until I’m backing out of the camp that I realize he was probably the one who told Barbara about it.
Duh.