31. 7 Years Ago #2
“Yeah, I threw my resume out there a few weeks ago, since, you know, Pat’s not technically retiring until the end of the year.”
“Right. Makes sense. So, what’s the job?”
“It’s an after-school program. In Jamaica.”
He paused. “Queens? That’s kind of far, no?”
“It’s not so bad. Two hours. But, I mean, let’s see if I even get the job first, right?”
“Yeah. Plus, they say it’s great practice to just put yourself out there and interview for stuff, even if the job’s not perfect.”
“True.”
“Well, congrats. When did you say the interview is?”
“Friday at noon.”
“Cool.”
He tried to sound happy for me. He really did, and I appreciated that. I hadn’t fully considered that the thought of doing anything other than staying with Matt at camp would upset him. But given our shaky ground, I chastised myself for not being more sensitive.
I reached my car, but instead of hopping in and driving down to the visitors’ washhouse to finish up the conversation with him, I lied and said I had a call coming in on the other line, hanging up abruptly.
Then, I fished into my glove compartment for my cigarettes.
I pulled one out and lit it, inhaling the toxic smoke as deep into my lungs as it would go.
When I exhaled, I felt the instant effects of the nicotine on my system, calming my nerves.
I leaned against the car, the memories of the past three months spinning through my head.
Sliding the phone into my back pocket, I felt something. I pulled out a folded piece of paper.
Mackenzie’s letter.
I carefully unfolded it and smiled at the careful, little-kid penmanship on the page.
Dear Taylor, I read. I can’t believe tomorrow we have to go home.
I don’t want to. I came here thinking I was going to hate it so much.
But then I met you, and you made it better.
You were so nice to me. You remembered my birthday—and got me a cat!
Please take care of baby Taylor for me when I’m gone.
Tell her I’ll be back for her next summer. I can’t wait!
I took a drag. Thank you again for making my summer go from really bad to awesome. You’re the best friend I've ever had.
The tears I’d been holding in all morning spilled over my eyelids as I read the closing line. I love you so much! Please write back. Love, Mackenzie. The little girl drew hearts all around her name.
Look out for the eight-weekers, I’d been instructed.
And I had.
~
That night, after a long day of cleaning out cabins, taking final inventory, packing supplies, and closing up ancillary buildings like the Home-Ec Center and the Rec Hall, Pat and I hosted the end-of-summer party at the cliff.
It was like a co-ed, but without the kids.
We set up a small campfire with all the requisites to make s’mores, lit tiki torches along the cliff’s edge (mostly so people wouldn’t fall over the edge in the dark), and brought down the sound system for music.
Dottie set up a snack table with finger sandwiches, chips, dip, her famous chocolate chip cookies, and pitchers of bug juice.
It was a team effort, a last hurrah for the counselors in celebration of their hard work all summer.
The party started at eight and would run until about 11, at which point, the group would disband into smaller cliques or couples, all eager to start their own after-parties.
For some, that meant a final round of hushed sex on bare mattresses in cabins that were supposed to be shut down now that the summer was ending.
For others, it translated into a cozy circle of friends listening to Jeremy Gouzos—one of the British counselors—strum old songs from the 70s and 80s on his acoustic guitar.
Still, for others, it was marked with a final trip down to the camp rocks for a few cans of warm beer and a last-minute make out session.
For me, though, the after-party was not a party at all.
It was a conversation I’d been putting off that was eating away at me and couldn’t wait any longer.
Because the cliff was an unfashionable place to hang out once the end-of-summer party was over, Matt and I had the gazebo all to ourselves. The flames of the tiki torches burned brightly in the background, their citronella keeping hungry mosquitoes at bay.
“You throw a hell of a party, Roberts,” Matt said through a mouthful of half-chewed cookie.
“Thanks.” I nodded, staring into the darkness.
“Why the long face?” he asked, swallowing.
“I need to ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“Have you told your parents?”
“Told them?”
“About the baby.”
Stalling, he sucked down an entire cup of bug juice. “No,” he admitted. “Not yet.”
“When are you going to?”
He wiped his mouth dry with the back of his wrist. “I don’t know.
I haven’t really thought about it.” This was a lie, I knew.
He had an obvious tell. He always scratched the back of his neck and looked down at the floor.
Not that Matt lied to me often—but when he did, there was no question about it.
“Well, have you talked to Leyla? Since the last phone call?”
He shook his head.
“You need to, Matt.”
“For what? I told you my plan.”
“Your mother’s not going to allow you to run with that plan. You know that, right?”
“I’m a grown man.”
I sighed. “You’re acting like a child.”
“How do you figure?”
“A grown up takes responsibility for his actions.”
“Which I plan to—I told you my idea! Why are you on me about this?”
“Because I love you and I don’t want to watch you make a mistake you’ll regret for the rest of your life.”
“Losing you would be a mistake that I would regret for the rest of my life.”
With that comment, I stopped fighting. He shut the conversation down by making it perfectly clear that the only way he would do right by the baby would be if somebody forced it upon him.