Chapter 2
With a sigh, I pop the car’s tailgate and sit on the bumper as I stare at the mountain of suitcases and bags my mom thought necessary to bring along. Pillows and sheets, though the cabin has its own. Comforters, as if it’s really going to get chilly enough in the summertime for blankets. More clothes than anyone would wear in months, let alone the four weeks we’ll be there. Fishing poles and picnic baskets, folding chairs for the lake, even those silly floating noodle things people use in the pool. Really? I’m so not in the mood for this. Any of it.
A glance around at the other cabins nearby show they’re already occupied—kids running through short grass, dogs splashing along the shallow banks of the lake, speedboats out on the water zipping past. Four weeks I could spend anywhere but here. I frown at the other people I see, men in Hawaiian print shirts and madras-length shorts, socks up to their knees and sandals on their feet; women in lightweight shifts, sundresses and large straw hats covering their hair. Kids, tons of kids.
Yeah, because this is a fun place to be if you’re their age. Which I’m not.
My gaze follows the dirt path we drove down to our cabin—it winds through sparse trees and lush lawns fronting other cabins just like ours. The lake sparkles with sunlight off to the right, so close I could run and jump in the water if I wanted to…which I don’t. At the head of the path sits the resort’s main building, where camp activities will be held along with community meals I’m already dreading.
On one side of the resort is a deck, facing the lake. I can see some employees out there for a mid-afternoon break. There are four young waitresses sitting at one of the covered tables. The umbrella shields them from the sun. In their short skirts and billowy shirts, their hair pulled back in sloppy ponytails, they giggle together and flirt shamelessly with a guy leaning on the rail.
He wears black jeans and a tight white tank top. Who am I kidding? Hell, if I were up there on the deck, I’d be flirting with him, too. He’s my age, has to be, maybe a year or so older. He wears his long hair in the same sort of sloppy ponytail the girls favor, and he keeps tucking wisps of sun-kissed hair behind his ears and out of his face. Even from this distance, I can hear his laugh—it’s infectious, carrying to me on the wind, and I want to grin just hearing it. The curve of his sexy smile sends shivers down my spine.
God.Now here’sreason enough for me to stay.
Those full lips, the dimpled cheeks, the dark eyes glistening like the sun off the lake…
He must feel me watching because he looks my way. I sort of wave until I realize I’m sitting on the bumper of a station wagon,of all things. Yes, color me pathetic.
Quickly I stand and step away from my dad’s car as if it isn’t mine. He’ll think I’m a loser, driving that piece of shit, tan with peeling panels and the tires going bald. Before he turns, I give him a quick grin. He thinks I’m a dork, I know it, and I just want to hide my head in my hands, rewind the moment and start again, start this whole day over. If I’d have known someone like him would be here, watching me arrive, I would’ve worn something a little bit classier than an old Lady Gaga T-shirt, torn jeans, and scuffed sneakers. I’d have done something with my hair, spiked it up maybe, or brushed it at least. I wouldn’t have let him catch me lounging along the back of my dad’s aging station wagon like I’m proud of the damn car.
Why is it I never get a second chance to make a first impression? There goes my summer.
But he looks my way again. When the girls crush out their cigarettes, flip their hair over their shoulders, and head back inside, he leans over the railing and watches me. Stares at me
God.
I fight the urge to run a hand through my hair to straighten it. I can stand here all day just looking at him—thinking of the thin muscles in his shoulders, his narrow waist, his lithe arms covered with fine hair I want to smooth down beneath my palms. Is it so bad to want to touch him? He’s everything I ever wanted, I just know he is. He’s smiling at me, a grin that says, “Come here.” I want to, God, I do.
I’m gathering up the courage to walk over and say something—“Hello,” for starters, which would somehow morph into, “Your place or mine?”—but before I make my move, my mom steps out of the cabin and hollers my name for all the world to hear.