Teardrop Shot(7)

My uncle still talks about how we must have had the country’s president at our camp.

He would’ve been sorely disappointed.

It’d been a group of sixth grade boys for fishing week. In fact, I was certain that’s when the camper had retched from being in the fish cabin.

“Because she had a family emergency.”

I narrowed my eyes.

Keith looked away, starting a drum solo on his stomach.

He was lying, but I got it. And damn, I was really wondering who these people were that were coming.

I sighed. “Just tell me if these people are going to be assholes.”

I realized who I was asking and rotated to face Trent. “Am I going to want to kill these people?”

He cocked his head to the side. His eyebrows went up, and he raised a hand to scratch behind his head. “Well…”

Fuck. I was.

“I mean, you don’t have the best record at liking people, so…” He faltered, his eyes locking on Keith’s. “Help me out here.”

Keith deadpanned, “You hate people. You’ll hate them.”

I hated him.

And I wanted to ask if a hot air balloon could ever use cold air instead.

I raked a hand through my hair. “Okay, then.” I punched Trent’s shoulder. “Help me move in?”

“Uh.” I didn’t miss the way his eyes returned to Keith. “I need to go over my talk.”

Right. Because he’d been asked to come here. I had been foisted on the camp. Got it. I swung around to Keith.

“So where’s the rest?”

I knew Owen and Hadley from our group had moved back from when I was still on the email chain. Even though I never replied, I’d been happy for them. Owen’s dream was to run this place. Though evidently he hadn’t gotten there yet.

Trent flashed me a grin, ducking out into the hallway.

It was just Keith and me. This was a scene in one of my nightmares, but Keith didn’t seem disturbed. He had sat down behind his desk and started going through some papers.

“They’re around,” he said, distracted.

I saluted him. “Way to be helpful.”

I picked up one of my bags and started for the door. Apparently, I needed to de-fish a fishing cabin.

I took two steps to the door and heard, “And Charlie?”

My heart sank. I didn’t look back.

“You’re looking real good. You’ve not let yourself go.”

I looked now, glaring, and he smirked. He never gave a shit. Well, neither would I now, and I extended my hand, my middle finger very prominent as I waved it at him.

“Fuck off, Keith. Fuck off.”

I left, his smug laughter trailing behind me.

“Always the joker, Charlie.”

Owen was always the most responsible, kindest, and organized of our entire group. He probably would’ve earned a promotion a long time ago. Maybe I’d be proactive in helping him get that promotion.

A lot proactive. Keith had to go.





The trail to the fishing cabin wasn’t very big, just wide enough for my car to fit. Barely. Tree branches scraped the side, but I had to prioritize: save my already-piece-of-crap car from maybe one or two scratches or save myself a broken back from carrying all of my stuff on foot.

After further thought, I reprioritized and grabbed one of the golf carts the camp used. I was fairly certain I needed to sign a whole other form to be allowed to drive one of them, but that was Keith’s fault. That was my rationale. If he hadn’t been such a dick, I might’ve gone through the appropriate channels, which would’ve meant getting one of the maintenance guys to drive me. But I knew who that would’ve been, and that was another history hill I didn’t want to climb. Not yet, anyway.

When I arrived, a station wagon was already there, the back end opened up, matching the windows and the two doors to the cabin, which were also propped open.

And as I walked in through the side door, a voice blared from the bathroom, “Did someone let the dogs out?”

Another voice chimed in, “Woof! Woof!”

I found Owen dancing in the living room, a purple bandana on his head, tied at the base of his neck. He wore an old camp staff shirt. It was faded in patches and ripped at the sleeves. He threw his head back, his mouth forming to howl at the next words, and he jumped backward on one foot. Eyes closed, he stopped and did a full-body twirl, a purple feather duster in his hand.

He wasn’t alone.

Hadley came dancing in to join him from the bathroom.

She’d been a petite thing back then, and she still was, but she didn’t dance like it.

Baggy jeans rode low on her hips with the legs rolled at her ankles, ’80s-style. She had a shirt hanging off her, with the sleeves cut off and the ends rolled and stuffed under her sports bra straps. Both had gone with the purple theme today—even Hadley’s hair ties were purple at the end of her two French braids.

Her eyes were closed, her hand in the air, her head down, and she was doing a running-man-inspired dance. Her feet were pumping as she inched toward her man, one bounce at a time. When she stopped feeling the hand in the air, she put both in front of her and started doing a jig, kicking her feet out to the side.

This.

These two people. This dancing. Knowing that when I made myself known to them, they wouldn’t be embarrassed. They might turn the music up and dance around me in circles.