You Have a Match(32)
“Okay, your turn,” he says after a few minutes.
When I crouch into the space between Savvy’s bed and the bunk above it, I feel a legit twinge of guilt for desecrating the “sanctity of the sleeping space”—Savvy’s words from a recent Instagram story, not mine—but then I remember she sentenced me to peeling hardened nacho cheese off camp dinner plates with my fingernails for two weeks, and just like that, my head is back in the (admittedly disgusting) game.
Finn has fashioned his gum into a giant F, so I follow suit and leave an A in front of it. As in “disgusting AF,” I guess. Finn comes over to survey our germ-infested calling card when I’m done and clicks his tongue in satisfaction.
“Art in its highest form. We should open an Etsy shop and sell gummed-up goods.”
“We should get the heck out of here is what we should do,” I say, so nervous that—of all the ironies—I wish I had some gum to chew on.
Finn does a little skip on the way out the door. If nothing else, he’s a lot more chipper than he was this morning after Savvy blew him off. Even if Savvy wants to throw us off a dock and feed us to the rather entitled ducks that hang out on the fringes of the camp for this, I think that might make her happy, too.
“So,” he says, once we’re a safe distance away from the cabin. “I promised you good views, and I have a few in mind.”
I raise my eyebrows. “How many of them involve breaking a camp rule?”
“Only all of them.” He must assume whatever face I’m making is answer enough, because he starts heading for the docks with a merry “Let’s go.”
twelve
The end of the day sneaks up on me so fast that I have no choice but to corner Leo in his element by showing up to kitchen duty early. From the door I can hear his back-and-forth with Mickey as they prep for tomorrow’s breakfast in the middle of a lively debate about whether jackfruit is better in savory or sweet dishes.
“I’m just saying, there’s a reason all the chain restaurants here are suddenly using it as a meat substitute,” says Leo. “The texture really lends itself to—”
“Almost everything. Jackfruit is the party animal of the cooking world; this country was just slow on the uptake. Anyway, try my turon and you’ll never doubt its proper place in dessert again.”
“Nothing against your turon, but—”
Leo spots me first, pausing at the counter. I freeze, and we stare at each other the way dumbfounded deer do when they stumble on your path in the woods.
I clear my throat and say a silent prayer to whatever gods are in charge of puns to forgive me for my sins. “I know you probably don’t want to give me the time of Day right now…”
Leo groans, but it works—he’s got the beginnings of a smile and is only halfway trying to hide it. Mickey tweaks him on the arm and winks at me. “I’m gonna go meet up with Finn, since we’re wrapped up here. Your blasphemous jackfruit opinions aside.”
Then Mickey’s gone, and the kitchen is completely silent, save my awkward shuffling on the tiled floor and Leo fiddling with his apron ties.
“Wanna go outside?” he asks finally.
I nod, figuring the only person to bust me for not doing kitchen duty is probably Leo himself.
The air is unusually muggy, even for June. It puts a heaviness in our steps, in the space between us, making me more aware of him than the baseline of all-too-aware that I already am. The slight sheen of sweat where his shirt collar meets his chest. The faint scent of cinnamon, plus whatever spices were in tonight’s sweet potato bake. The warmth of him, so familiar to me that I don’t even need to be near him to feel it. I can conjure it all too easily, even when he’s nowhere near.
We sit on a bench that looks out at the water, to the stretch of the mainland and hints of mountaintops beyond. The sky is all deep purples and blues, moody and mystic. I’ve always wanted to take photographs of it like this but still haven’t quite mastered what it takes to get good images at night.
We settle in, neither of us looking at each other, staring at the lazy lap of the water on the pebbled shore. I’m so relieved to be near him that at first it’s too overwhelming to speak.
“I should probably explain,” I start.
Leo shakes his head. “Mickey filled me in earlier.”
“Oh.” I imagined most of this conversation would be me giving the recap to the soap opera of my life and figuring out a place to apologize on the way. Without that to guide me, all that comes out is a graceless, blurted “I’m sorry.”
“To be clear—that is why you’re here, right? For Savvy?”
There’s no graceful way to say it, so I don’t. “I’m glad you’re here, too.”
He’s not looking at me, staring straight ahead at the water even as I will him to turn his head, to see how much I mean it.
“I thought we told each other everything,” he says quietly.
I close my eyes for a moment. I’ve been looking at all this through the lens of my own embarrassment, without thinking of how he sees it—not as me trying to keep things normal after the BEI, but as a friend who compromised his trust.
“I mean … I told you why I was taking the test. And I told you what I found out.” He says the words slowly and deliberately, like they’ve been weighing on him all day. “And you—you must have found out about this in my living room, and you didn’t say a word.”