Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 20192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 101(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 101(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
Which is good. I need messy today.
I want to be distracted from the tear in my chest.
Every time I stop moving, I hear Dean said you’re a catastrophe waiting to happen.
That’s what he really thinks of me, isn’t it? All year long, I construct these fantasies about Dean secretly pining for me. Stalking me on social media too. Counting down the days until he sees me again.
Maybe he is counting the days until he sees me again, but only so he can beef up the camp’s liability insurance.
When we reach the entrance to the dining hall, I swallow hard, not sure how I even feel about seeing Dean on the other side of the door. Normally, the sight of him makes me interminably happy. Of course it does. He’s Dean. Grumbly, reluctantly amused, quietly humble Dean, with his pocket map and travel mug.
My heart tries to lift and beat faster at the mental image of him that I hold on to all year, but it’s too heavy, so it just gives a flat thud as I lead my cabin into the dining hall, Isabel bringing up the rear. My stride hitches as soon as I clear the threshold because there is a buzz of excitement in the big, airy hall. More than usual.
Campers are huddled around tables, pointing and conferring.
About what?
An electric current tickles the side of my face, and I turn my head to seek out Dean, something my body is conditioned to do, only to find him watching me with an expression I’ve never seen on his face before. At least not while he’s looking at me.
It’s . . . determination.
My pulse snaps into a jog, but I distract myself from that involuntary response and organize the girls at their assigned table, though some of them have already left to track down their breakfast at the back of the dining hall, where assorted cereals and hot plates are waiting to be pillaged.
Okay, Dean probably just wants to say he’s sorry for calling me a catastrophe.
I’ll accept his apology and move on. I’m not going to punish him for an opinion that is admittedly true, in a lot of respects, right?
“The rainbow is better than the horseshoe,” says one of the boys at the neighboring table, though he’s quickly overruled.
“The heart is perfect. It’s definitely number one.”
“This one is last place. You can’t even tell it’s a pot of gold.”
My back straightens. Are they ranking their Lucky Charms marshmallows?
Curiously, I scan the dining hall.
Every single table is doing the same thing. They all have big piles of Lucky Charms in front of their group, marshmallows separated from the boring stuff.
Oh. They’re . . . playing my ridiculous game.
The one I used to play with Dean when he needed a boost after his mom passed.
“Remember, we’re judging based on a well-defined shape and good color,” Dean calls over the cacophony of high-pitched voices. “Braiden, don’t eat them yet,” he says in an aside to a camper. Then, “Once you have your ranked lineup of the ten best marshmallows, each table needs to bring their number one pick to Margot. She’s the final judge. Cabin with the best marshmallow gets first dibs on the diving board later.”
The fever pitch increases, along with the stakes.
Along with my heart rate.
He remembered my silly little game.
My gaze travels over the heads of the campers to find Dean again, and he’s watching me steadily, his head tilted to one side. I’m sorry, he mouths. I’m sorry.
I have lost feeling in my legs. That’s the only reason I don’t dance on the table. Or drape myself over the strewed condiments and silverware in a full swoon. As it is, I’m already beaming at him with my hands clasped tightly beneath my chin. Last night, I went to bed thinking the guy I’ve loved for eight years doesn’t know or understand me at all. But this ridiculous game and the fact that he’s made me the judge, proves the opposite.
Maybe Dean Ingram gets me, after all.
I don’t have a chance to think about it too hard because marshmallow shapes are being lined up in front of me. Clovers, hearts, balloons. My own cabin got in late on the game, but they’ve rallied and offer their own colorful shape for judging too. A dining hall full of campers watches me expectantly, and I make a big show of studying each marshmallow from all angles, framing them with my fingers and tapping my lips thoughtfully.
“Each and every cabin has brought me a fine choice. A fine choice, indeed, but I think there is a clear winner here.” I pause for effect. “The June Bugs take first place.”
The dining hall erupts in a clashing chorus of boos and cheers, followed by marshmallows being shoveled into mouths faster than lightning. But I’ve only got eyes for Dean, because he’s dodging victorious fist pumps and scurrying campers on his way to me, and my stupid heart is bouncing off the walls of my throat.