Teardrop Shot, Page 2

  I ignored him. “And two, that softball came out of nowhere. Literally. We didn’t know there was a game being played on the other side of that building. I thought I was in the clear to show you all my skills.” I smoothed out my shoulders, pretending to brush off some dirt.

  He rolled his eyes. “Same Charlie. Funny and deluded.”

  Okay. Ouch. “Rule number one of hanging out with Charlie: you can’t tell me I’m deluded until I say it first.” I smacked my hand on the table. “Take that, Motivational Marathoner.”

  He shook his head. “You did—three times on the walk here. And don’t think I don’t know what you were doing. You were trying to distract me from talking about camp.” He was trying to keep a straight face. Trying…and he was failing. He laughed, shaking his head. “Man, I’ve missed you.”

  There went that moment.

  Eight years. It was a long fucking time to stay away, and I was sore from all the cringing on the inside. Including right at this moment.

  He hadn’t pushed me to talk about him or why I faded from everyone. While I knew I was being a coward, I’d been grateful.

  It was time. Long past time, because I was glad that I answered his call and I was glad he’d gone dancing with me tonight. But I was really glad that I just saw him again.

  I’d forgotten how much I missed everyone.

  I looked down at the table, the words burning in my throat, but I had to say them. Or say something, at least. I wasn’t a total jerk.

  “I know I went MIA—”

  “Hey.” His voice was gentle, and he laid a hand on mine. “I know enough to realize you were going through something bad. You don’t have to apologize to me or explain anything.”

  That made the burning worse.

  “Trent…”

  I tried again. I had to. He was a good friend to try after eight years of me ghosting, and since he’d showed up, it’d been drama overload. I never used to be a shitty friend.

  I didn’t think so, anyway. But that might’ve been something else I was deluded about.

  “You gotta know it wasn’t just the camp group,” I said. “It was everyone. I ghosted on everyone in my life. My family too.”

  “I know.”

  The music blared as someone opened the door. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!

  He waited until the door closed again, until it was just Boom, boom, boom, and then he leaned forward, his forehead almost touching mine across the table.

  “I knew you were going through it. We all did, and some of that’s on us too. You know, when you and…”

  Damian.

  It was time his name was said.

  He hesitated to say his name. Hell, even I did at this point.

  He cocked his head to the side. “When you began dating Damian, I’ll admit that some of us didn’t handle it the right way. I know I got pissed—not because you were with someone, but because I couldn’t call you at three in the morning to talk about whatever girl I had in my bathroom and figure out how to get her out of my apartment. At some point, you were no longer our Charlie, but his Charlie.”

  I picked at the table. Some dickhead had scratched penis into the wood, and damned if I wasn’t going to turn that i into an upside-down actual penis. Just needed to add some girth and another ball. Or I was stalling. Again.

  I glanced up, meeting Trent’s knowing gaze. Why’d he always look at me that way? Like he was an all-knowing wise owl.

  I raised a shoulder, feeling guilt bloom in my chest. “You should’ve been able to do that, except Damian should’ve joined the conversation.”

  God.

  One year ago. That’s how long ago I’d left that relationship, and I’d been such a mess that it took eleven months to realize I needed something drastic to get me back in the land of the living—and social media.

  Hence my Lucas mistake. We met at my gym, gushed over Reese Forster, and I’d given a reckless yes to his suggestion we grab a beer, which had ended with Newt. Good old Newt.

  I sighed. I was starting to miss the old grandpa.

  But not his thieving ways.

  Trent nodded. “Yeah. Maybe. Maybe I can’t talk, but I know all our other friends, and I never had the relationship with any of them where I could call at three in the morning to plot Operation Remove Forgotten-Name-Nice-Lady.” He bumped my arm with his fist and ducked his head to meet my gaze. “I’m kinda scared this is an aberration, so I mean it. You should come with me to camp. Keith—”

  Boo. Hiss. Thunderbolts.

  I hated Keith.

  Keith, the boss.

  “—said that whoever booked the island, they have it for almost three weeks. He asked me to come back a couple times for their stay. He’s only using old staff. He wants the ones he can trust, so whoever it is, they’re a big deal. You should come.”

  “And work there? Be your assistant? Get you coffee? A fan on command?”

  He rolled his eyes. “No. I mean, didn’t you say you were trying to write a book?”

  Oh, fuck. Either my social skills were seriously lacking or my tolerance to tequila was in the trenches.

  “I said that?” I felt my face getting hot. What else had I said?

  Trying to write a book hadn’t been my idea. It’d been my therapist’s, and yes, after eleven months, Lucas and the therapist had both been my attempts at getting a life again. And that was an exaggeration about writing a book. She might’ve said journal, but here’s me. I either overly commit or I don’t commit at all, and I walked out of that session hearing I needed to write a book.

  Yeah. I’d written nothing.

  “What?” Trent asked.

  “Huh?”

  He shook his head. “You zoned out on me.”

  “I told you I was going to write a book?”

  He nodded. “Were you not supposed to?”

  “No, but it’s embarrassing.”

  “Why’s that embarrassing? I think it’s a good idea. You can write about your life, about what you went through with Damian. It’s like an intensive therapeutic technique.”

  Holy shit. He’d been talking to my therapist. Or Newt.

  “My life sucks. It’d be the most depressing book ever.”

  He laughed. “You’d be surprised. But hey, getting back to my question—are you still working at that data place?”

  I used to work with data sets, but it was something I quit on behalf of my dignity. The owner had asked if I stole her laptop. I said no, and I quit. Okay. I might not have quit per se, but I still left without pointing out that it was her cheating husband who stole it. For his mistress. And I knew that because the mistress had come in the day before with the same laptop. He hadn’t even taken off the sticker that said Boss Bitch. Instead, the mistress had crossed it out and written Mine Now.

  I felt she’d fired me because I kept quiet. But the mistress herself was revenge enough. I went in the other day to grab my last paycheck—she wouldn’t even mail it to me. And I saw she’d hired the mistress for the desk clerk position.

  The two of us had a shared smirk moment.

  I felt like I was telling her, “Give Meredith hell.” And the mistress was telling me, “I already have been, with him. In bed.”

  She might not have been thinking that, but I had high hopes. She was probably more thinking, That’s the loser who got fired for what he stole for me. And she probably thought I was thinking, I’m scared of you, but please come clean so I can have my job back.

  See? Joke was on her. Ha.

  Either way, I’d decided to accept the assignment my therapist gave me: write about my life. I was embracing the idea. I did have a small nest egg in my savings account, and if there was any time to try something new, it was now.

  Right?

  Who was I kidding? I was scared shitless. I needed to get a new job and stat.

  “Who do you think would win: a cockatoo or an otter?” I asked. Followed shortly by, “hashtagImight’vebeenfired.”

  He didn’t respond, not right away. He just s
tared at me, and after I snuck a look at him, he rolled his eyes. Again.

  “I’m not even going to ask, but hello?” He nudged my shoulder over the table. “This is perfect timing. You’re coming. Decision is made.”

  It was like being in the last cell in a block, and one by one, I heard the doors shutting. I knew mine was coming, and I wanted to bolt, but I also knew I couldn’t. Long-term, it was better if I sat tight.

  Lucas had dumped me.

  I lost my job.

  I had a book to write.

  Get the feeling the universe is trying to tell you something?

  Trent was looking at me, so smug and somehow I knew I’d just committed to this too.

  Whether I was ready or not, Echo Island Camp, here I come.

  Again.

  I felt like a thirteen-year-old, all awkward and scared, not like my twenty-seven years. Oh, who was I kidding? My life had been more together back then than it was now. Maybe Trent was right. It was fate that I was coming here.

  Trent had called ahead, making sure Keith had a position for me to fill. Trent had to leave after his speaking event tomorrow, but I’d be staying so we were going in separate cars the next day. My old boss had hired me for the whole three weeks whoever-it-was had booked the entire island.

  He said I’d have to sign a non-disclosure agreement, and I tried to keep from gagging. Keith always made a big deal about any campers. They mostly catered to wealthy campers, but even the 4-H campers got the celebrity treatment. At this point, the island could’ve been rented out for a makeup consultants convention and Keith only needed us to staff concessions or the gym courts.

  In my case, it was the gym courts.

  That’s what I learned when we arrived, four hours later and severely needing coffee. We’d taken off the morning after what I now called Tequila and Regrets Night. Trent had gotten up, the ambitious overachiever he was, and went for a run.

  “Just the gym courts?” I signed the NDA with a little flourish under my name.

  Keith started to take the paper away, and I couldn’t help myself.

  I added two dots over the i in Charlie.

  He paused.

  I was done.

  He started to take it again.

  Wait. I had to add a line under my name.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Are you done?”

  “Is your name Keith?” That was tame, even for me. I nodded.

  I didn’t like Keith. I never had.

  He’d been my boss every summer I came here, and each year, his belly got bigger and bigger, and so did his arrogance. He always had on a golf shirt with a mug that spelled out BOSS with the B being the handle (Maybe I was attracted to always being an employer for those types of bosses? The asshole kinds?), and he wore khaki shorts with white socks and white sneakers underneath. It was the same uniform every single day—with a bounce in his step as he strutted around the campgrounds that made me grit my teeth.

  And then there was his hair. There was a small amount of curl on top, a blondish brown color. Or maybe it was his laugh. He would always echo out a “HAR HAR HAR” laugh at the end of his jokes. Not anyone else’s. His.

  When Trent and I had arrived and walked into the office, I’d braced myself for some suggestive, snide comment. There was usually something sexual from him, at least with me. It was what he did, what he leered about, what he suggested with an appraising look, or a slightly dirty joke, but I’d been surprised.

  He hadn’t said a word, just shoved over the NDA, announced I would get paid a little less than the normal rate and I wasn’t special because I was older. Then he’d picked up the B-oss mug and taken a sip.

  When I finally let him take the NDA, he left his mug on the counter as he took the papers over to his desk. I eyed it. I was tempted to knock it on the floor, but this was my first day back. Probably not a good idea.

  “Is that okay, Charlie?”

  I’d been lost in Boss-mugland. “Huh?”

  He came over, a key in hand. “You’re in charge of the basketball courts, the outside and inside ones. I don’t know what they’ll need, but make sure they don’t take our equipment or damage anything. You’re there to watch everything, and help with whatever they need—towels or snacks or whatever. You’re in charge of that too.”

  I stared at him. Huh?

  Basketball courts…

  “It’s a basketball camp?”

  Trent smothered a laugh beside me.

  What had I just signed?

  But it was gone. Dickhead Boss had already taken it.

  “Yeah. It’s a basketball camp.”

  Both guys were watching me, silent, waiting for something. No doubt waiting for me to clue the hell in on what was going on.

  “Who’s coming?”

  I started going over my list of ideas as I asked. It could be anyone. The Coyotes? Fuck. That’d be a dream job. Sit back and watch them play all day? Reyson got traded a few years ago. Marley before that… I ran down the list of who I thought was still on the team. But what if it wasn’t them? It could be a private school. Or a special league. Or… The possibilities were endless.

  “Who is it?” I asked again.

  Keith smirked. “I’m not telling you. That’s what you get for not reading the form.”

  A surge of anger rushed through me. “How did you ever escape the #MeToo movement?”

  Okay. Maybe not so random right there.

  Keith ignored my question, his gaze on the front of my shirt. He smirked.

  Oh, you—I started to raise a fist in the air, but Trent checked me.

  He shoved my hand down, slamming his side to mine and hiding my fist behind us. His laugh was forced, as was his smile. “That sounds great, Keith. Thank you.” He cleared his throat, stretching his neck a little. “So, uh, where are we all staying?”

  Keith was glowering at where our hands would’ve been, but rather than comment, he just flicked his eyes back up. “You’re in the main lodge,” he told Trent. “You got room 222.” He turned to me, his eyes hardening. “You, missy, got the fish cabin.”

  The fish cabin?

  “Huh?”

  “Oh.” Another forced laugh from Trent as he shifted to face me, letting go of my fist. His hand came down on my shoulder, as if he was holding me back. “I told him you were writing a book, so he thought the fish cabin would be a good idea.”

  Keith’s lips were mashed together, his dimple showing (I hated his dimple). His shoulders shook with repressed laughter.

  The prick.

  The fish cabin had been given that name for a reason. That’s what it had been used for. Cleaning fish. They’d stopped using it for that purpose after a local game warden threatened to report the camp. He’d been half-joking, but the next week a camper threw up from the fumes, so Keith declared it abandoned.

  Until now, apparently.

  I’ve mentioned he’s a dickhead, right?

  Fine. Whatever. I gave him a closed-mouth smile, though it was painful as hell to my cheeks. “I’m sure I’ll love it.”

  He held up his hands. “I was just thinking about your writing. It’s the most private place on the island.”

  For a reason.

  He laughed. “Besides, it’s not that bad anymore. We’ve had it cleared out over the last few summers, so just spray some of that nice-smelling stuff you girls wear and it should be as good as new.”

  “I’ll make do.”

  The fish cabin was at the tip of the island, closest to where the bridge and road came on to the island. My cabin would be north of the main lodge in the center of the island, and to the west of the village that had the nicest cabins. That was Morningside. There was a patch of trees between the main lodge and the basketball courts to the south, so my walk would be a nice long one each morning.

  “What about the staff headquarters?” I asked.

  That was a building in Morningside that the staff used mostly during weekends. It was a bit more relaxed than the rest of the camp facilities, but
I knew they had jazzed it up recently. I saw pictures of it on social media.

  “It’s not available. All the rooms are booked up.”

  The definition of asshole: exhibit A. Keith, such a bitch boss. He’d put me in the smelliest cabin, farthest from everyone I knew, and the closest cabins to me would be booked with campers—campers I still hadn’t identified. Lovely.

  “Where’s Helen?”

  At least she’d be a welcome change. In her early sixties, she was the main receptionist at camp. She didn’t live too far away from the island, so it was an easy drive back and forth. Plus, she hated Keith as much as I did. We’d bonded over it, and I missed her.

  A flash of guilt settled in my gut.

  She’d been another one I stopped coming back to visit, stopped checking in with. Crap. The last I knew, Helen’s husband had medical problems. He could be dead by now.

  Way to go, Charlie. Way to drop the ball on everyone.

  Keith’s nose wrinkled and he rested his hands on his stomach. “Helen won’t be here for the three weeks.”

  “What? Why?”

  Trent nudged my elbow, nodding toward the pile of NDAs on Keith’s desk. I got his implication. Helen sucked at keeping secrets—hence a very old friendship with her. My uncle had visited me from Missouri one time. He was going through the area and wanted to say hello. Keith made him sign an NDA.

  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.”