Even now, thirteen years later, I can hear the twinge of frustration in my voice over how things ended between us.

How confusing.

How unfinished.

“What do you think he was doing there?” Ashley asks.

“No idea. He was in a tie, so maybe he’s working for one of the other companies? Or maybe he was just a visitor.” I don’t know what’s behind that door he exited.

“Do you think he knows it’s your family’s building?” Ashley asks.

“Oh, come on,” Christa, ever the cynic, scoffs. “It says ‘Calloway’ across the front in giant, golden letters.”

“That doesn’t mean he’d make the connection,” Ashley argues. “Did you ever tell him who your father is?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

“See? So how would he know?” Ashley’s big green eyes get that dreamy look in them. “Wouldn’t that be something, though, if he does work there?”

My stomach does a nervous flip. It’s been thirteen years. Does Kyle Miller remember me? Does he still think about me as I do him? And if so, are those thoughts laced with fondness?

Indifference?

Or regret?

“Those were the days, huh?” Ashley finally lets out a longing sigh. “Remember Eric? Man, that guy used to drive me nuts.”

Christa snorts. “That’s because he had a huge crush on you.”

“Couldn’t have been that big. He never returned my emails, either.” Ashley waves it off, but her face pinches. “I wonder how he’s doing.”

Silence lingers through the kitchen as we all drift into our own thoughts.

“What will you say to Kyle if you see him again?” Christa finally asks.

I shrug. “I don’t know. Hi?” I swallow against the sudden swell of nerves.

And Why would you hurt me like that?

Chapter 4

THEN

2006, Camp Wawa, Day One

“. . . they were, like, best friends, but then Marie hooked up with Carlos one night, even though she knew Jenny was, like, in love with him,” Ashley murmurs from the side of her mouth, leaning in so I can catch her muffled words over the buzz of laughter and soft music. “It was a total disaster.”

I covertly study Carlos, a stocky guy in a mustard-yellow T-shirt, standing across from us, laughing with his friends while he stokes the bonfire with a fresh-cut log. The two rivals for his affection sit equidistant to him—Jenny, the tall, lithe blonde on the picnic table to the right, and Marie, the petite girl with a jet-black French braid huddled with a group to the left. He’s cute enough to garner the attention, I guess. He seems to be more interested in the brunette helping him now than either of those two, though.

“So, did they work things out?”

“No.” Ashley’s emerald eyes widen with emphasis. “And then Darian had Marie and Jenny bunking together this summer. Thank God Christa saw the list and made her fix the assignments. Can you imagine how tense that would have been?”

I assume that’s a rhetorical question, so I merely shake my head as I swat the mosquito on my knee—I should have changed into pants—and make a mental note to avoid accidentally stepping into any minefields around those two girls.

When Christa asked Ashley to show me around, Ashley took that not only in the physical “girls’ restroom to the left, canteen closes at five, stay away from the weedy side of the lake” sense, but also as a rundown of key social connections and juicy gossip, and anything else she deems I might need to know about the people I’ll be living and working with for the next two months. The amount of information she’s off-loaded on me in tiny, private slips between the welcome meeting, dinner, and now is staggering. I’m doing my best to keep everything straight.

So far, aside from the Carlos-Marie-Jenny triangle, there’s also the Kate-and-Colin bet—a pool going on how long it will take for the two senior counselors to hook up again after last summer’s off-and-on-again fling. Based on the googly eyes and secretive smiles they’ve been throwing each other all evening, I’m considering throwing five bucks into the hat for tonight. And then there’s the “Will Tom and Doyle finally come out?” question mark, regarding the lanky blond guy and his friend at the picnic table to the right of us, who were campers here for years and, Ashley swears, have been secretly dating each other for the past two summers.

I’ve also learned that Claire, the girl in the oversized fleece sweatshirt with muscular legs, is the resident waterskiing and wakeboarding instructor for the summer and so good that there’s talk of her qualifying for the Pan Am Games; and that Olivia’s dad owns four gas stations, which classifies her as “rich,” especially with the brand-new Honda Civic she pulled up to camp in; and that Justin got into Columbia University for the fall with a full ride from financial aid that he’s been bragging about.

In my circle of friends, no one would ever brag about needing financial aid for anything.

I’ve also been given the quick rundown on Christa. Apparently she isn’t well-liked. Partly because she has a tendency to boss people around and she insists on always being right, but also because she’s been known to rat out counselors. Now that she’s been tapped as lead counselor—a glorified title for the camp director’s personal gopher that she announces to anyone who will listen—people have been avoiding her at all costs.

And I’m the lucky one who gets to room with her for the next two months.

I’m sure there are plenty of questions floating around about the new girl. Everyone’s been nice so far, but I haven’t missed the frequent curious glances, and there was that abrupt end to a hushed conversation between Ashley and two other girls as I returned with my burger, followed by embellished smiles.

I haven’t offered much information about my life, so I can’t imagine what Ashley would be saying about me by way of introduction. It’s nice being a mystery. So different from back home, where it seemed half the school knew my name by the end of my first day of freshman year. Or rather, they knew my family name.

The one person I’m dying to get information on, though, the one I’ve been acutely aware of since crossing the threshold to take a seat at the pavilion for orientation, is the one Ashley hasn’t divulged a single detail about yet. The one leaning casually against the trunk of a giant cedar tree, his hands tucked loosely into his pockets, his feet crossed at the ankles, talking with Olivia as she shamelessly flirts with him. The one I’ve swapped frequent glances with for hours now, allowing myself to admire that gorgeous face for a mere second or two before shifting away, so as not to be too obvious.

“So, what’s that guy’s story, anyway?” I finally ask, feigning disinterest. “You know, the one from earlier. Kurt or something . . .”

“Kyle,” she corrects, her eyes immediately locking on him, as if she’s been aware of his location all along, too. “He runs this place. At least it feels like that, sometimes. He’s . . . different.”

“How so?”

“He’s just . . .” She shakes her head. “I don’t know how to explain it. I like him, don’t get me wrong. But no one really knows much about him.” She glances around and then lowers her voice even further. “He used to come here with his brother. He was this quiet, skinny little kid who didn’t say much. Then they just stopped coming. No one saw or heard from him for forever, until he showed up as a junior counselor last year, looking like that, and I swear, every girl had an instant crush on him. Well, except for Christa.” Ashley snorts. “She reported him for skipping out on his activity once and got him into major shit.” She pauses. “Why? Are you interested?”