Somebody Like You

11. Cabin 7

ENYA

Sunday morning arrives with all the enthusiasm of a dental appointment. I'm standing in the kitchen, watching Dad make his third cup of coffee while pretending he's not worried about me leaving.

"You sure you'll be okay?" I ask for probably the tenth time.

"Enya." He gives me that patient dad look. "I'm a grown man. I've survived forty-six years on this planet. I think I can handle six weeks without you hovering."

"I don't hover."

"You've asked me that question seventeen times since yesterday."

"I have not—" I stop, because he's probably right. "Okay, maybe I've asked a few times."

"A few." He's smiling now, a fond exasperated smile that makes the wrinkles around his eyes deepen. "Look, I'll be fine. Work's crazy busy anyway, we've got three major projects coming up that'll keep me at the shop till late most nights. If anything, you being gone means I don't have to pretend to have a normal dinner schedule."

"That's not healthy."

"Neither is worrying about your old man when you should be out having fun and making memories." He ruffles my hair like I'm twelve. "Besides, Elliot's coming back for Fourth of July weekend. That's only two weeks away. I'll barely have time to miss you."

Elliot left yesterday, heading back to college for summer classes. The house felt immediately bigger and quieter without him crashing around, leaving his stuff everywhere, eating everything in the fridge. Now it's just Dad, and soon it'll be just Dad alone.

"You'll call if you need anything?" I press.

"I'll call. Now go prepare, or you'll be late. Brenda seems like the type to mark tardiness in permanent record or something."

I've told him all about Brenda and he's not wrong. I go to my room and pack some stuff. Dad lets me borrow his car and I promise to bring it back next weekend. He did ask why I'm not going with either of my friends and I came up with an excuse.

The drive to Camp Pinewood takes forty-five minutes, which is just enough time for my brain to cycle through every possible anxiety about the next five weeks. Living on-site. Actual campers arriving tomorrow. Being responsible for tiny humans who might drown or get poisoned or have emotional breakdowns in the middle of the night.

And Maddie. Always Maddie, lurking in the background of every thought like an unskippable ad.

I park in the counselor lot and grab my stuff, trying to project confidence I don't feel. The camp looks different on a Sunday afternoon— more official, more real. There are actual staff members everywhere, doing last-minute preparations. The calm before the storm of children.

"Enya!" Brenda appears like she's been summoned, clipboard in hand, smile at maximum wattage. "Perfect timing! Let's get you checked in and show you to your cabin."

She leads me toward the cluster of counselor cabins— smaller than the camper ones, designed for two people each. There's a sheet taped to a bulletin board listing room assignments.

I scan for my name.

Cabin 12: Enya Jabari & Jessica Murphy

Jessica Murphy. I vaguely remember her from orientation—q uiet, seemed nice enough, into photography or something. This could work. This is manageable.

"Okay, so here's the thing," Brenda says, and my stomach immediately drops because nothing good ever follows that phrase. "Jessica had a family emergency last night. Her grandmother's in the hospital, and she had to withdraw from the program."