“Of course I remember.” And that’s why I hate the reminder. The fond memories are the reason it took me so long to get over him. Whenever my anger unfurled, it would be diminished by the happy thoughts I cherished. My brain had a way of blocking out his bad behavior and only focusing on the good.

  His fingers brush my cheek. “See? You still have feelings for me. I know you do.”

  I jerk my face to the side. “No, I have memories, Patrick, and only because I couldn’t Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind them out of existence.” I take a step back and look at him. “Anyway, I’m involved with someone else, and unlike you, I have absolute clarity on the subject.”

  He does a slow blink. “Huh.”

  “What?”

  “I wasn’t expecting that. Well, whoever he is, I hope he likes competition.”

  “As a matter of fact, he does, but it doesn’t matter.”

  “Why not?”

  My insides grow warm at the mere thought of Charlie. “Because he’s already won.”

  * * *

  With the weight of Patrick’s return on my shoulders, I push open the cafeteria doors, feeling like Aragorn entering Helm’s Deep. I find Gloria sweeping the floor while Angela sits on the edge of a table, chattering away. Their one-way conversation ceases at the sight of me.

  “You look like you crawled through Hell to get here,” Angela remarks.

  I don’t have the energy to refute her claim. “We have a code red.”

  Angela’s delicate eyebrows move as high as they’re physically capable of. “Olivia got her period?”

  “Different code red.”

  Gloria stops sweeping and grips the handle of the broom. “The Prick?”

  I nod. “He’d like to stay for the remainder of the week since he paid.”

  Angela remains unnaturally calm. She points to a smattering of debris on the floor. “You missed a spot, Gloria.” Once Gloria resumes sweeping, Angela looks at me. “Isn’t Charlie staying in the cabin assigned to Patrick?”

  “He is.”

  Angela fans herself with a napkin. “Two hot guys in one cabin? Sign me up.”

  Gloria whacks Angela in the arm with the broom bristles.

  “Charlie isn’t going to share with Patrick,” I say.

  Angela’s smile grows to Cheshire cat proportions. “Then he should keep sharing with you and let Patrick move into his cabin.”

  “What?” I sputter. “Charlie isn’t sharing with me.”

  Angela flashes me a knowing look. “You’re not the only one up at sunrise, darling.”

  Heat spreads from my neck to my face. Of course she knew. “His cabin flooded. I let him stay for a night … or two.”

  Now it’s my turn to get whacked with the broom by Gloria. “I didn’t know that! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because there’s nothing to tell.” I’m not sure there’s any point in lying, now that I’ve told Patrick I’m seeing someone, but this thing with Charlie is too new and too delicate to share with the whole camp, which is exactly what would happen if I confessed to these two.

  Angela isn’t easily dissuaded. “Where did he sleep? Inquiring minds want to know.”

  “The bathroom.”

  Angela’s smug expression says she isn’t buying the wares I’m peddling. “He’s six-four and those bathrooms are designed for children.”

  “He sleeps in the fetal position.” I need to cut off the conversation before my lies get more outrageous. Before you know it, I’ll be telling them I shortened his legs with an axe from the barn to make him more comfortable.

  “I hope Patrick finds out you’ve had another man sleeping in your cabin.” Gloria’s broom strokes have gone from smooth to staccato. “I can’t believe he had the nerve to show his face at camp again.”

  “He has no shame,” Angela says. “It’s almost admirable.”

  “Remember those pranks we weren’t allowed to do to Charlie?” Gloria asks.

  My heart stops. “No. Absolutely not. Do not engage.”

  “Can we steal his clothes when he’s in the shower?” Angela asks.

  “You just want him walking around naked.”

  Angela shrugs. “Honestly, it’s a win-win.”

  “He’d probably enjoy it,” Gloria says. “We don’t want to do anything that might give him pleasure.”

  I snort. “In that case, we should call Charlie’s brother to surgically remove Patrick's left hand.” I glance at the door, as though he might enter the cafeteria at any moment. “Maybe he’s telling the truth, and he has changed. He seemed to be wearing his heart on his sleeve.”

  Angela rolls her eyes. “Honey, that splotch of red isn’t his heart. It’s a flag.”

  “When you’re wearing rose-tinted glasses, red flags just look like flags,” Gloria adds. “But you’re not wearing them now, right?” She sounds ready to rip the glasses off my face and crush them beneath her flip-flop.

  “Definitely not.”

  “What about Charlie?” Angela asks. “Any rose-tinted glasses when you look at him?”

  “I see Charlie quite clearly, thanks for asking.” I wish I didn’t. I wish Charlie Thorpe was nothing more than a barely discernible shadowy figure instead of a man in danger of burning my retinas with the brightness of his presence.

  Gloria pins me with her most maternal look. “It’s possible to have an incredible connection with someone who isn’t right for you, you know.”

  Her words hit hard.

  “Charlie, on the other hand, is a catch,” she continues, “which isn’t a sports reference, although it sounds like it could be.”

  I nearly choke on my relief. Patrick. She was talking about the Prick. “I thought you didn’t trust Charlie either.”

  “I didn’t at first, but I’ve changed my mind. Everyone’s entitled to grace.” She pauses. “Except Patrick. He’s already shown us who he is. Now we need to believe him. Right, Cricket?”

  “Listen, maybe cut him some slack. You don’t know all the crap Patrick went through as a kid.” I struggle to share without breaking his confidence. “The women in his life … we were the collateral damage in his war with himself.”

  Gloria pinches my arm.

  “Ouch!”

  “Don’t you dare do that.” Her voice is low and menacing.

  “Do what?”

  “You have compassion coming out the wazoo and you’re using it to justify someone else’s shitty treatment of you. You’re prioritizing his feelings over your own.”

  Was I? “Patrick’s therapist told him he was using me to fill a void, but he insists it was more than that.”

  Angela offers an inelegant snort. “More like he was filling your void.”

  “He’s single now. That’s why he wasn’t here last week. He was moving out of their house.”

  Gloria’s scowl deepens. “I don’t care if he was flying the Millennium Falcon. He has no business coming back here after how treated you.”

  “Are you considering giving him another chance?” Angela asks.

  “Definitely not.”

  “Because of Charlie?”

  “No, because of me.” Patrick isn’t the only one who’s changed. I’m not the person I was two years ago either. Present Cricket doesn’t try to make a meal out of breadcrumbs. She deserves nourishment for her mind, body, and soul—whether Charlie is the right chef for the job, however, remains to be seen.

  Chapter Seventeen

  With Patrick once again infiltrating my sanctuary, I go out of my way to avoid him. As luck would have it, the only empty cabin outside of the residential cabins is the aptly named Escape Room. I’m thrilled when Charlie offers to join me there.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be outside?” I ask. “It’s a gorgeous day.”

  “Consider me your emotional support camper.”

  I smile. “If only you fit in my pocket, then I could carry you everywhere.”

  “For what it’s worth, Patrick seems like a real jackass, and from the comments I’ve overheard, it’s the camp consensus. I’m surprised he had the nerve to show up.”

  “He’s very good at compartmentalizing.”

  Charlie scoffs. “That’s one way of describing it.” He picks up the first card and reads aloud. “You’re on a spaceship that’s supposed to depart for your favorite interplanetary saloon. Unfortunately, you discover at the last minute that a rebel faction has planted a bomb onboard.” He glances at me. “Are we Stormtroopers?”

  “Officially no, because that would be intellectual property infringement.”

  He continues with the card. “If you don’t locate the bomb in the next fifty minutes, the ship will explode and kill everyone onboard. A literal ticking time bomb.” He chuckles. “No room for subtlety.” He spins around, his gaze searching. “Is there a timer somewhere? How do we know when the clock stops?”

  “Wait. You haven’t done an escape room before?”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Why is that so shocking?”

  “It was all the rage for a while. Every birthday party seemed to involve a themed escape room.”

  “Not the kind of parties I went to.”

  “Ooh la la. Apologies Monsieur Fancy Pantaloons.”

  “They weren’t fancy. They just didn’t involve escape rooms.”

  “Describe a typical party for young Charles Thorpe the Twentieth. I’ll determine where it falls on the fancy scale.”

  “They were mostly at home.”

  That sounds too wholesome. “In the house where they lived?”

  “Or a vacation home, depending on the season.”

  “Ah, yes. The ubiquitous second home amongst the gentry. I suppose the kitchen staff prepared the food and baked the cake in the butler’s pantry.”

  “Don’t be silly. We hired caterers.”

  I can’t tell if he’s being serious and part of me doesn’t want to know.

  He folds his arms. “Courtney Abernathy, are you money shaming me?”

  “What? That’s not a thing.”

  “Of course it is. It’s basically the same as shaming a woman who’s thin. Just because it’s the more desired societal standard doesn’t make it right.”

  I gape at him. “I am money shaming you.” I clap a hand over my mouth. “I’m so sorry.”

  Charlie squeezes my shoulder. “It’s cool. I’m used to you ribbing me by now.”

  “No, it’s not okay. I won’t do it again. I pride myself on creating a safe, nonjudgmental space, yet here I stand in my black robe, smacking you on the head with a gavel.”

  “Growing up with money has downsides, too,” he says.

  I look at him, genuinely curious. “Like?”

  “Oh, you want evidence, Your Honor?”

  “I’m interested.”

  He wanders over to the painting of an interplanetary saloon. “Pressure to keep up the success of your forebears.”

  “And poor people have pressure not to live in poverty,” I counter. “One is about ego, the other is about survival.”

  “What if it feels like survival though?”

  I give him a long, lingering look. “Do you think your father would be less of a dick if he had less money?”

  He chuckles. “I don’t think he knows how to be anything else at this point.”

  “Did he grow up with money?”

  “No. His father did, but he lost the bulk of his fortune in a bad business deal when my dad was ten. Pretty sure that was the day my father vowed to get it all back. Every penny and then some.”

  “And he probably worked to make sure his children never found themselves in that predicament either.”

  Charlie stares at the painting with a faraway expression. “I can see that. It doesn’t excuse being a tool though. You can endure hard times and use that experience to become a better version of yourself.”

  I don’t disagree.

  Slowly we make our way through the puzzles in the cabin. Morse code. Einstein puzzles. While he’s unraveling the mystery of the Escape Room, I feel like I’m making progress with the mystery that is Charlie Thorpe. Every personal comment reveals what seems like pertinent information and solidifies my growing attachment to him.

  “How do you do it?” he asks in amazement.

  “Do what?”

  “Get me to talk about this stuff.”

  “It’s called a conversation, Charlie. Humans have been participating in them for centuries.”

  “Not this kind of deeply personal conversation. This isn’t me.” I sense a subtle shift in his demeanor. “How much longer do we have?”

  “Not sure.” In truth, I stopped paying attention to our surroundings half an hour ago.

  “Where are the rules? Aren’t they written somewhere?”

  “We need to figure them out. Part of the fun is not knowing,” I explain.

  Charlie shakes his head. “That sounds like hell to me. I would much rather have certainty.”

  “The only certainty is that you’ll enjoy yourself if you go with the flow and stop trying to control the outcome.”

  He tugs at the collar of his shirt.

  “You look pale, Charlie. Are you okay?” I’m genuinely concerned. If his rock-solid body drops in the middle of the cabin, I won’t be able to budge him.

  “This is your Escape Room,” he says. “How do you not know all the answers?”

  “Gloria handles this. Feeling trapped fuels her anxiety, so she sets it up and then doesn’t participate.”

  “Can you get us out of here?” he rasps.

  His face has gone from pale to downright translucent. Shit. I scan the interior and suddenly remember the magnetic key that opens the emergency exit door.

  “I’ve got you.”

  We spill into blessed daylight. Charlie slides down the wall into a crouched position and I huddle beside him. “Are you okay? Should I get a paper bag or something?”

  He shakes his head. “I’ll be fine in a minute.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you get claustrophobic?”

  “Because I don’t.” His lip curls in annoyance.

  I try to make light of it, so he doesn’t feel embarrassed. “Hey, there’s no blue ribbon for escaping, but I may have a penis plushie to offer you as a consolation prize.”

  He doesn’t respond, which only makes me talk more. The less okay he seems, the more I want to make him okay.

  “You don’t have to be embarrassed,” I tell him. “It isn’t a sign of weakness or anything.”

  If looks could kill, I’d be splat on the ground right now. I decide to stop talking before I make things worse.

  “I said I’m fine. Let’s forget it.”

  I can tell this is more than the fact that he ‘lost’ a game. He truly felt unsafe in that room when he was unable to leave. I wonder if it brought up his feelings of helplessness that he endured while trapped in the back seat of his parents’ car, suffering through their litany of criticisms.

  Then he adds a gut-punching statement. “This was a mistake.”

  My body tenses like a seventh-grade grammar lesson. “This, meaning the Escape Room?”

  He gazes at me with an uncomfortable intensity. The kind that doesn’t send a pleasurable zing down my spine.

  “I see.” My voice is quiet even to my own ears.

  “You don’t really know me, Cricket,” he says.

  “I thought we were working on that.”

  “I’m a guy in an overpriced suit and shoes. I belong in a high-rise making deals, not in the middle of nowhere trying to act like I’m one of you. I have no business being here.” He pulls himself upright. “Correction, business is the only reason I’m here, but you already knew that.”

  “It may be the reason you showed up, but I know it changed for you, Charlie. You changed.”

  “No, that’s where you’re wrong. I’m incapable of change. They’re going to have to pry these Gucci loafers off my cold, dead feet. You and I… We wouldn’t work in the real world.”

  “This is the real world, Charlie.”

  “It might be yours, but it isn’t mine.”

  His words sting. When he makes a break for it, I resist the urge to run after him. The Escape Room clearly dredged up whatever fears he’s been harboring. He needs time to recalibrate, that’s all, and I vow to give it to him.

  As challenging as it is to carry on with my day, I make the rounds, first stopping in the cafeteria to check on meal prep with Bernie, then moving on to the group activities. Fan fiction and DnD are going strong. By the time I see Patrick among the outdoor enthusiasts, it’s too late; I’ve been spotted.

  I force myself to continue to the picnic tables. “Hey, everyone. How’s it going?”

  “Patrick was complaining about Charlie,” Angela says. Her lips thin. “Gee, I can’t imagine why.”

  Patrick shades his eyes as though he can see the object of his derision in the distance. “What’s he doing at a place like this? He wouldn’t know Chewbacca if the Wookie walked up and bit him in the face.”

  “Which a Wookie wouldn’t do,” Stefan adds, brows drawn together.

  Angela shrugs her delicate shoulders. “Charlie fits in perfectly fine. We’re all big fans.”

  “You, I can understand,” Patrick tells her. “Although he seems a little young for you. He’ll outlive you.”

  Stefan winces. “Ouch. A direct hit.”

  Angela licks her lips, appearing to choose her words carefully. “It might surprise you to learn that I don’t wish death on all my husbands, only the ones I dislike.”

  “Charlie’s a lawyer whose client wants to buy the camp,” Olivia offers.

  “You’re kidding.” Patrick’s gaze swings to me. “How much are they offering?”

  “It doesn’t matter. This place isn’t for sale.”

  “What’s his plan then? Make a nuisance of himself until you cave?”

  “Charlie is far from a nuisance.” My response is more heated than I intend, which doesn’t escape Patrick’s notice. He quirks an eyebrow without comment.

  “Who’s up for LARPing?” Adam interjects.

  “It isn’t on the schedule until four,” Bradley objects.

  Adam throws an arm along his shoulders and steers him away from the picnic area. “Be a rebel, Brad.”