*

On Sunday, I drive back home to see Mom. The whole way back, my hands clench the steering wheel, my shoulders inch up closer and closer to my ears until I have to consciously remind myself to relax. Still, by the time I actually get to the house and am inside, I can feel how tight my shoulders have gotten again.

“Is camp not going well this year?” she asks after we talk for a few minutes. I thought I’d been doing a good job disguising my irritation, but apparently not. “Did something happen?”

I debate not telling her. What, after all, is there that she could do about it? If anything, it will just upset her, and she doesn’t need that right now. So I give her a modified version.

“There’s this guy there who I’m not really getting along with,” I say. “I just . . . I wasn’t expecting him to be there.”

“You can get along with anyone, Jilly,” Mom says. “You’re a very friendly person. Can you try to see the good qualities in him? I’m sure he must have one or two.”

“It’s not even that I’m not getting along with him, per se; he reminds of Sean, I guess.”

“Ah.” Mom smiles faintly and looks over at the orchid. “You really should give him another chance, sweetie. He clearly cares about you so much.”

“Why? Because he sends flowers?” I rub my eyes. “Can we talk about something else?”

I leave some time after dinner, when Sharon shows up for the night shift. I give Mom a kiss and tell her I’ll see her next week.

“Drive safely,” she says. “And don’t forget that your uncle will be out here Sunday. I think he’d like to take us out. Something simple, brunch maybe. I think I might be up for that. It’s been a while since I last went out, but I think I feel up for it.”

I grit my teeth but force a smile. “Great,” I say tightly. Uncle Nate visits every few months, claiming he wants to make sure that we’re doing okay and that the money he sends is being spent properly, but really it’s because he wants to go on another tirade about his conspiracies concerning my parents’ car accident, his favorite theory being that one of my dad’s former bosses paid someone to cause the accident. At this point, no one else wants to hear about it. We are obligated to listen because we’re family, but that doesn’t mean I still don’t think he’s full of shit.

“It’ll be nice to see him,” Mom says. “He’s family, Jilly. He’s your father’s little brother, and he’s taking care of us.”

I stiffen. “I might not be able to cover all the expenses, Mom, but I work really hard to try to make ends meet around here.”

“I know you do, honey. But you’re still so young and have your whole life ahead of you; you shouldn’t be shouldered with a burden like this. There’s nothing wrong with accepting help from family. Uncle Nate wants to help.”

I shake my head. “We’re not a charity case.”

“You’re right; we’re not. But he is family, and he wants to help. And try to get along with that boy at camp. You’ll just make yourself miserable if you don’t.”

On my way out of the living room, I pass the framed picture hanging on the wall. It’s the last photo taken of Dad, Mom, and me. We’re standing on Baker Beach, the Golden Gate Bridge behind us. All smiling. All with no clue how very wrong things would go in just a few short months for our little family. She has a point, I suppose. There’s a good chance he’ll be there all summer.

*

When I get back, the campers are all out on the archery field. They’re standing there in a line, bows in hand, facing the targets. Griffin is in the middle of this line, and as I approach, I can hear him talking to the campers.

“When you’re at full draw, your body forms a T, if you’re in proper alignment,” he’s saying. There is movement on the line, as some of the archers readjust themselves.

Even Allison is there, right next to him, gamely trying to get control of her bow.

“Good,” Griffin says. He’s lowered his own bow and is walking up the line, inspecting each person’s stance.

“Can you help me get in the right stance? I can’t figure it out,” Allison says.

He sees me as he walks back over to her and he gives a little wave. “Now here’s a girl who looks like she knows how to shoot an arrow. Care to join us?”

“No, that’s okay,” I say tightly. “I was wondering if a group would like to get together and take a ride down to the swimming hole.”

“Okay!” says Simon. No one else moves. Normally, taking the horses swimming is one of the most popular activities, but right now they’re looking at me like I just suggested we all sit in a circle and pull out each other’s toenails with pliers.

“Griff is giving us an archery lesson,” Allison says. “He’s an expert.” She points to one of the targets, where three arrows surround the yellow bullseye.

“And here I thought he was teaching you how to knit a sweater.” I look at Simon. “Guess it’s just you and me,” I say. He hurries after me and we walk off the field, toward the paddocks to get the horses.

“I don’t care much for archery to begin with,” Simon says.

I glance at him. He’s shot up in the year since he was here last summer, and at some point, maybe, he’ll be attractive, but right now he looks like a gangly colt who is still trying to get used to his new body dimensions.

“It’s okay if you wanted to stay there,” I tell him.

“Nah. I’d rather take the horses out.” He jams his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Who is that guy, anyway?”

“Apparently someone who is good at everything,” I mumble. Simon looks at me quizzically. “I don’t know where he came from. He’s a friend of Allison’s.”

Simon snorts. “I’d say a little more than friends.”

I ignore the remark, though it slides under my skin like a splinter. “I didn’t realize he was a professional archer.”

“He said he learned in Scotland. One of his friends is part of the Royal Company of Archers.”

“Well, isn’t he well-traveled.”

“He is a pretty cool guy,” Simon says. “Or he seems that way. He seems like he’s good at a lot of things.”

“He’s arrogant. And he happens to be good-looking, and rich, apparently, so I guess that means he can get away with doing whatever he wants.”

Simon squints at me. “How do you know all that stuff about him?”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t, really. He’s just another handsome rich boy, and they’re all basically the same.”

“Okay,” he says after a minute. “I’m not rich,” he adds.

I shoot him a look. “Good. Stay that way.”

*

After Simon and I put the horses back out to pasture, I head back to my cabin to lie down for a bit before the afternoon activities. Allison is lounging in the hammock under the oak tree by my cabin, one leg hanging off the side. She sits up when she sees me.

“Hey,” she says. “I was wondering where you were. I have a really big favor to ask.”

I push my sunglasses up on top of my head. “And what might that be?”

“I was wondering if you would do the afternoon trail ride. It’s only with like six kids; the rest are going on a hike with Bill.”

“I just went for a ride.”

“Yeah, with Simon. You shouldn’t have gone if it was just going to be the two of you.”

“Maybe you should try not telling me what to do, considering you’re asking me for a favor and all.”

Allison smiles and gives me a sisterly look. “I’m just joking, Jill. Geez. It’s cute how much Simon likes you, actually. So will you do it? Do the trail ride? I was going to take Griff up to the city.” She leans toward me and says in a conspiratorial whisper, “Griff has a trust fund.”

I try to refrain from rolling my eyes. “That must make him so much more attractive.”

“Hello, are you blind? He doesn’t need anything to make him more attractive. He’s like the hottest guy I’ve ever seen.”

I let out a low whistle. “Well, then, that’s quite the honor.”

She narrows her eyes, as though she can’t decide whether that jab is an insult to her or not.

“You shouldn’t be jealous.”

I laugh. “I’m not.”

“Okay, sure. Well. Thanks for doing the trail ride. We might not be back until tomorrow, too.”

“I’ll be waiting with bated breath.” I go into my cabin and lie down, trying to stave off the headache I feel building behind my eyes.

The six kids that stick around for the trail ride are five girls, plus Simon. Instead of heading to the beach, I take them inland, over golden grass and through groves of cypress trees. The fog has pulled back and the day is bright, the sound of heat bugs fills the air. The horses kick up dust as they plod along. It is warm without being overly hot, the kids are chatting happily, and I should be enjoying myself but I’m not.

I can picture Allison zipping up Highway 1 in her sporty little red Honda Del Sol, Griffin in the passenger seat. The fact that this bothers me is bothering, and when Peaches, the palomino mare I’m riding, reaches out to grab a mouthful of leaves from a passing branch, I jab her with my heels harder than I meant and she skitters forward, ears pinned back.

“Sorry, girl,” I mumble, patting her neck and smoothing down a section of her cream-colored mane. I resolve to put the whole thing out of my mind. When that doesn’t prove possible, I resolve to not let it bother me. Is it that people like Allison always get what they want? Is it that I can see exactly the kind of summer Allison’s going to have, and the reason her summer is going to be so great is because Griffin has shown up, which therefore means my own summer—which I’d been counting on being as predictable as it’s always been—is now completely shot to shit.

But I shouldn’t let it get to me. I really shouldn’t.

That evening, we cook up the trout Bill and the campers caught that afternoon. I watch as all the campers clamor to sit near Griffin; they’re like a bunch of puppies.

“You shot a lion in Africa?” I hear one of them gasp.

“Wow, that’s so cool!”

“Was it scary?”

“What kind of gun did you use?”

He gamely tries to answer all their questions. I set my fork down.

“There is nothing even remotely cool about going on a hunting trip like that,” I say. “It’s disgusting.”

Everyone stops and looks at me.

“How is it any different from, say, deer hunting?” Allison asks sweetly.

“There is a huge difference between hunting for sport and hunting because you’re actually going to use what you kill. Hunting for sport like that is ridiculous and pathetic.”

“I wasn’t actually the one to shoot the lion,” Griffin says. “I was pretty young at the time.”

“People hunt for all sorts of reasons,” Bill says. He gives me a look. “We shouldn’t put down others just because we don’t happen to agree with everything they do.”

I’ve only eaten about half the food on my plate—and the trout really is good—but I stand up from the picnic table. “I’m going to get started on the mess in the kitchen,” I say, which mostly no one hears because they’ve all turned their attention back to Griffin. He gives me a curious look as I walk by and it’s all I can do not to dump my plate of food on his head.

In the kitchen, I busy myself wiping up fish scales and vegetable peelings. The sound of laughter comes in through the open window and I glance out to see Griffin telling some story, gesturing with his hands, everyone is cracking up.

I’m not exactly sure why I feel this much rage toward him. In a way, Allison does have a good point—it is good for the campers to have a younger male around, someone other than Bill. And clearly, Griffin is able to relate to the kids and they adore him. But it is not the way I envisioned this summer going. This is the one solace I had, dependable in its total predictability, and now that’s completely gone to hell.

I decide to clean the entire kitchen. While they’re out there eating dessert, I sweep and mop the floors, clean out the fridge, scrub the sink. It feels good to have something to pour all this energy into and I’m so focused on what I’m doing that I don’t realize he’s come into the kitchen until he clears his throat and says, “Hey.”

I stop scrubbing and brush my hair back from my face.