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Emma hated the outdoors. And the more people tried to convince her otherwise the more she hated it.
Substituting society’s hallucination of a sanctuary was a wasteland of shit and lies and shitty lies, apparently personalized as it tarnished her hair and skin and clothes specifically, and moreover was infuriatingly unpredictable; each flower veiling allergies with blooming radiance, each cloud pretending it wasn’t the storm’s harbinger, each parking lot a nightmarish minefield, each stop sign merely a suggestion.
The stares she received, however, were as predictable as the next full moon.
People always stared. Judging, envying, lusting; in the end she cared less about why they stared and more about making an impression. It enforced limitations and requirements on how she presented herself, enforced extra hours of preparation, because now her appearance wasn’t just for her—and she swiftly learned it never was. Not because anyone told her how to behave or what to wear, rather the shrill and all too familiar voice in the back of her head crowed if she didn’t inspire judgement, envy and lust then she must not be pretty.
She had to be pretty.
Suddenly her favourite clothes became snug pieces showing skin even though she used to love unisex shirts and oversized hoodies. Suddenly her makeup became impeccable and permanent, exaggerated features linked with her caricature, instead of creatively expressive. After the twisted ankle incident that absolutely never happened she refused heels unless inside, and thankfully she was tall enough to negate this deduction, but if her shoes didn’t compliment her carefully calculated outfit then what was the point?
It was exhausting being perceived by people who didn’t matter, who shouldn’t matter, and yet, like a masochistic addiction, it was for those very people she devoted herself physically and mentally.
This process became routine, so much she couldn’t tell if she actually preferred this upgraded version of herself or just submitted to the daily hypnotism, but outdoor catastrophes added annoying and frankly insulting complications. Dirt, salt, sand, anything and everything muddied her shoes, so now some pairs existed wholly to be righteously sacrificed before switching to the next. The rain and resulting humidity butchered her hair regardless of her generous maintenance, and ponytails became an essential safeguard against frizzy monstrosities. Anything beyond a gentle breeze had her on her knees in the lame way praying her hair wouldn’t whip against her face and ruin her lip gloss.
And, God, summer was the worst. No matter how little she wore it was disgustingly hot, and just five minutes in such blistering heat left her a sweaty, sticky mess, and the only thing she hated more than being seen like that was feeling like that. Each sweltering stroll prompted fantasies of diving into a lake, both to cool off and to hide, but the temporary relief wouldn’t dampen the precipitated problems, nor was it the shrewdest method of rinsing inevitable underboob stains.
If that wasn’t bad enough, the bugs. The bugs. They were everywhere, swarms of sentient tornadoes overtaking even the stares, and this contamination moulded into her new and improved personalized purgatory because despite being blessed with model height the mosquitoes and black flies and every other airborne hellspawn saw her as free real estate. With each rising bump marring her flawless (and it took so many products to make it this flawless) skin alongside each buzzing little asshole attempting to colonize her eyes she was one step closer to embodying a sentient tornado herself.
So why the fuck did she apply as a summer camp counsellor?
Attempting to challenge herself? Shift her perspective? A momentary lapse of her questionable sanity?
Nah, nothing so reforming. She knew why, she had many reasons why, and all were inherently selfish.
She liked kids, and kids tended to like her; she could play the role of reliable big sister—which, unlike the roles she played for everyone else, was fun. One she wished someone had played for her. Drama class was like her slice of paradise; it let her abandon Emma Mountebank, experiment with masks, star on stage by choice. She loved acting and costumes and props and sets, she loved everything constituting a performance, so not only would this position allow her to utilize her makeup skills and fashion sense beyond her binding perfectionism, she’d also make the kids happy which would make her happy, too, and maybe grant the illusion of freedom.
What certainly wasn’t an illusion was this freedom from her domineering yet perplexingly detached parents; from the whiplash of their critically unnerving stares aimlessly steering her towards therapy in the foreseeable future. Their leers either made her feel small or invisible. They were never comforting, never encouraging, never when she wanted, unsure if she wanted them at all, and no matter how hard she tried she knew they never liked what they saw.
And it took a long time to come to terms with how she’d never be good enough for them. She wasn’t pretty enough, wasn’t smart enough, wasn’t skilled enough. Starring in school plays, lifeguard certification, university acceptance; no accomplishment shredded their indifference. On good days she didn’t give a shit. On bad days she wondered how she could be such a fuck up that even her parents didn’t care to understand her.
With enough willpower bad days didn’t exist.
She knew they’d pay for her schooling (just because they could, not because they were proud) but this counsellor experience would enhance her resume and the payment offered a cushion, one that was silky and embroidered and hers, that she earned, that she could do whatever the hell she wanted with. And she was gonna fucking treat herself. Luxury spas called her name. A queen deserved nothing less.
Did the pros outweigh the excessively heavy and inescapable cons, though?
The heat and bugs and general filth weren’t even the worst of it. Not only did she have to spend two months sweating her ass off but Chris Hackett conveniently omitted from the job description that she had to do so without her phone, like this backwater ghost town was a portal to the previous century. She begrudgingly understood surrendering technology while supervising the kids, but she couldn’t even check her phone at night? How was watching cute dog videos when she couldn’t sleep hurting anyone? This was slander against every puppy she’d rather pet than be here.
The lack of YouTube was just the tip of this tyrannical iceberg. How was relaxing with music a crime? In fact, wouldn’t checking the forecast to prepare for rain be smart while camping? Along with researching injuries, worries, anything else to assist the kids? Christ, she couldn’t even take pictures. Like, what? What was the point of this picturesque landscape if she couldn’t take pictures?
She was gonna die of boredom and she couldn’t even complain about her wretched death to her Emmanation.
Then again, she noticed on the drive up here she had no bars, so even with access to her phone she couldn’t upload anything. The slightest anxiety bubbled in her gut at how her absence would devastate her following. Sure, after awhile the number of likes didn’t really matter, she stopped keeping track after the first few thousand, but she worked hard to build her community and didn’t want to lose it; didn’t want to lose something she created on her own; something that gave her the extra push to look pretty, tell stories, be the best version of herself.
She knew her most devoted would stay but the lack of content would drop her subscribers significantly. Two months, two weeks, two days, she may as well be dead, mauled and forsaken in the middle of nowhere. People needed constant content or they’d move on, attention spans as small as these annoying ass bugs, demanded explanations and apologies for dropping off the face of the Earth like she owed them her time. Such was the life of influencers. Which was bullshit, obviously. She shouldn’t owe anyone anything.
Yet she still devoured every stare.
But she shouldn’t dwell on things she had no control over. She definitely still would, like she’d still perform for everyone around her, but that’s where her backup storage of positive energy came in; if she was stuck in this dump for two months she’d better make the best of it.
The kids weren’t arriving until tomorrow so she and the other counsellors had the day to get their bearings and scope the place out. Apparently two dicks cancelled last minute—Emma was low-key jealous—so their duties were divided among the rest of them. Just another con to burden the list. But Mr. Hackett also said there weren’t gonna be as many kids this year, partially due to unfounded rumours and something else he stopped himself from revealing, and Emma loved juicy gossip too much to not decipher that puzzle before summer was over.
Because of the low attendance Emma was sharing a cabin with someone named Abigail, whom wasn’t gathered at the lodge with the other counsellors but according to them introduced herself at orientation (fashionable lateness was Emma’s style) and shuffled off to store her belongings a few hours back and simply never returned. If anyone was worried for her safety they would’ve gone after her and according to Mr. Hackett there weren’t any bears around here anyway, so bypassing immediate danger were the enigmatic loner vibes emanating from someone Emma never met but suddenly very much wanted to.
Despite her piqued curiosity she didn’t fancy sharing a room with someone unless the bed was also being shared, but maybe having a roomie to help supervise the kids in their cabin would be easier, unlike poor Kaitlyn who’d be flying solo since Laura rudely bailed. Emma was good with kids but they could still be a handful, especially when she’d basically be their mom for the summer.
That part was conveniently omitted from the job description, too.
C’est la vie. She quickly realized this job had silver linings beyond the money and freedom, though; the boys were attractive enough and Jacob hadn’t stopped staring at her since she arrived. A stare she recognized all too well. Maybe she would have some fun this summer.
She couldn’t divulge the appeal of that assurance, had to dangle the bait, so she only lingered in the group long enough to memorize names and faces and personalities, learn the best masks to don, before setting off towards her cabin with a slight swing in her hips for easily distracted eyes.
Her phantasmal roommate was absent but her bag was ripe for snooping and Emma resisted the urge—she was confident in her ability to read people, she didn’t need to resort to cheap tactics—instead claiming the opposite bed that proved its promised outback shittiness with loose springs and thin sheets that better be washed or she was gonna sue somebody.
The unfamiliar moment alone soothed her spike of disgust. No stares, no expectations, just a wave of calm, but there was nothing interesting in this rickety old cabin and without her phone she was already bored. She really didn’t have any other hobbies, did she? Even then the boredom was more inviting than venturing into the gross ass woods until a spider decided her shoe was a climbing post. A flail of limbs and an assertive squish later, graceless panic thankfully unnoticed, and she was already reaching for her sunscreen and bug spray as much as she loathed the smell of both.
Getting used to the trails while daylight persisted would be smart. Going alone probably wasn’t. But she was too bored to consider that rationality longer than a second. The camp grounds weren’t massive so she wouldn’t get lost, right?
She was a city girl. Of course she got lost.
Relying on an actual map of Hackett’s Quarry rather than her phone’s GPS aged her fifty years and was useless aside from the occasional identifiable sign on the trails. Really, though, who used maps anymore? Did anyone from her generation know how to read one? Who fucking needed to when technology was a thing? Phones had trackers. Audio cues. Rotational screens. This just had creases and coffee stains.
Through those obstacles she spied the only aspiring bud in this weed infested jungle; the island, a secluded paradise just begging for intimate endeavours. She was sure it wouldn’t take much convincing to lure Jacob out there for a temporary fix. Not too often, though. Enough to keep him interested but not so much he’d think she was interested beyond sex. Commitment wasn’t her calling. She refused to settle like her parents and wasn’t shy with her resolve, so hopefully Jacob and whoever else she hooked up with this summer were on the same page.
But that was a worry for another day. Right now it was finding out where the fuck she was.
Twigs snapped beneath leaden footsteps affirming her growing frustration. Olympian height was a godsend anytime but now, often ducking to avoid amiability with impudent branches protruding like nature’s swords. The shade subsided under the golden hour shimmering through the canopy of woodland, an unfeasible view from the city she’d love to show her followers but having her phone confiscated like a grounded child squandered the sight on her alone.
At least, that’s what she thought.
She winced and blocked her eyes with her hand from a particularly harsh beam. After lowering she spotted someone in the distance perched on a log, a girl, with details crystallizing the closer she walked.
Her back was turned so all Emma perceived was the red ombré hair sweeping along her faded black T-shirt, the periodic dips of her head catching the light like a flickering candle. The missing enhancement to this luminescence was a framing of autumn leaves; swathes of scarlet blending amongst crisp hues of orange. Emma’s imagination lacked, needed substance, and for the umpteenth time craved her phone like a drug. Nestled by the girl’s hip was a small black backpack adorned with bat wings more suited for the clearance bin at Hot Topic than hiking in the woods. A vamp channelling Halloween in the middle of summer, brazen whether intentional or not, and the stark contrast just intrigued Emma further.
She’d never seen her before, would’ve remembered, and meeting the other counsellors concluded this baby goth must be Abigail. Unless some weirdo randomly snuck onto the grounds to vibe with the local wildlife, but being situated at the edge of the world and a left turn away from the Stone Age impaired that creepy-yet-spicy scenario.
And now Emma was handed a choice, the polite of which would be to fuck off and pitifully retrace her steps back to the lodge. Odds were if Abigail was out here alone, had dodged the others for hours, she didn’t want to be disturbed.
But what was Emma if not dramatic?
She cupped around her mouth and called, “Did you find what you were looking for?”
Midway through the girl gasped, jumping and spinning with an arc of dirt and dust, nearly losing her footing—
And Emma nearly lost hers, too, nearly recreated the nonexistent twisted ankle incident when her delusive heart skipped a beat. She wasn’t sure what she expected.
She didn’t expect this girl to be so fucking cute.
She was as tiny as Kaitlyn but Kaitlyn carried herself with unbreakable confidence, adding invisible inches and muscles bulkier than Jacob’s, while this girl collapsed on herself like a newborn fawn; like she wished all her inches were invisible, clutching a book to her chest like she could disappear inside it. Almost funny considering the dyed hair, tattoo and alternative fashion were deliberate and pronounced statements, often intent on attracting eyes than avoiding them. Emma put so much work into commanding attention; why would this girl work similarly just to hide away?
Did she seek the stage or not?
Stop, no, this wasn’t preparation for a play. This wasn’t some narcissistic projection. This was a person. A person who looked a bit scared of her, and priority number one was to fix that.
“Easy there, Bambi,” Emma pacified during her leisure approach, palms raised. “A bit jumpy, huh? Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”
Right. What else did she think a shout from behind in the woods would accomplish? Maybe she wasn’t just dumb for show.
“It’s... it’s okay,” Bambi mumbled—wait, no, fuck, not Bambi. Not Hot Topic, not Baby Goth, Abigail. Emma had to shake her bad habit of assigning aliases when people-watching. It wasn’t bad in general, good improv practice actually, but became bad once conversing with someone whose history she drafted in her head was more interesting than the truth.
Abigail said nothing more, shifting her weight back and forth, red waves partially concealing her downward gaze. Her shyness was immensely endearing and vitalized every protective cell in Emma’s body, doubly so since she was the origin, yet sparked uselessly between her fingertips with no one to tell to eat shit or make eat shit. Protecting someone from herself was a war valiantly fought but unequipped to win.
“Is it?” Emma prodded. “We could try that again with me being less loud. Though,” she chuckled, “usually people want the opposite.”
Abigail’s tentative gaze lasted as long as Emma’s worst fuck before flicking away again, like Emma was the blinding sun spearing the trees. It was an unfamiliar sensation; someone trying not to stare at her, or, better yet, found it easier not to, and she wasn’t sure how to react to that. How she should react to that. Couldn’t renew stares that never left, but in this case they did. The joke wasn’t that bad, was it?
It was the subtle step backwards that clued Emma to the crossing of the sheepish border into anxiety territory. That messy knot wasn’t hard to unravel with Abigail discreetly hunting an escape route rather than just dipping; definitely worried she’d seem like an asshole. They’d known each other all of ten seconds so it probably wasn’t personal. Well, it could’ve been, many girls hated her mere existence, but Abigail looked like she’d sooner vanish into smoke than kindle something as vile as hatred, especially for a stranger. Maybe she just wasn’t good with people. Why would she become a camp counsellor if she wasn’t good with people?
Not like Emma had any right to question that. She came here hating the outdoors, and where would she be spending the majority of her precious time? Outdoors.
So Abigail’s reasoning didn’t matter, not until she decided to share. All that mattered now was quelling Abigail’s anxiety, a technique self-taught once Emma understood how much she disliked seeing people upset. Quite the opposite; she enjoyed seeing people laugh. Making them laugh. So much she acted dumb sometimes to do so, a constant hit even with her hate-followers. Combining that goal with an introduction would probably be a solid recovery.
“Yeah, uh huh, let’s do a take two. And—action!” Emma mimed the snap of a clapperboard. “Hi! I’m Emma,” she greeted, finally snaring Abigail’s attention, realization shining in those sunlight honeyed brown eyes that they’d be bunkmates. “You’re Abigail, yeah? Unless I got the wrong person.” She sucked her teeth, staging a grimace. “That’d be totes embarrassing.”
“No embarrassment necessary,” Abigail reassured, cadence still mousy but steadier having learned Emma’s name. “You got it right.”
“Hell yeah I did.” Emma planted her hands on her hips, lips curling in a playful grin. “I’m always right.”
There we go, there’s a little giggle. Mission accomplished. And obviously the only reason Emma’s heartbeat sped up was because she was happy she successfully made someone laugh. Had nothing to do with how adorable the laugh was or how soon she wanted to hear it again.
Obviously.
“You can call me Abi, though.” Abigail’s budding smile withered, disrupted by mild panic, hastily spewing amidst stutters, “If—I mean—if you want.”
“Oooh, nickname privileges already? I’m flattered.” Emma’s grin only grew and she leaned closer. “You sweet on Kaitlyn too or just me?”
Emma had yet to spot a deer roaming these woods but Abi resembled one caught in headlights just then, wide-eyed and frozen aside from gripping her book to her chest like a shield. “Uh—”
“Kidding!” Emma chirped with a nonchalant wave. “Chill, girl. It’s okay.” She softened her tone, refusing a repeat of earlier for both their sakes, “Abi suits you.”
And it did, this tailored statement as unapologetically fitting as the physical ones, permanently inked to Emma’s tongue like the flora decorating Abi’s arm. Already she couldn’t fathom calling her Abigail again. Way too formal, like they rotted in an air-conditioned office instead of the hot ass boonies. Abi from now on. Abigail was for losers who haven’t made her laugh.
The genuine reveal seemed to help Abi relax, hunched shoulders losing some tension. “Thanks, I guess. Emma... suits... you,” she returned awkwardly, struggling through each word, with an equally awkward sweep of her arm in Emma’s direction.
God, what a cutie. Like, unfairly cute. And, the best part, Abi clearly wasn’t trying to be. She was just trying to adapt. People who tried their best always eclipsed those who tried too hard. And Emma, ever the mask collector, ever the one who tried too hard, could always spot the difference.
“Most days,” Emma confirmed, if anything just to keep the conversation flowing. “If not I just choose a different name.”
Abi’s brow creased in confusion. “Would you... rather me call you something else?”
An abundance of innuendos sprung to mind but if she voiced any of them she’d no doubt scare Abi away. And it was sweet Abi offered even if she didn’t realize what exactly she was offering. Maybe later Emma would share all the other names she’d gone by in the past, bedroom and stage, characters she preferred over herself, but she wasn’t those characters right now.
“Today’s an Emma day,” she said, like Abi would have any idea what she was talking about. Quieter, more to herself, “Those are the best days.”
Abi didn’t look any less confused, eyes flitting back and forth in a futile attempt to unwind Emma’s rich tapestry of riddles, but instead of inquiring further she asked, “What did you mean by ‘did I find what I was looking for’?”
“Oh, that. More stylish than a ‘hey,’ right?” Emma shrugged, suppressing a cringe as her shirt clung to her sweaty shoulder blades. “Didn’t know if you were actually looking for anything, just figured you must’ve ventured this far for some reason.”
Abi seemed to mull that over for a moment. “That’s... fair, I guess,” and the amount the words didn’t match the tone would’ve been the perfect excuse to end this strained conversation, this clash of discordant personalities undoubtedly doomed in high school society. But they weren’t in high school anymore and Emma was too stubborn to let it die.
“So what were you doing?” Emma asked. “Before I so rudely interrupted you, I mean. Again, my B.”
“Ah, I-I don’t mind!” Abi motioned to the book that surprisingly wasn’t surgically attached to her chest. “I was just drawing.”
“Oh yeah? Can I see?” Those shoulders started hunching again so Emma verified, “Only if you’re okay showing me, obviously. I get the appeal of privacy.” A keen grin tugged her lips. “Just adds to the mysteries we counsellors get to spend two months figuring out about each other.”
Abi clutched her elbow, clearly unenthused by that implication. “I’m not much of a mystery.”
She wasn’t wrong. All it took was ten seconds and Emma was pretty sure she had this girl entirely figured out. The clothes, the hair, the mannerisms, the drawing alone in the woods. But she trimmed that train of thought before travelling too far. Assuming wasn’t cool. She’d matured past that early high school captious nonsense. She was still a bitch but a bitch with class.
Emma sat on the log, hoping her reduced height would similarly reduce her unintentional intimidation. “So you’ll show me?”
Abi hesitated, like she’d regretted showing someone before. “You won’t laugh?”
Emma tilted her head. “Were you gonna show me something funny?”
Abi opened her mouth and promptly closed it, damming whatever self-deprecation was going to spill from her mouth. She stood in silence for a long time, long enough Emma would’ve suspected she turned to stone if not for the breeze billowing her scarlet locks like incandescent ribbons—Emma’s fingers twitched for her phone and the absence ached like a phantom limb—but after a heavy sigh Abi sat beside her and offered her sketchbook.
“Thanks,” Emma said, accepting it gingerly, trying to show she’d handle her possession with care. She vividly recalled when some nameless and irrelevant and really tiny dick in tenth grade impatiently tore the buttons from her favourite shirt. After blue-balling him and making his eyes resemble the fucked up mom from Coraline she swore she’d never disrespect someone’s belongings like that. She also swore she’d never wear button-up shirts again but maybe she’d crush that oath if someone treated the buttons as gently as she’d treat this sketchbook.
She already prepared a compliment no matter what she was about to see. It’s what she always had to say when someone requested feedback regardless of their actual skill—people pleasing was a full-time job with endless overtime—and the trick of the trade was knowing they didn’t actually want feedback. They wanted validation. Wanted the underside of their ego stroked until their leg was thumping the floor, staring at her like her candied lips delivered the world. She’d refined every wow this is so cool and I’ve never seen anything like this to pristine faux authenticity, fooling teachers and professionals and pretentious flings, so this wouldn’t—
Wait.
She blinked, peering closer.
Holy shit. Holy. Shit.
Emma glanced up to the view, down to the virtually identical replica, back up, incessantly repeating the cycle. Every interval she thought the drawing would evaporate, some benevolent hallucination she’d crafted to spare Abi’s feelings, yet there it remained, more striking than any photo she’d envisioned snapping today.
Fuck the superficial compliment. This was actually good. Like, really good. Belonged in galleries, locked behind a paywall, wanted to gush about to her Emmanation level good.
And she had an inkling Abi didn’t know how good she was.
“Abi,” she breathed after finding her voice, eyes glued to the page, “this is fucking stunning.”
“This?” Abi squeaked incredulously, pink filling her cheeks. “Nah, it’s whatever—”
“Nah, it ain’t whatever. It’s anything you want it to be. And this?” Emma waved the sketchbook around like Abi somehow hadn’t gotten a clear look. “Stunning.”
“But—”
“Hey now,” Emma frowned and raised a chiding finger, “what did we agree on earlier?”
“Uh.” Abi chuckled nervously, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I don’t know.”
“That I’m always right. And since I’m always right that can only mean one extremely important thing. Like, breaking news important.” Emma held the expert drawing next to her face, a flawless comparison of artistic genius, and gave it a little shake. “Stunning.”
The laugh she earned failed to reach Abi’s eyes. “I, um, didn’t agree necessarily—”
“Oh, so, you don’t think this art you poured your heart and soul into is stunning?”
“I...” Abi swallowed, flustered, wiping her palms on her shorts. “I mean. I’m happy you think so.”
But she didn’t think so, did she?
Emma studied her, how Abi couldn’t abide in her spurred silence longer than a few seconds before fiddling with her rings, then conclusively clicked her tongue. “You’re not used to compliments, are you?”
Abi’s chin angled to her wringing hands. “Not really.”
“Well that’s gonna change, being friends with me and all.”
Abi’s head snapped to her in an instant, a rainbow of shock and bewilderment painting her expression. “Friends?” she parroted, slow and unsure like the word was foreign.
“Duh,” Emma quipped, paying little mind until realizing what was obvious to her maybe wasn’t to Abi. “Yeah, okay, we just met,” she motioned between them, “but we’re gonna be working and living together the next few months. Why deny the inevitable?”
Abi seemed to consider that for a moment, then frowned, blush draining from her face. “You think us being friends is fated?”
Emma’s readied reply crumbled at Abi’s tone, a dubiously dispirited firmness barricading that flimsy mass of nerves, like she objected Emma’s suggestion. Emma wasn’t sure what triggered this staggering deviation. Maybe Abi just didn’t want to be friends with her. Wouldn’t be the first time Emma came on too strong. Wouldn’t be the first time someone told her she couldn’t make or keep friends. The hurt was new, though, the tiniest pin wedged in her gut, just agitating enough she couldn’t brush it off like usual.
But the pin withdrew without a scar upon realizing it wasn’t the prospect of friendship that bothered Abi. Not entirely, anyway. Not if Emma altered her approach. Not if she wedged the pin in her mask instead.
“No, not fated. It’d be pretty boring if everything slid into place with no effort, right?” Emma chuckled dryly; boring and unviable. “Where’s the reward in that? Not that you’re a prize to be won, and neither am I,” she added quickly, all too aware how many people acted like she came bundled with a festive bow and trophy polish. She was too valuable for anyone’s chump change anyway, not to mention how pitiful they looked throwing it around. People who didn’t bet were always more fascinating than those who did; less desperate, more reserved, resolve like steel. Something mattered so much to them they refused to risk losing it. Their devotion was stronger than any temptation.
And Abi didn’t seem like the gambling type, not even concerning homely rock-paper-scissors matches over who bought midnight takeout; she’d gladly pay her half than risk paying it all. Emma was the gambling type but only when victory was assured, so could that really be considered gambling? And the winnings didn’t have to be huge or extravagant or evident to anyone else. In fact, sometimes it was what no one suspected. It was whatever she’d set her eyes on.
Abi wasn’t a prize, but with blazing hair reflecting the sunset, with doe eyes emitting solemn emotion, with a wind chime laugh already committed to memory, Emma hadn’t been able to look away.
She was used to stares.
She wasn’t used to staring.
“But being your friend is something I want,” Emma continued, like that subdued sentence even remotely conveyed her musings. “And I always get what I want. Assuming...” she buried the closet urge to gnaw her lip, “you want that, too?”
Wow, whose voice was that? Couldn’t be hers. She never permitted such timidity outside her head—not unless it could be twisted to her advantage. And that wasn’t the case here. No twist and no advantage. Just the splintered glass of her confident image. That’s what the littlest pin in her mask caused, huh? What if the cracks expanded? What if Abi, like everyone else, didn’t like the person underneath?
She crumpled that intrusive thought like any need for her parents’ approval; tore it to pieces for the wind to dispel. No assumptions, that’s what she promised. It wasn’t Abi’s fault she relied on masks, nor Abi’s responsibility to remove them. Emma had to learn to trust in vulnerability; a journey she lacked the endurance to swim, too deep a dive and she’d drown, but maybe this was an admirable first step into foamy shallows.
She wouldn’t force the friendship if Abi wasn’t interested. It’d be awkward bunking with someone who wanted nothing to do with her but some people simply weren’t compatible, and she and Abi were clearly very different people. But she wanted to discover how different. If they had anything in common. If they could enjoy each other’s presence regardless. If tense silences could become comfortable. If careful jokes could become playful insults. If sitting alone in the middle of nowhere was something they’d choose to do a second time.
If, instead of popularity boosts or tumbles behind the bleachers, someone just wanted to talk with her a second time.
Abi looked unsure how to answer, the shadows lingering at her brow no longer disapproving, merely skeptical, eyes darting every crevice of Emma’s face as if scavenging for signs of deception—and Emma couldn’t blame her; deception was her whole deal. Try as Abi might, though, she wouldn’t find any presently. And she definitely kept trying. Like she couldn’t quite comprehend what she’d been told. Like her opinion taking priority was incomprehensible. Like this was the last thing she expected to happen to her today.
And, well, Emma agreed. Maybe that’s why she took such a bona fide gamble on her; potentially sacrificed victory so Abi could play it safe.
Abi took her time, like she’d never made a decision before in her life. Christ, maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she was waiting for Emma to make the decision for her but not a chance in hell was that happening. Maybe a different day Emma would hurry things along. A different situation.
Not this.
Abi ducking her head was the first sign. Then the nibble at her lip, the blush, the smile, each rearing Emma’s heart higher in her throat. “Yeah,” Abi murmured, nodding to herself. “Yeah,” she repeated, louder, to Emma this time, but Emma almost didn’t hear with the abrupt thundering in her ears. “I’d...” Abi’s brightening smile banished every shadow. “I’d like that.”
Faking smiles was one of Emma’s many talents. A talent of daily reliance. A talent that carried her past high school, city streets, her own reflection. A talent that three pretty words fashioned completely obsolete, surrendering to the anomalously gentle pull of her mouth; how easy it was to maintain; how, instead of constantly focusing on sustaining the smile, seeing Abi’s was enough.
Each second mirroring Abi eased the disregarded stiffness in Emma’s shoulders, the abatement of her heartbeat unclogging her senses to the distant birds and ruffling greenery once again. “To new friends,” she lauded, raising her hand for a high five which Abi cordially met. And the contact lasted longer than a typical high five; long enough Emma absorbed the warmth of Abi’s palm, recognized it was soothing compared to this oppressive slap of summer heat, and that the slightest adjustment could interlock their fingers.
It would be effortless, warmer than a high five, and the nagging voice in the back of her head that often dissuaded her from gambling was oddly muffled in a moment of quiet serenity. Like she said, she always got what she wanted. And Abi hadn’t dropped her hand so maybe she kinda wanted Emma to do it, too. With victory assured, why wouldn’t she gamble?
Simple.
Because it’d be so much more fun if Abi overcame her indecisiveness and gambled instead.
That anticipation was why Emma pulled away. No other reason. There was also no other reason looking at Abi suddenly became difficult other than the buttery sunbeam spilling over Abi’s shoulder like some divine intimation, so just to avoid going blind Emma peered down to the sketchbook in her lap.
Abi’s art truly was stunning; the shading, the outlining, the care in each stroke, like she’d somehow uprooted the trees and flattened them into miniature penciled pancakes. Not somehow; years and years of tangible refinement, probably since childhood. No doubt this book was bursting with similar masterpieces and Emma stifled the urge to flip the pages. After all, she’d crack someone’s nose if they scrolled through her nudes when she only gave permission for her selfies. This picture was more than enthralling enough, detecting more details the longer she looked.
Most incredible was how it transformed the outdoors into something tolerable. Fuck, maybe Emma would actually like going outside if it was remotely like this. No heat, no dirt, no bugs, just a wonderful, quiet view. But reality wasn’t so kind and this drawing was all she had.
All she had for now.
This wasn’t even halfway through the book so Abi had many blank pages to fill. Two months worth. Two months of sunrises and sunsets, of dinners in the lodge, of campfires by the lake, of exploring every nook and cranny of the island. How many more would Emma be present for? How many times would she be a positive memory attached to something radiant?
She’d be remembered, wouldn’t she? Of course she would. It wasn’t the stage people remembered, but the star.
But maybe Abi only stared at the stage.
“So,” in a smooth motion Emma folded one leg over the other, corners of her lips hooking when Abi’s gaze fell for a split second to watch—soaring with an accompanying jolt when Emma extended the sketchbook to her. “Tell me, new friend. Do you just draw scenery?”
Abi hurriedly accepted, tension fading from her posture upon gripping the sketchbook to her chest again. “People, too,” she clarified with a shake of her head. “Whatever I can see, really. I like to get at least a little bit on the page so I can flesh it out later and—oh, sorry, I’m rambling.” Abi tucked some wavy strands behind her ear with shaky fingers, curling in on herself. “F-forget it, it’s not important.”
It definitely was important and Emma had a feeling other people spat the exact opposite. Didn’t listen, talked over her, said they didn’t care, that her skills wouldn’t amount to anything, pointless unless she made bank, pushing Abi down until she believed sharing her happiness would burden them. They said the same things Emma’s parents said to her.
Fuck those people.
“No, no, please go on,” Emma insisted, shifting to fully face her. Softly, meaningfully, “I’d love to hear it.”
And she wasn’t just saying that. She loved learning about people’s passions. What made their eyes light up, made them smile, vanquished their despair. It was different for everyone but everyone had something. Something that kept them afloat in a world that demanded everyone be different.
Emma liked helping. Offering support and laughter and confidence. Patching the tears in other people’s rafts helped her forget hers was sinking.
“Well...” Abi swallowed, eyes darting around cautiously like she was about to commit a crime. It’d be cute if it wasn’t sad. “Art can—it can never be exact, right? Fifty people could sit here and draw this same view and you’d get fifty entirely different pictures.” Abi’s eyes flashed with an apparent epiphany and pointed to a tree in her drawing. “Right here. What do you see?”
“Uh.” Was that a trick question? Abi seemed too earnest for such surreptitious sarcasm. “A tree?”
Christ, that sounded so dumb— which Emma was used to acting but not actually being in front of someone—but Abi didn’t look remotely disappointed in her answer. “Okay,” Abi said with an approving nod. “You just see a tree, and that’s great. An arborist might see the exact type of tree. An animal lover might see a squirrel’s home. A kid might see a place to hide. A daredevil might see an obstacle course. In the end it’s just a tree, but that tree is different for everyone.”
Huh.
Emma never thought she’d relate to a tree yet here she was relating to a fucking tree.
“Ah—anyway,” Abi shook her head with a grimace, “my point is that’s especially important for art, writing, anything creative, since everyone interprets things differently. Experience is subjective and by sketching the structure now I can add my own flair to it later. That way I don’t have to rush to understand how I feel about it, it just happens naturally, and because of that it doesn’t necessarily have to match up to the real thing. It becomes something of its own—how I see it. Drawing lets me convey how I see the world in my head and make it real. Even if...” Abi bit her lip, voice lowering to a murmur, “Even if it’s only real to me.”
That was the most Abi had spoken and more than Emma expected she could in one go. Normally Emma lost her will to live when someone prattled on longer than five seconds ‘cause they were so fucking conceited and keen on impressing her they forgot they weren’t interesting. But Abi wasn’t conceited or trying to impress her so, even though she didn’t fully understand, she found she wouldn’t have minded if Abi kept going. How could she possibly mind when Abi was so passionate? When that passion was so pure, honey from the source, undiluted richness dripping from her gaze and tone and demeanour, soaking Emma in her subjective experience of sweet, genuine joy.
She couldn’t help but wonder how Abi saw her. How she’d translate into that sketchbook. If Abi could make her real.
“Maybe you could draw me sometime?”
A second too late Emma registered how insensitive that was, wincing. “Let’s press rewind on that. Probably got annoying after the first ten times, huh?”
It must’ve been, so Emma was surprised by Abi’s enthusiastic, “No, I’d love to! As long as you don’t mind me staring at you for awhile.” Abi’s elated smile collapsed and her cheeks bloomed an enthralling shade of pink, mouth opening and closing several times before she managed, “I—no, wait, that came out wrong. I meant—”
“Oh, please, stare at me all you want.” Emma bent into an exaggerated pose, chest thrust forward and hand behind her head, lips curved in a teasing smirk. “Who could blame you for admiring such beauty?”
And Emma expected her esteemed display of humility to earn a scoff or an eye roll. Maybe a nervous chuckle. Maybe nothing at all. Instead—
“You are.”
Emma blinked. “What?”
Based on Abi’s wide eyes and ghostly complexion she hadn’t meant to say that out loud. She stumbled for a few seconds until a, “Nothing,” squeaked free and her gaze plummeted, clutching her sketchbook tighter. “Never mind.”
Like Emma was gonna let this go. “No, no, tell me,” she insisted gently.
“It’s whatever. You probably—you probably hear it all the time.”
“Well maybe I wanna hear it again. C’mon,” Emma whined, nudging a little closer, “don’t leave me in suspense!”
Abi looked like she was debating every choice that led her up to this point, all the way from her conception to becoming a camp counsellor. Her eyes darted around as if hunting escape routes again, though Emma wouldn’t let her run from this; she wanted Abi to find her voice, use it, understand that she could, that her voice carried weight—and Emma always got what she wanted.
Finally Abi took a deep breath, eyes golden from the sun peering up at Emma through her eyelashes.
“Beautiful.”
No weight, light as a feather, and for the second time that day Emma’s heart skipped a beat.
It was how Abi said it, the soft word like a kaleidoscopic breeze enriching everything nearby into immaculate radiance. Like a spell ensuring everything around her became as beautiful as she envisioned. And maybe that’s exactly what happened because Emma never felt more beautiful than right now, sweat down her back and dirt on her shoes and visible only to one person.
It was obvious Abi wasn’t referring to her clothes, makeup or body. It wasn’t said to persuade or gain her favour. It was said like it was the mere truth. Like this was how Abi perceived her. Like if Emma somehow didn’t believe it, Abi would make it real.
She did believe it, of course. She put too much work into herself to not be hot.
Maybe out here she didn’t need to work so hard.
“I mean,” Abi blubbered, losing all sense of calm, “just, your—your face, you know. Your cheekbones and your jaw line and your... your lips... ah, t-they really capture light and shadow. Lots of defining contours. Great for art. And photos! Very photogenic. Beautiful. Um. Yeah.” Abi’s shoulders paralleled her red ears. Beyond the shroud of equally red hair came a faint, “You probably knew that.”
Emma also knew she couldn’t stop smiling, biting the inside of her cheek both to contain her bubbling laughter and to distract from the flutter low in her stomach.
“I did,” she relented. “But I’ve never heard it from you, so thanks. You are, too.”
“What?” Abi’s cheeks glowed impossibly brighter, firmly shaking her head. “No, no, I’m really—I’m really not.”
“Ah, ah, ah!” Emma wagged a chiding finger then jabbed at her chest. “Always right, remember?”
“I mean, you can’t—you’ve gotta be wrong sometimes.”
“Nope.” She popped the last syllable. “Never.”
“Never?”
“Never. Especially not now. Trust me, get used to my compliments.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“Too bad; they ain’t stopping anytime soon. On autoplay by default.”
Abi seemed to contemplate that for a moment, nibbling her lip. “Are you?” Emma cocked her head for an elaboration. “Used to compliments?”
“I can’t get enough,” Emma chuckled. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
An amused and highly adorable snort and Abi’s tight posture relaxed, abandoning the anxious assault on her swelling lip. “So you fish for them.”
Emma idly twirled wisps of her ponytail around her finger. “Not like I need to.”
Liar.
Maybe she didn’t fish for them with words but the effort put into her looks told a drastically different tale of a prima donna who didn’t—couldn’t—exit the stage. She made people see what she wanted them to see, and damn right they’d see her lip gloss and lashes and incredible outfits. They’d acknowledge her effort even if their acknowledgement was never kind. She knew they’d never care about getting to know her, of remembering her name, hearing her dreams, learning that laughter was her favourite sound, but if she was pretty enough she’d still leave an impact.
She hated needing such validation. Wished she didn’t. But validation of others had been rendered low priority. At least for now. Abi, hushed as a mouse, had called her beautiful, a benevolent whisper ravished by the roots of the forest, yet it rung in Emma’s mind like the roar of a bear.
Turned out she was pretty enough to leave an impact, but she never expected that impact would be on herself.
“Well, I’m afraid I’m not the best with quick compliments, but I can do quick drawings,” Abi said, raising her sketchbook like a compromise. “If you, uh, still wanted me to draw you?” Her conviction quieted to a meek question, but Emma was discovering that Abi’s quietness echoed the loudest.
“Hell yes!” Emma cheered, hopping from the log. “I was born for vintage pinups.” She sauntered over to the nearby fence, elbows bracing the post in an enticing slouch. “Make sure to get my good side.”
“Let me guess,” Abi flipped to a fresh page with a surprisingly coy smile, “that’s every side?”
Emma grinned, ignoring the flip of her stomach. “What happened to not being the best with quick compliments?”
“I’m not the best,” Abi stated with a shrug, peering up through her eyelashes. “Maybe average.”
That retort was as impressive as a perfectly shot arrow, steady nock and supersonic release, and Emma had to lean heavier on the fence to avoid her mask chipping into dust. The whoosh by her ear left her momentarily dizzy—yet the dizziness wasn’t bad, weirdly pleasant, and rather than forcing it down simply let it ease into a sense of pride. “Knew there was a little firecracker in you. And yes, by the way,” she performed an elegant spin before resting on the fence again, offering a wink. “Every side.”
Despite Abi’s fleetingly clever quips Emma’s were poised and infinite, sturdy through experience, the pink in Abi’s cheeks visible even with this distance and lingered long after pencil met paper in gentle scratches. Abi stuck her tongue out in concentration and God that was way too cute, eyes flicking between Emma and her sketchbook. “Hmmm, okay, could you angle your head a little more—oh.” A slightly disappointed intonation. “It’s getting dark.”
Emma glanced over her shoulder and, as implied, the sun slipped beyond the horizon. Damn, had they really been out here that long? Didn’t feel that long. She wouldn’t miss the sun’s heat but she would miss its shield against the approaching grey blanket with godforsaken mosquitoes swarming every seam.
Sure enough, a moment later Abi swiped at her arm with a hiss. “Like an idiot I forgot my bug spray at home.”
Emma winced in sympathy; she hated the shit but, in these conditions, would hate lacking it even more. “Mr. H must have extra but you’d probably get eaten alive before he found it.”
Abi smacked another demon with a frustrated scowl. “Not a fan of that.”
“Same, would immediately unsubscribe. Don’t worry; you can borrow mine later,” Emma said, raising her chin and smirking. “So long as you draw me tomorrow, since I was so unfairly robbed of it today.”
“Just tomorrow?” Abi replied with a small frown, hinting disenchantment. “There’s lots of room in my sketchbook.” That frown smoothly melted into a shy smile, thumb tracing the skeletons of her art. “Don’t think I can fill it out just tomorrow.”
The thrill electrifying her nerves, up and down in an endless shower of sparks, was like when she first achieved a lead role. The relief and fulfillment of learning her talents weren’t just good enough, but the best, and if no one else appreciated that then she fucking would. She earned the most lines, the most costumes, the most time. Everyone would pay the most attention to her. Everyone would stare the longest at her.
And Abi was so right. Just tomorrow? Not nearly long enough to appreciate a star. A play needed more than one showing or it couldn’t grow an audience. Several showings, different times, different venues, all to gather the grandest amount of people. So that the ones who really liked her could see her again. Even if she looked the same, sounded the same, they’d do anything to see her again.
But the strongest thrill, the lit dynamite warming her chest in the absence of the sun, ignited from the spec of red amid green clutching a match disguised as a sketchbook; from a pair of recognizable eyes among faceless shadows; from knowing this short period of time was enough that Abi wanted a front row ticket to every show.
“That’s a pin-worthy comment if I’ve ever heard one,” she remarked easily, as those were tattooed to her tongue while that mess was splotches of ink in her head. “Y’know what? Just for that,” with long strides Emma moved next to her and stood at full height, spine straight and hands haughtily on her hips, “I’ll be your temporary bug repellent.”
Despite the mirth crinkling Abi’s eyes she looked more grateful than anything. “Who knew having a tall friend would be so useful?”
“I have many uses.” Emma had a feeling that innuendo would be lost on someone this innocent.
“I’ve heard rumours you can even reach the top shelf.”
Yep, lost to the void, but she could work with this, too. Playful banter was always fun, especially since it definitely wasn’t feasible twenty minutes ago. “Rumours were right, for once. Made that top my bitch. Sure you can’t wait to see that in action.”
“Oh yeah,” Abi giggled, packing up her sketchbook. “Gonna be some crazy dishwashing sessions at the lodge.”
“Speaking of that time machine to the ‘80s—and getting away from these fucking pests.” Emma clawed at a mosquito trying to skydive into her eye. “God, they’re so obsessed with me.” She barely contained a shiver of disgust. “Anyways. Wanna walk back together? I already got lost once and I’d rather not be again.”
Abi tossed her an amused and bewildered look, slipping her arms through the straps of her minuscule Carmilla-like backpack. Fuck, that would’ve been a much better nickname than Baby Goth. Why did the best ideas always spawn too late? Though, if anything, Emma would’ve been playing Carmilla, and all of a sudden she craved a script for a stage adaptation. Obviously she couldn’t work on this with the kids, but who said her theatre teachings this summer had to be limited to them?
How much would she have to beg for Abi to take part?
“I’m just as new to this place as you,” Abi informed, shaking Emma from her mind-blowing reverie.
“Point. But,” she emphasized at Abi’s unconvinced leer, “you were comfortable enough coming out here alone.”
“So were you.”
“‘Comfortable’ is stretching it.”
“I just followed the map. Didn’t you?”
“You can read those things?”
“Of course I—” Abi cut herself off. Emma didn’t think Abi was capable of looking smug but there was no other way to describe her lifted expression. “So you can be wrong.”
Emma gave an exaggerated gasp. “Excuse you. Being wrong and not knowing how to do something are completely different.”
“I dunno,” Abi disputed with a flippant grimace, lips insistent on upturning, “going this deep into something you don’t know how to do edges towards wrong in my opinion.”
Emma plastered a sardonic smile. “I don’t recall asking.”
That emerged sharper than intended and she almost took the words back, something she’d never consider with anyone else, but this Abi wasn’t the same Abi she met while the sun was up; her chin was higher, her stance was firmer, observing the obstacle instead of the exit. Still a fawn, still cute and jumpy and unsure, but not newborn.
Abi crossed her arms, a challenging gleam in her eyes that spurred liquid fire through Emma’s veins. “So how were you planning to get back?”
“No plan,” Emma relented with a shrug, settling her adrenaline by smacking her palms on her thighs. “I’d have got there eventually.”
Abi raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Right.”
“I know I am.”
“No, I meant...” Abi sighed at Emma’s triumphant grin, gesturing to the surrounding foliage. “What if I hadn’t been here?”
“So you do know the way back.”
“With the map, yeah.”
“Fuck the map.” Emma pouted. “It’s a fun sucker.”
“Staying lost is fun to you?”
“It can be.”
“It—what?” Abi’s bounce of laughter caused a steadily familiar reaction in Emma’s heart rate. “How?”
She knew exactly how—she could turn anything into a dramatic experiment—and the throbbing in her chest was just preshow jitters. Obviously. Even someone as gifted on stage as her still got them. Like fear of danger it was a wise and innate response, augmenting her senses, acting purely as a motivator to make this performance even greater than the last.
“Oh no, help!” she cried theatrically, stressing every syllable, hurriedly retreating from Abi and looking around in faux-terror. “I appear to be lost! I’ll never find my way back to civilization on my own!”
“What?” Abi laughed again, enhanced with a nervous waver. “What are you doing?”
Making use of the environment like any decent actress Emma wandered to a large tree, twirled to the other side of the trunk, then slouched against it while pressing the back of her hand to her forehead. “I need someone smart, cute and talented to come save me!” She sighed until her lungs emptied. “Oh, goodness me, if only someone so qualified was nearby!”
Abi huddled in on herself, cheeks glowing again, and making her blush was quickly becoming one of Emma’s favourite things to do. Her chances of having fun this summer kept increasing and camp hadn’t even started yet. “I’m not any of those things,” Abi muttered, “but I can—”
“Someone smart,” Emma accented the condition with a thump on the bark biting into her spine, “cute,” another, “and talented,” and one more, most assertive of all.
Abi coughed, very interested in the ground for some reason, then took a deep, stabilizing breath before approaching Emma with quick steps and standing as tall as her height allowed, the difference still as significant as their personalities, and adapted a poor authoritative tone, “D-don’t worry, Ma’am. I can escort you back to the lodge.”
That was remarkably terrible. As terrible as the inept kids assigned to play trees and doors and other random crap in elementary school—which was an extremely cruel mockery, thinking back. Abi would never survive in front of an audience.
But in front of Emma? She was a perfect scene partner.
“Oh, my saviour! Thank you! Just as smart, cute and talented as I knew you’d be,” Emma hyped with a wide grin, clasping her hands by her chest. “Please,” she swung her arm to her right, “lead the way.”
Abi snorted, looking more than pleased for the excuse to break character, then headed the opposite direction. Emma giggled, swiftly following.
She kept Abi’s languid pace, accommodating with smaller steps, walking closer together than new friends normally would. But she was a skyscraper next to Abi which meant the bugs would more likely go for her. And they did, holy Christ they did, so much she wouldn’t have been able to see the map even if she could read it, Abi shooting her an apologetic glance every time she swore under her breath and swatted the air. Two layers of bug spray next time. The whole can. Whatever the fuck it took.
Petty complaints aside, she could handle it. Some bites were trivial so long as Abi had less.
They didn’t talk as much the journey back, though occasionally their hands brushed, and the quietness intensified every brief instance of warmth. Emma wouldn’t react to this, couldn’t, promised herself earlier she’d wait for the incredible payoff. Something she knew wouldn’t be today, not with how Abi flinched at every contact. Yet, curiously enough, Abi never moved far enough away to stop it from happening. Like she was trying to get used to it; like Emma’s compliments, her presence, her everything. Trying to get used to how the next two months would be this. Them. Together more often than not.
A few hours ago Emma never could’ve imagined that idea being exciting. And now...
“Emma?”
Although hesitant Abi sounded much less awkward saying her name than before, like this whole fiasco prepared her to say it properly. Like she meant it. Like she wouldn’t forget it.
“Hm?”
“I’m...” Abi chewed her lip, cheeks red and eyes sparkling. “I’m glad you got lost.”
It would be so easy to tease her but Abi’s earnestness blotted her sarcasm; made her defence mechanism feel pointless; that, around Abi, she wouldn’t need it. “Why’s that?”
This time when their hands brushed Abi didn’t flinch away.
“I found what I was looking for.”
It was one of the corniest things she’d ever heard. More than the majority of pickup lines she couldn’t believe anyone ever thought would work, all of which she persevered with batted lashes and gnashed teeth or didn’t even bother concealing her scoff. Coming from anyone else she would’ve felt nothing more than annoyance.
And yet.
Three times.
Three times her heart wasn’t hers for a beat. Three times her heart was as lost as her. Three times she debated the meaning of the word ‘lost’ because it seemed like, completely unintentionally, through what originally felt like a mistake, she ended up exactly where she wanted.
Perceived by someone who mattered. Under the stare of kind eyes; eyes that saw sweat, dirt, bug bites, chips in her mask, and their softness never faltered. Under a stare that wasn’t judgemental, envious or lustful, and despite it being none of those things, being unlike how anyone stared at her before, she still felt pretty.
She’d never felt more pretty.
And with the final slivers of sunset highlighting those eyes staring at her, that smile beaming at her, Emma hated the outdoors a little less.