But is this what my life has become?

Managing fragile male egos all day long?

I groan into my empty office.

The elevator corridor in the lobby is eerily empty when I step out onto the ground floor just before one P.M., though evidence of a recent pizza delivery lingers in the air. It won’t remain quiet for long, as any number of the six elevators are surely about to open, delivering a small horde of tenants and visitors from the twenty-four floors above.

My heels click against the travertine as I march through the atrium, past rows of planters brimming with palms and ferns. Midday sunlight streams in from the glass dome above, broken up by an archway of crisscrossing beams. Our lobby is an architecturally stunning masterpiece, designed by Fredrik Gustafsson, the very same man at the helm of the Waterway project.

We own this building, though we occupy only five floors of it, renting out the rest to a host of companies in the finance, insurance, and real estate sectors. The land was part of a smart investment by my father, who began quietly buying up defunct industrial properties around Lennox’s waterfront decades ago, around the same time that he began lobbying to city officials that the neglected area could be revitalized into an urban mecca. Slowly, he’s had the ramshackle mills and warehouses demolished, the area rezoned, and, project by project, has brought the area—now pegged Augustin Square—back to life.

“Off to lunch, Miss Calloway?” a baritone voice booms as I pass through the security gate.

I turn to find Gus grinning at me. I’ve known the cheerful security guard with the Jersey accent since I was wearing pigtails and Mary Janes. He was getting on in age even back then. Now, his tight gray curls are a stark contrast to his deep brown skin. But, while he could retire, he’s shown no interest in doing so.

Gus has become as much a part of CG as my father. When we moved buildings, my father specifically asked Rikell, the company that we contract our security resources from, that Gus come with us. And by ask, I mean he told them that if Gus wasn’t coming, neither were they, to this building or any others that he owns.

My father isn’t the easiest man to negotiate with.

Not only did Rikell oblige, but they gave Gus a promotion to supervisor, managing schedules and staff onsite, and having final hiring say on the guard staff. But still, Gus sits at this front desk, greeting every building occupant by name, breaking up the monotony of the daily grind in the most pleasant way.

“What’s it gonna be today?”

I can’t help but grin back. “Not sure yet. Something good.” We’re a seven-minute walk to the Pier Market, a long, narrow construct packed with vendors and a popular locale by the river, where you can find everything from fresh-cut flowers to lobsters to French macarons. Around it is an array of restaurants, peddling every culinary taste imaginable. I’ve gotten lost in the menus posted outside the doors on many occasions, drooling over the idea of a comforting moussaka or chicken biryani or green curry for lunch.

I always end up bringing back a salad.

“Oh, I’ll bet.” Gus grunts, knowing as much.

I make a point of leaning over to brush the dusting of fine white powder from his uniform shirt pocket. “Have you been eating donuts again?” Talk about embodying a stereotype.

“Not just any donut!” he scoffs. “They’re these . . . oh, I can’t remember what Basha called them, but they’re covered in icing sugar, and have this plum jam filling inside.” He smacks his lips. “I’ll save you one next time.”

My eyes narrow. “And exactly how many did you eat, Gus?”

“Just the one.” He averts his gaze to a stack of papers on the desk.

“Four. He ate four donuts for lunch,” says Ivan, the young security attendant with a dark olive complexion and an excessively thick neck sitting beside him. He emphasizes that by holding up four fingers.

“It’s a good thing you’re leaving next week, you rat,” Gus mutters before flashing a sheepish smile my way. “Basha said they were best eaten fresh.”

“Oh, well then that makes complete sense.” I shake my head. Ever since Gus’s wife died of an aneurysm five years ago, his waistline has been growing at an exponential rate. Sometimes I think he’s intentionally eating like this to shorten his days so he can join her in the afterlife. “I’m bringing you back a salad.” I give the counter a pat, as if passing my judgment with a gavel, and then head for the exterior doors.

A man steps out from behind a closed door ahead of me and begins heading for the same exit. He’s in simple business attire—black dress pants and a white button-down shirt that looks extra crisp with a gold tie—that clings to his solid, muscular body in the most pleasing way.

After spending two years with David, fit bodies alone don’t immediately grab my attention anymore.

But there’s something about this guy . . .

The way he moves, that slender nose, the shape of his forehead, that hair color . . .

It’s been years, and he looks so different, but . . .

I frown and my feet falter as I watch him climb the steps. No. It can’t possibly be him.

It can’t be the boy who broke my heart.

“Kyle?” I call out.

Chapter 2

THEN

2006, Camp Wawa, Day One

“Is that where we’ll be eating?” I crinkle my nose at the pavilion to our left. Two faded crimson oars crisscross the front, “Camp Wawa” scrawled across each paddle in white. The picnic tables lined up beneath the covering, on the other hand, look freshly painted, and in every color under the rainbow. There must be at least twenty of them.

My mom smiles wistfully at the structure. “Your cabin will pick a table and scribble all over it. It’ll be yours for the summer.”

“Sounds great.” I eye the dozens of sparrows that hop along the tables. Pooping, probably. As birds do. I sigh heavily. “Is there still time to quit and go to Europe?”

“You’re going to love it here, Piper. Trust me.” Nothing I say seems to dampen the nostalgic buzz that’s been radiating off my mother since we crossed an old one-lane bridge, about a half hour ago. “Being a summer camp counselor is a critical milestone. I wish more people got to experience it.” She turns the car into the parking area, hand over hand before shifting back to the ten-and-two position, as if demonstrating proper driving skills. That’s how she always drives. “You’ll make friends for life here. People you can call up twenty years from now, for anything, and they’ll be there for you. I promise, you won’t forget these days, ever.”

“Most traumatic events are hard to forget.” I watch four teenage girls trudge past Mom’s car like a pack of Sherpas, giant backpacks strapped to their bodies, fluffy pillows and sleeping bag rolls tucked beneath their arms. Their matching messy ponytails and cut-off jean shorts prove what my mother warned me of this morning when I entered the kitchen in a silky patterned sundress and jeweled sandals—that I’m highly overdressed for Camp Wawa’s counselor orientation day. “And I’ve been to camp before, remember? White Pine? I hated it.” Falling asleep to the sound of three roommates breathing for four weeks? Not a shred of privacy unless you locked yourself in the bathroom? No, thanks.