"Are you taking a nap?"

I crack an eyelid open, prepared to yell at whatever camper decided to wake me up— until I see that it's only James, easily identifiable by his trademark buzz-cut. "Oh. You again." I say this because we've had kitchen duty together every day of the week, spending hours on end scrubbing dishes until our arms burn. "Couldn't get enough of me?"

James squints at me, sizing me up. He does that a lot. Like there's an answer to be found if he just looks hard enough. Then he shakes his head. "Sleeping on the job, Lockwood? I thought you were supposed to be our border guard."

"Lay off, Pretty Boy. We're going to win anyways."

"Don't jinx us, Chinos." James gestures to the weathered boulder I'd been snoozing against and asks, "This seat taken? My legs could use some rest."

"Be my guest," I reply. If anyone else had asked me this, I would've told them to bug off, but James is different. He's chill. Hanging out with him isn't like hanging out with Clancey and his friends, or suffering in Beckarof with Finn. Being around James is quieting, because I know I don't have to try to be anybody but myself, and he doesn't try to be anybody else, either.

James props his back up against the boulder and lets out a satisfied sigh. "You picked the perfect spot to take a nap. I don't think I've felt this relaxed the entire summer." He lets his eyelids flutter shut— a shame, really; the dappled sunlight turned his irises such a beautiful shade of gold. "There are, like, muscles loosening up in my body that I didn't even know existed until now."

"When the counselors aren't turning this camp into a personalized hell, it's kind of beautiful."

"Agreed."

We sit there for a while in silence, soaking up the sun and listening to the water splashing its way downstream. When I close my eyes, I can be anywhere— back in New York with Jesse, sipping piña coladas on a beach in Cancun.... the possibilities are endless.

"Want to take bets on who's going to win?" James asks.

"No need. It's totally going to be us. Clancey already knows where the other team's flag is. That's the reason I'm napping on guard duty— we're guaranteed a win."

"I know. Just humor me."

"Okay, fine. Fifty bucks says we win."

He blinks at me. "Wow. You'd really bet fifty dollars?"

I can't discern his tone of voice. It's very neutral, but in the way that only somebody who feels strongly about the subject can be neutral. Which means James could've found my statement incredibly amusing or incredibly irritating. I can't tell. I can't ever tell with James— he's one of the few people that I simply can't read.

"Yes," I say, deciding to be honest. We still have two days of kitchen duty left, and I don't want to spend them in the company of a lie. And, not that I know much about James, but I get the sense that he values honesty. We've been working out so well that I would hate to ruin things with something as stupid and pointless as a lie about my family. "I would."

"What, are you rich or something?" he asks.

I laugh until I realize that James isn't being sarcastic. Then I can only stare at him in shock. "You're not serious, are you?"

James looks back at me with equal confusion. "Are you?"

"My mother is Sabrina Lockwood."

"I have absolutely no idea who that is or what that is supposed to mean."

I absorb this. It takes me a moment. I'm used to living in a world where everybody knows who Sabrina is and everybody knows that she's my mother, so hearing James admit that he's clueless about her throws me for a loop. "Sabrina is...." I begin. Then I stop myself. James doesn't know who my mother is— why would I tell him? It's not like he needs to know, or that I particularly enjoy telling people what her job is. "She's not important. She's just my mom," I finish.

James nods. "Okay. But you never answered my first question."

"Which was?"

"If you're rich or not."

"I was willing to bet fifty dollars on whether we'd win this game."

"I'll take that as a yes."

I look over at James. He's smiling ever so slightly at me. I cross my fingers and hope for incredibly amusing.

"James," I tell him, "In all honesty, I am really fucking loaded."

"Okay," he says. "That's cool."

"It's alright."

"Do you own a private jet?"

"I'm... not entirely sure."

James lets out a breathy laugh. "I really can't decide if I should hate you right now or not."

"Well, we're stuck at this camp for the next two months together, so you have plenty of time to figure it out."

"Ha. True. So, how did you get sent to Lightlake, if you're so rich? I thought rich people could get away with everything."

A bracing wind blows through the trees and rifles through my hair looking for spare change. It feels like Jack Frost is trying to give me a head massage. I grimace and say, "It's a common misconception that rich people can get away with anything— common because we do get away with most things. But what I did was inexcusable. My family is loaded, but even we couldn't pay off the trouble I stirred up."

"What kind of trouble?" James asks, his interest piqued.

"I killed a man."

"No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did. I put a gun against his head. Pulled my trigger, now he's dead."

Before I can stop myself, I start singing the entire song of "Bohemian Rhapsody". James just rolls his eyes at me at first, but once we get to the "easy come, easy go" part, he joins in, too. We perform the musical solo together with extravagant displays of air guitar that would make Jimi Hendrix himself jealous.

But James is not easily distracted, and as soon as the song is over he presses the topic of my inexcusable crime once again. "So, what did you really do?"

"Easy. I crashed my neighbor's car into a telephone pole."

James' face remains perfectly neutral for a while longer.

And then he starts to laugh.

"Why are you laughing? It's not funny."

"You are a terrible liar," James tells me, which has got to be the textbook definition of irony.

I just shake my head at him and grin.

"Fine. Keep your secrets." James pushes himself to his feet, brushing the dirt off the back of his jeans. "We should probably go help our team. Wouldn't want to get kitchen duty for the second time this month."

I clutch at my chest in mock pain. "Ouch. Am I really that bad at washing dishes?"

"What? No, I only meant—"

"It's fine, James. I'm just playing with you."

"Oh. Right." James smiles sheepishly at me. "You know, it was kinda fun spending time together, even if we were just scrubbing dishes. Better than spending the night with off-his-meds Daniel."

"I knew you couldn't get enough of me," I tease.

James throws a leaf at my face. It gets caught in the spikes of my hair, and I have to use my fingers to brush it out. "You have an ego the size of Alaska, Lockwood."

"Only Alaska? I can do better than that."

James starts ticking traits off on his finger-tips. "Let's see. You're arrogant. You're conceited. You're cynical. You're reckless...." He grins at my indignant expression. "And somehow, you're also the coolest person I've met at camp."

I fold my arms across my chest. "You say that like there's competition."

"Forget Alaska. Your ego is the size of North America." James flicks another leaf at me. This time, it lands on the collar of my camp t-shirt (yes, I've started following the dress code. Sue me). "Seriously, though— I'm glad I met you, and I'm glad we had kitchen duty together. Even though that cabin is so gross and the radio never works."

"Hey, you can't complain. You're the one that sassed Owen into giving you kitchen duty in the first place."

"Well, I couldn't just leave you all alone, could I? You'd waste away to nothing in there. I bet you've never had to wash a dirty dish in your life before coming to Lightlake."

"Very funny. I have washed a dish before, you know. At least once."

"You sure about that?" To prove his point, James picks up one of my hands and compares my palm to his own. The difference between the two is almost embarrassing— while his hands are roughened by years of callouses, my palm is smooth as an old penny. "Don't worry, city boy," James amends, noticing my discomfort. "We can't change the way we were raised. We can only change who we are now, and who we're going to be tomorrow."

I catch his eye, and he lets go of my wrist, blushing.

"All those things you said about making choices— well, it made me realize that I've never gotten to make my own choices in my life," James explains. "Like, I didn't choose to come to Lightlake— my school told me I had to. I didn't even choose to go to private school. That was my parents' decision. They make all the decisions in my life. They already know where I'm going to college; at least, where they want me to go. I didn't even make the choice to hitch-hike here. My parents did when they said they wouldn't drive me."

"I never knew you went to private school. You don't seem like the type."

"I'm not. I hate it. I only go because my parents make me." James sighs. "There's a lot of things you don't know about me, Ronan."

"Wow. You truly are a man of mystery, Pretty Boy."

In a split-second, the smile vanishes from James' face. I feel the dynamic between us shift.

"I never liked that nickname. Not because it isn't accurate. I mean, I am pretty, if I do say so myself," he says. A shadow crosses over his face. I can't tell if I've offended him, or if he's upset for some other reason. "I wouldn't mind if anybody else called me it. But you were always the one who used it, and it just reminded me of how... untouchable you are. Like a museum exhibit, or a painting. I don't know. Fuck. I realize that doesn't make any sense at all."

"James, did you just call me a work of art?"

He blushes furiously. "I never should have said anything. Forget it."

"I won't call you it again if it makes you uncomfortable," I tell him. I hope he can see that I'm being serious. James is probably one of the only people at this camp I don't want to piss off. "I only did it as a joke. Nothing more."

"I know that. It's just...." He shakes his head. "Why am I telling you all this? You must think I'm crazy."

"I don't think you're crazy."

"Oh, I'm definitely crazy. I'm crazy because I keep thinking that this—" he gestures to the empty space between us— "could actually work out. I know you're way out of my league, but I can't seem to get you out of my head. I just—" He lets out a small, frustrated noise. "I can't stop thinking about you. I wish I could, but I just can't."

"You're not crazy," I say.

And then I do something crazy: I lean over and kiss him.

James exhales sharply against my lips, but he doesn't pull away. The choice is made. And I can tell that this is a choice he's made before. He moves like somebody who knows what he's doing; somebody with experience.

I put a hand on his cheek. His face is hot, and so smooth. I can feel the ridge of his cheekbone beneath my fingertips. I think I've wanted to hold his face like this since the day I met him at the campfire.

"It's about time," I mutter.

"I know. Only took a week of Kitchen Duty."

James's laughter tickles my mouth. When he wraps a hand around my neck, the rest of the world fades away. It's easy, so easy, too lose everything— the warmth of the sunlight on my bare arms, the bubbling of the creek, the cold, earthy feel of the boulder— in his arms. There's nothing crazy about the kiss, but it's warm and sweet, and I can't think of any other way I'd rather pass the time. It does help to be preoccupied with someone else's mouth, for once.

Someone that isn't Jesse.