The Last July: A New Adult Romance Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  December

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The Last July

  Breanna Mounce

  Copyright © 2017 by Breanna Mounce

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN: 978-0-615-93477-8

  Stardust Romance

  Goshen, KY 40026

  www.hydrapublications.com

  To my s’mores lovers and stargazers:

  thanks for the memories.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  December

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  MAY

  “Bug spray?”

  “Check.”

  “Sunscreen?”

  “Spray on and lotion, check.”

  “Picture of your favorite person in the entire world?”

  I grab the list from my best friend’s hand and roll my eyes. “I’m only going to be gone for two and a half months. Besides, it’s only Tennessee, I’m not even leaving the country.”

  Janine flops back on the bed. “But you’re not going to have any cell service most of the time, so you might as well be on another planet! Do they even speak English in Tennessee?”

  “Think you’re being a bit too dramatic?” I ask, going over my list by myself now. This is my third time checking everything. I’m pretty sure I’ve packed up my whole summer wardrobe and purchased every bottle of sunscreen I could find at Wal-Mart.

  “No, I thought you grew out of summer camp! I figured this would be our last summer together before college, and we’d have one last hoorah.” She grabs my photo album off my nightstand, the one I keep there year-round from past summers at Camp Arthur, my home away from home.

  “You’ll be fine. We have a week once I get back to hang out before we go to college, and I’ll be coming home a few times to do laundry and see my parents. I can see you then,” I explain.

  Janine grabs one of my folded blankets and tosses it at me. I thank her because it’s the one I was planning on taking with me anyway, a ratty old pink one that my grandma gave me when I was eight. I re-fold it and place it on top of my clothes and try to zip up the bag. It takes some force, but finally seals all the way shut after a few tries. I put it on the floor next to my sleeping bag, and my backpack full of leisure stuff like books on my summer reading list I haven’t gotten to and some nail polishes just in case my campers want to have a spa night. Spa nights at camp are some of the best nights at camp.

  “Yuck, what the heck is this?” Janine asks, disgust written all over her face as she points to a picture in my scrapbook.

  I jump on the bed and lean over her shoulder to see the picture. The memory brings a smile to my face.

  “Leftover mashed potato mohawks,” I say proudly. My hair was so long last summer I won the contest for my cabin. Four days after the game, I was still finding dried up potatoes in my hair. So worth it though.

  “That doesn’t seem childish to you at all?” Janine asks, flipping the page.

  “No, nothing is childish at camp. That’s the point, to have fun and do things you never get to do.”

  “I would never put food in my hair,” Janine remarks, flipping through more photos. “What other ‘kid things’ do you do at this ‘camp’ place?”

  “Rock climb, crafts, archery, swimming… there’s plenty to do, trust me. You’re really missing out,” I tell her, moving off of the bed to place all my stuff by the door. “There’s never a dull moment at camp.”

  “Sounds strenuous. What about the boys? There has to be a handful of cute boys,” she asks, closing the photo album with a thud. Each page is so laden with photographs that the book weighs several pounds.

  “Ha, I grew up with most of the guys there. No way would I ever be interested in them.”

  She places the album back where it’s supposed to be and grabs her purse. “I wasn’t talking about you, I meant for me,” she says with a laugh.

  She smiles mischievously before grabbing my sleeping bag and heading for the stairs. I shake my head, grab my other two bags, and head for the stairs.

  When we hit the landing my mom comes out of the kitchen drying her hands on a towel. “Oh hey girls. I was just coming to make sure you were leaving on time, Penny.”

  I love my mom dearly, but I hate when she calls me by my childhood nickname. Penny. It sounds cheap, whereas my full name, the name she gave me, Penelope, sounds ten times more mature. Typically, I ignore most people who shorten my name. It used to drive my high school teachers nuts, but lucky for them, I graduated. Once I’m in college, I can make damn sure no one calls me Penny - that cheap, easy excuse of a nickname.

  “Am I never not on time?” I tease my mom, just as my phone alarm goes off telling me I need to head out to my car and get going.

  She pulls me in for a hug. “Are you sure you can’t wait for your dad to get home? He wanted to see you off,” she says.

  I pull back from her and put on my backpack. “I can’t. I need to get there by three so I can get settled in before we have our first staff dinner. I’m required to be there.”

  If I hadn’t added on the requirement part, there’s no doubt mom would have made me wait for dad to get home from work, but she finally releases her hold on me and kisses my forehead.

  “Be careful,” she tells me. “Check in with us when you can.”

  “Don’t hold your breath for a phone call,” I tell her, and before she can scold me, I pull out my package of stationery and stamps.

  “What the heck is that?” Janine asks, feigning offense.

  “If the campers can’t use phones, I’m not using mine either. I’m going old-school, snail mail.”

  My mom smiles and pulls me in for another hug. “Have fun honey, we’ll miss you. And remember, you were a camper once, don’t try and scare the young ones with ghost stories,” she says.

  “I would never!” I gasp, trying to keep the laughter from my voice for dramatic effect. “I would be the one trying to soothe them in the middle of the night if I did!”

  “Alright, get out of here,�
�� she says, smiling and swatting at me with her damp dishtowel.

  “Oh, and mom,” I say, stopping at the front door. “If anything comes from Maryville, you’ll let me know, right?”

  “Of course,” she says with a smile.

  I thought I would have heard from Maryville a long time ago, while all my other friends were getting their own acceptance letters, but I guess that’s what I get for applying late. Now I’ll be waiting and cutting things close this summer with my school plans. It’s been Maryville or I’ll wait another semester to apply to another school, I chose Maryville because it’s just a short drive from camp, where I’d like to work every summer. Though, the next few months are the deciding factor for everything. I probably should have thought this through last summer.

  Once Janine and I are at my car with all three of my bags loaded, she hugs me tightly too, almost tighter than my mom.

  “Don’t do anything that I wouldn’t, Pen,” she says, pulling back and putting on her huge bug-eye sunglasses. Her bikini strings peek out of her tank top straps. Janine lives in swimsuits in the summer, whereas I live in hiking boots, gym shorts and old Camp Arthur tees.

  “So, everything is fair game then?” I tease. Janine isn’t a prude by any means. Not even close.

  “Way to add fuel to the fire, betch,” she fires back. I know Janine means well. She gets defensive when she’s trying to hold back her real emotions. I just shake my head and tell her not to get into any trouble without me. She flips me the bird as I get into my car and pull out of the driveway. She keeps up the act until the last second and then waves a sad goodbye. I might just miss her more than she’ll miss me.

  It’s a three-hour drive from home to camp, one of those hours used to be pure hell because it’s all curvy back roads. It’s easy to get to the camp, once you’re off the exit, there’s two right turns and you’re there. My mom made me bring an extra Sprite and some crackers just in case I feel nauseous during the final part of my drive. Between my dad’s poor driving and being a backseat driver when I was a kid, I would always get sick the second we started on the dirt road. My mom liked to say it was early homesickness. I would let her believe what she wanted.

  Every July since I was ten, I’ve gone to Camp Arthur. I know the place like the back of my hand. I could probably navigate the twisting and turning gravel pathways with a blindfold if I had to.

  This year is different than all the others, and not just because I’m not an actual camper. This year, I’m in between, I’m a camper and a junior counselor. This year, I’ll be here for the whole summer. When I finally turn down the road for camp, I notice other things have changed too. A lot of the old gravel roads have been blacktopped, and they’ve put in a pool to compliment the lake. The subtle differences are all needed upgrades, but they take away some of Camp Arthur’s rustic charm.

  I don’t like change. Summer camps aren’t supposed to change. They’re supposed to look as they did when they were first built. Camp Arthur always made me feel like we were in the sixties or seventies, especially considering how old some of the furniture is in the common areas, parts of the cabins, and the bathrooms. Most bunks are made from wood and have names from previous campers carved in them too. If I look hard enough, I can probably find my name on six different bunks.

  It’s strange being here without my parents dropping me off, I admit.

  My parents were always the clingy type that insisted they come with me to my cabin to make up my bunk and make sure I got settled in. They would always talk my counselors’ heads off about the things I shouldn’t do and which activities I love. Why they thought a college-aged counselor cared about my sleeping habits and that I will refuse to eat on taco night was way beyond me.

  As I readjust my duffel bag over my shoulder and walk toward the registration area to get my cabin assignment, I notice they’ve built a new welcome center that looks too modern next to the woods. I liked the old rustic one built long before I was born. I should have been prepared for the change though. When my parents and I received the promotional pamphlet in the mail, we were told the camp was being run under new ownership.

  Have the owners even been to a real summer camp? I wonder, taking in some of the more modern sights.

  A new wooden sign hangs below the awning of the welcome center proclaiming, ‘Camp Arthur Est. 1974. Mountains of Possibilities’.

  I just need to enjoy my final summer here as a CIT, a ‘counselor in training’. Who knows if I can come back next summer as a legitimate counselor? The next two and a half months will decide that.

  I walk inside the welcome center, the air conditioner on full blast and find a receptionist at a desk behind an open window like we’re in a doctor's office. She looks bored out of her mind, flipping through Cosmopolitan. The front cover reads, “How to please a man, when you’re not on your knees.”

  I clear my throat to get her attention.

  She doesn’t look up from her magazine. “What’s up?” she asks tiredly.

  Well, aren’t we a happy camper? “I need to check in, I’m a junior counselor here for training,” I tell her.

  “Aren’t you a little early?” she asks, finally putting her magazine down to check on the time.

  “Just by 28 minutes.”

  She lets out an exaggerated breath and looks through the papers on her desk, clearly not ready for the other ten or so people that should be showing up for training. “What’s your name, kid?”

  “Penelope. I’m probably the only Penelope on your list,” I say, trying to get her to smile.

  She doesn’t smile. She’s testing my patience as she continues to search the desk. Finally, she finds the paper she’s looking for. It appears that a coffee cup was sitting on it at one point because there’s a brown ring stain on it.

  “Penelope… Penelope…. Ah, here you are,” says the worst receptionist ever hired, seems like she could use more training. “Cabin 6. Lucky you. You’ve got one of the new ones on the other side of camp. Air conditioning and everything. Enjoy.”

  If the new owners of Camp Arthur are anything like this girl, I’m not sure I can survive two months working here for minimum wage. Growing up, I envied the employees here at Camp Arthur. They were all so kind and pleasant to be around. They treated me like a friend, not an incompetent child.

  “Lucky me…” I sigh, ignoring that my old cabin didn’t have air conditioning. I loved having the windows open and listening to the crickets and other animals at night. There’s something peaceful about a cabin with only four walls, a ceiling, and a floor, out in the middle of the woods. They always put the older girls further into the woods because the younger kids are too terrified of what goes bump in the night.

  Miss Stickupmybum hands over my information, and I’m thankful I shouldn’t have to be around her much longer. I take the packet quickly and walk away, but she stops me. My heart hammers in my chest at her tone that says, ‘I’m in charge.’ I hold my bag a little tighter.

  “Don’t you need help finding it?” she asks. “I can walkie someone to take you there. You’re a bit too early, so everyone’s out doing their own thing. I think they’re all at the pool.”

  “No, I’m good,” I tell her, not even bothering to look back when I open the door, and set off for the dirt path that leads to the wooden bridge. To be honest, I have no idea where my newly built cabin might be, but I want time to check things out before a counselor has full reign over me.

  I cross the rickety bridge and walk by the mess hall, glancing in to see if it’s the same. Thankfully, it is, from what I can see. I walk toward the trail that leads to the nature center, looking at a freshly painted sign that points to cabins six through ten. I’m glad Camp Arthur is expanding, but I worry it won’t have the same camp feel to it when I become a counselor here. People come to camp to get away from the city and learn how to handle being without cell service or their normal daily routine, not to live in a luxurious cabin the size of a small house. Camp Arthur certainly does not need air c
onditioning or cell towers. Luckily, I haven’t seen a cell tower yet, though it wouldn’t surprise me to find one disguised as a tree.

  “Hey!” shouts a friendly male voice. A guy wearing a pair of camo cargo shorts and a tie-dye t-shirt jogs over to me. Janine would shake her head in disgust at his mismatched patterns. His hair is shaggy brown and it almost curls into his eyes. It looks like he hasn’t had a haircut for a year, but it fits him. He’s wearing a headband with daisies poorly glued onto it, but something about it screams adorable and friendly. Adorable and not for me, because when he stands in front of me, I see he’s wearing a Counselor ID badge attached to his Camp Arthur lanyard, not a CIT. I can’t let myself get distracted by anyone. If I want to work here after this summer, I need to keep my eyes on my goal.

  “Uh, hi,” I say when he finishes catching his breath, he will probably yell at me for walking through camp alone. I glance around to see if anyone else is coming or if it is just him. I’ve never seen him here in the summer’s prior as camper nor counselor; most counselors are repeats for at least four years, long enough for them to have a summer job through college and then move off to a job in the psychology or social work fields. Apparently, jobs like that love seeing ‘camp counselor’ on your resume.

  “You lost? I can help you find your cabin,” he asks, his voice deeper than I anticipated.

  “No, I’m fine. I’ve been here before,” I tell him as I continue onto the trail, not actually knowing if I’m heading in the right direction for once in my camp life, but I refuse to actually admit that out loud.

  “Are you one of the new trainees?” he asks, catching up with me again, which is easy for him because his legs are so long. He’s literally the tall, dark, and handsome type.