Not His Type

By the third week at Camp Pinecrest, the smell of the lake had invaded every article of clothing Gabriela owned. She had stopped trying to convince herself otherwise; even now, kneeling in the muddy shallows with cold water eating at her knees and a canoe hull biting into her palms, she caught a whiff every time she shifted—a mix of wood smoke, algae, and the metallic tang of mud. Her shorts had gone clammy in the instant she waded off the dock, and now they stuck to her thighs, river-wet and slimy with something that felt primordial.

She tightened her grip on the neon-orange strap of Maya’s lifejacket, knuckles whitening, eyes locked on the girl’s face. Maya sat perched at the edge of the dock in a knot of pure, vibrating embarrassment, damp hair splayed in a dark fan and lips clamped into a line that said: please, please don’t talk about what just happened. The other girls in their canoe group clumped at the far end of the planks, some pretending to peer at a heron in the reeds, others working hard to suppress smirks. No one quite dared to look directly at Maya—or at Gabriela, who was supposed to have been the grown-up in this scenario.

Gabriela didn’t blame them. She could feel the flush of her own humiliation bleeding hot across her cheeks, even as the rest of her skin turned numb. Some days, she swore, her only talent was publicly failing at the exact thing she was supposed to be in charge of.

The canoe bobbed at a listless angle, half on its side, water sloshing in the hull. The planned “easy paddle” across the lake had lasted exactly six minutes before Maya’s paddle got caught beneath the gunwale, flipping her into the drink and nearly capsizing the whole boat. Gabriela’s attempts to coach her out of panic had gone exactly nowhere; Maya had gripped the side and shrieked, then frozen up entirely. It took both of them wrestling the canoe, and half the patience in the Lower Mainland, to drag the boat and its soggy cargo back to shore.

Now, Maya stared at her sneakers as if hoping they might allow her to vanish. Gabriela could practically hear the silent math of humiliation being tallied: how many other campers saw? Would the older girls repeat it at lunch? Was it worse to have wiped out, or to have had your counselor fail to prevent it?

She was about to offer some kind of salvage—words of reassurance that would make neither of them feel better—when the water beside her erupted in a pulse, and a new pair of legs waded into the shallows.

Connor didn’t say a word. He just sloshed in, jeans already soaked to mid-calf, and squatted beside the overturned canoe. He didn’t look at Gabriela, but when he reached for the rim, she saw the muscles shift under his faded camp T-shirt, the tan line high on his bicep, the easy, thoughtless strength she’d spent two weeks trying not to notice. He braced one hand on the canoe, the other hovering for a second as if to check her grip, then finally locking in beside hers. His eyes flicked over—blue, annoyed, and not even pretending to hide it.

“On three,” he said.

Gabriela set her jaw and nodded, even though the maneuver was obvious and they both knew it. “One, two—”

They tipped the canoe in a practiced, perfectly synchronized heave. Lake water gushed out, splashing cold against her chest, then down over her wrists and through her fingers. In the moment of balance, Connor’s palm found her elbow, steadying her as the canoe landed on its belly, and then he let go just as fast. The air was full of the sharp scent of overturned lake and the damp heat of his skin near hers, and then nothing.

She stood and stepped back, watching as Connor knelt at dock height, wet jeans clinging to his calves. He waited, stone-faced, as Maya finally dared to peek at him through dripping bangs. For a long second, he just stared at her, then said—so dry it took a moment to register as a joke—“The lake has a personal vendetta against good paddlers.”

Maya’s mouth twitched, almost but not quite into a smile. Gabriela saw the flicker of relief, small and immediate. She exhaled, not realizing she’d been holding her breath.

Connor reached into the shallows and fished out a pair of sunglasses—Maya’s, bug-eyed and glittery—and set them on the dock like a peace offering. “Recovered with honor,” he said, then stood in one clean movement, scooping the canoe with both hands and setting it upright on the sand.

He turned to go, pausing only to wipe water from his brow with the back of his wrist. At the corner of the dock, he glanced back once, half-smile lopsided and reflexive.

“You’re doing fine,” he said. No emphasis, no performative warmth. Just three words, flat and accurate.

Gabriela felt the line land on her chest like a pulse she couldn’t shake. She watched him stride toward the boathouse, watched the muscles of his back shift beneath his shirt, watched the way the other counselors moved aside for him without ever demanding his attention. She tried to will herself not to care, not to register the unearned comfort in that stupid, simple affirmation.

But it was there, burrowing through the embarrassment and the mud and the resin-thick air. She realized the lake smell had changed: less like failure, more like a campfire beginning to catch.

Maya picked up her sunglasses, turned them over in her hands, and finally looked at Gabriela with something almost resembling trust.

“We’re good?” Gabriela asked.

Maya nodded, sniffled, and wiped her cheeks on her damp sleeve.

Gabriela offered a hand, and Maya took it, their fingers icy but sure. They climbed the dock together, the sun high and hot on their backs, and the sound of the water settled behind them, quiet as a secret.

The mornings at Pinecrest were engineered to be as loud as possible, as if the camp directors feared that silence might trigger homesickness or mutiny. Gabriela could barely hear herself think over the racket: enamel mugs banging against the long refectory tables, the rattle of industrial coffee urns, a dozen counselors and seventy-odd kids in varying states of consciousness and sugar high. The walls of the dining lodge, rough-hewn logs darkened by decades of smoke and sticky hands, only amplified the sound.

She carved out a wedge of quiet at the far end of the counselors’ table, tracing idle circles on the rim of her chipped blue mug and watching the steam rise in ghostly whorls. The coffee inside was weak but hot, and she found herself grateful for both, even if the first swallow burned a path straight through her chest.

Breakfast was pancakes, overcooked and rubbery, stacked six high in metal warming trays along the buffet. She managed to snag two before the first shift of campers descended in a shrieking cloud, but even then, she could only stare at them, appetite not yet awake. A splatter of maple syrup pooled on her tray, bright against the recycled cardboard.

Across the table, someone argued about the rules of four-square, voices escalating in the way of people who took pride in not being morning people. Gabriela tuned them out, letting the white noise settle into the background hum it always became by day three of each session.

She was mid-stretch, working the stiffness out of her neck, when a mug clattered onto the table beside hers. She didn’t have to look up; she recognized the precise sound of it, the heavy-bottomed thud unique to camp-issue ceramic.

Connor slid into the seat beside her, not bothering with hello or even eye contact, and nudged the mug an inch closer. She glanced down: black coffee, but with a crescent of cream floating on the surface, cinnamon dusted over the foam, and—she took a careful sip—exactly two sugars.

“Thanks,” she said, more out of reflex than need. It was the fourth morning in a row, and he never waited for thanks anyway.

He just grunted, not unkindly, and set to work assembling a breakfast sandwich from the scattered offerings. He used the side of his knife to flatten a sausage patty, scooped a slab of eggs, and arranged the mess on a single pancake like a chef who’d grown up in the wild. He looked up, briefly, and caught her staring.

“What?” he said, mouth already full.

She shook her head. “Nothing. Just—” The rest of it fizzled, because what was there to say? She still hadn’t figured out how he’d learned her coffee order; she’d only ever mentioned the cinnamon once, in a throwaway line to another counselor. Now it just appeared, unannounced, like clockwork.

Connor looked at her for a beat longer, then shrugged and went back to eating. He demolished the sandwich in four bites, wiped his hands on a paper napkin, and folded his arms across the table, gaze drifting to the window where condensation laced the glass in opaque scribbles. The pause between them didn’t register as awkward, and Gabriela was grateful for that, too.

She sipped her coffee and felt it spread warmth through her, tiny but insistent.

The lodge had started to clear out, kids shuttled off to the morning’s activities, and the noise dropped to a level where she could almost hear the wind sifting through the pines outside. She let herself relax, just for a moment, and watched the last dribble of cream swirl in her mug.

It was such a stupid, trivial thing, having your coffee made the way you liked it. But it was also something she hadn’t realized she’d missed, not until someone else noticed.

She set the mug down, caught Connor’s eye, and raised it in a silent salute. His return smile was small, just a hitch at the corner of his mouth, but it was enough.

For the first time since she arrived, Gabriela felt like she might actually want to be here.

On the third morning, Gabriela woke to the insistent chill of air that hadn’t been touched by the sun. For a moment she thought she’d overslept, but her phone—one of the few exceptions to the no-screens rule for counselors—told her it was just past five. The window above her bunk glowed with the faintest band of color, not quite dawn, just the prelude. She pulled on yesterday’s sweatshirt, grabbed her clipboard, and tiptoed past the tangle of sleeping forms in her cabin.

The path to the lake was silent except for the sporadic creak of the wooden planks beneath her sneakers and the background murmur of insects waking up. It wasn’t until she reached the tree line that the real cold set in, prickling her cheeks and squeezing tears from her eyes. She found herself grateful for it—alertness without caffeine.

The lake itself looked unreal at this hour, silvered and glass-flat, the surface unbroken except for the mist that hovered inches above. She paused on the dock, letting her breath slow. Already, the day felt different.

A neat line of lifejackets hung from the railing, sorted by size and color, the straps pre-adjusted for each group. Someone had even set out the laminated rosters, weighted down with a wet rock so they wouldn’t blow into the drink. Gabriela knew immediately whose handiwork this was, but she said nothing, just shrugged into her vest and started her own preparations.

Connor emerged from the boathouse a few minutes later, toolbox dangling from one hand and a coil of rope over his shoulder. His hair stuck up in every direction, and he wore a pair of battered sweatpants that looked like they’d survived multiple seasons. He gave Gabriela a nod and set about checking the canoes for leaks, not speaking, not expecting anything.

They fell into a kind of work-silence that was rare and precious: the only communication was the rhythm of joint effort. Together, they lifted three canoes off the rack and slid them into the water, the old fiberglass making a dull, comforting thud as it touched the lake. They loaded paddles, checked that the bailer buckets were in place, and then, at the exact same moment, each reached for the painter lines to secure the canoes to the dock. Their hands brushed; Gabriela pulled back first, but Connor didn’t comment, just tied off his end and stepped aside.

The sky was changing fast, the first pink smears appearing above the treetops. She watched the color, letting herself enjoy it, and heard Connor exhale behind her—a small, almost contented sound. They stood together, facing the sunrise, as the world shifted from cold blue to the first hints of warmth.

When the campers arrived, bleary-eyed and shivering in their own oversized sweatshirts, everything was ready. Gabriela organized the kids by height, cinched up the last lifejackets, and fielded a dozen nervous questions about what happened if you fell in. She caught Connor’s eye across the dock; he gave her a barely perceptible thumbs-up, then helped a struggling boy with his straps, fingers moving quick and gentle.

At launch, she and Connor were the last to board. They pushed off at the same instant, canoes sliding out side by side. On the water, the world went so quiet Gabriela could hear the drip of each paddle as it lifted. She matched her stroke to Connor’s, falling into a synchrony that felt as natural as breathing. They skimmed across the lake, the bow of each canoe slicing the mist and sending up little fans of ripples. Behind them, the shouts and laughter of the kids trailed off in the distance.

Gabriela glanced sideways, caught the reflection of sunlight on Connor’s shoulder, the set of his jaw as he steered with the smallest adjustment. They didn’t speak, but she knew he felt it too—the simplicity of perfect teamwork, the way a morning could start with nothing and become this.

When they reached the far shore, the sun broke free of the trees all at once, and the surface of the lake went gold. She watched the light dance on the water, and for a moment, she let herself be completely present.

If anyone had asked, she’d have said it was the most peaceful she’d felt in years.

The heat didn’t break all afternoon, and by three o’clock, the maintenance yard had turned into a haze of shimmery dust. Gabriela’s task list for the day—rotate the boat inventory, check the shed for missing PFDs, untangle a mess of oar handles—had led her to the tool shed, where the air was thick with the smell of pine sap and engine oil. She found a patch of shade beneath the overhang, letting her eyes adjust, and nearly tripped over a knot of campers clustered around the workbench.

Connor was there, kneeling to eye level with a boy who couldn’t have been older than eleven but had the energy of a speed skater on the first lap. The kid wore a Canucks jersey three sizes too big, and his hair was so blond it looked like it might combust if he stood in direct sunlight for more than a minute.

“…but then you played for the Giants?” the kid was saying, voice tight with awe.

Connor nodded. “Junior league, yeah. For about two years.”

“What position?”

“Center, mostly. Sometimes left wing if they needed me.”

The boy’s eyes got wider. “Did you ever get in a fight?”

Connor grinned. “A few. Lost most of them.”

A ripple of laughter went through the group, then more questions: best goal, hardest hit, what the locker room smelled like, whether he’d met any NHL players. Gabriela leaned on the doorframe and watched as Connor fielded each inquiry without a hint of annoyance or showboating. He didn’t exaggerate or embellish; in fact, he seemed almost determined to downplay it all, as if trying to keep the legend from growing any further.

The kid with the jersey looked unconvinced. “So why’d you quit?”

Connor’s easy posture shifted, just a little. “Didn’t quit,” he said, mouth quirking. “Just on break for the summer. Season starts after Labour Day, so they let us off-leash for a bit.” He shrugged. “Besides, this place has better food.”

A bell clanged from the mess hall, signaling free swim, and the knot of kids took off at a dead sprint, leaving a trail of sawdust and crumpled snack wrappers in their wake.

Gabriela waited until the dust settled, then crossed to where Connor was reassembling a broken paddle, the blade clamped between his knees as he tightened the screws. She let him work in silence for a minute, just the scrape of screwdriver against metal and the faint buzz of mosquitoes.

“Didn’t know you were camp famous,” she said, finally.

He didn’t look up. “It’s temporary. They’ll find someone cooler next week.”

She grinned. “I doubt it.”

Connor finished with the paddle and stood, dusting his hands on the back of his shorts. He looked at her then, and something in his face went quiet.

“Didn’t know you worked here,” he said, nodding to the shade she’d claimed. She shrugged, pretending to inspect an old file on the bench.

“I’m just here for the air conditioning,” she said.

He grinned, quick and surprised. “Let me know when you find it.”

She turned the file over in her hands, watched him from beneath her lashes. “So what do I owe Camp’s Most Eligible?”

Connor leaned back against the workbench, the light through the open door catching in his hair and softening his expression. “Autographs, mostly. It’s brutal.”

Gabriela let herself smile outright. “Poor thing. Hope you survive.”

“Me too,” he said, and it almost felt sincere.

There was a moment then—a quiet that felt different from all the other silences they’d shared, something more dangerous and delicate.

She looked at him, then out at the yard where the air shimmered and the pines cast their long shadows, and she let herself believe it might be true.

The sawdust floated in the sunlight, swirling in lazy circles before settling on the floor.

If Pinecrest had a defining ritual, it was the end-of-session campfire. On her first week here, Gabriela assumed it was mostly for the campers—the roasting of marshmallows, the collective singing of off-key anthems, the shrieking and bravado when someone claimed to have seen a bear in the woods. She hadn’t realized how seriously the counselors took it, or how elaborate the preparations would get.

She watched as they lugged log benches into a semi-circle, close enough to the fire pit for warmth, far enough to keep the smell of scorched sugar from permanently tattooing their clothes. Someone had dragged out an ancient speaker, hooked it to a battery pack, and queued a playlist heavy on 90s pop-punk and nostalgia tracks. The air was thick with pine smoke and the sugary rot of half-melted s’mores.

By the time the sun dipped below the tree line, the entire camp was gathered—kids jittery with anticipation, counselors running interference to keep the chaos below critical. The first round of marshmallows burned quickly, sugar igniting into brief blue flames before collapsing in sticky clumps onto the gravel.

The cider came out after the kids had been herded back toward their cabins. It was technically off-limits, but the camp director turned a blind eye as long as no one got loud enough to attract the attention of the maintenance crew. Someone passed enamel mugs down the line, sloshing with sharp, sweet liquid, and Gabriela took hers with a smile, cradling it between both hands for the warmth.

The stories started, as they always did, with the most seasoned counselors trying to outdo each other. It was a competitive blood sport: recounting near-mythic disasters from summers past, each tale more improbable than the last. There was the legend of the midnight canoe race that ended with three cabins worth of kids marooned on the opposite shore; the time a skunk infiltrated the girls’ bunks and had to be coaxed out with canned cheese; the infamous year of the food fight, still referenced in hushed tones as The Saucepocalypse.

Gabriela listened, grinning, but rarely contributed—she was the newcomer, still earning her stripes. She watched the firelight dance in the hollows of faces, the way everyone leaned in at the best moments, how laughter built and broke in waves across the benches. It was one of the few times she felt connected to the group without the constant anxiety of being on display.

Connor appeared beside her sometime after the first round of stories, sliding in so quietly she almost missed it. He wore a hoodie layered over his usual T-shirt, hood pulled low and hands stuffed in the front pocket. He didn’t say anything at first, just sat close enough that their shoulders brushed every time she shifted.

After the next round of cider, the competition escalated. A senior counselor named Riley, who wore his hair in a man-bun and claimed to have spent a semester “studying the metaphysics of wilderness education,” launched into an elaborate account of the summer he faced down a rabid raccoon armed only with a plastic ladle.

Gabriela snorted into her mug, cider nearly escaping from her nose. Connor turned, eyes crinkled with amusement.

“That’s not even the weirdest animal story from this place,” he murmured.

She leaned in, caught up in the warmth and secrecy of the moment. “What is?”

He kept his voice low, pitched only for her. “Ten bucks says nobody here has actually seen a snapping turtle.”

Gabriela laughed, loud enough to draw a few looks from the next bench. “Those don’t even live in BC, do they?”

He grinned. “Exactly. But it’s in all the camp literature. ‘Beware the snapping turtles—keep your fingers clear of the dock.’ It’s the Pinecrest Loch Ness.”

She considered this, sipped her cider, and enjoyed the fire’s heat on her face. The crowd had shifted to a round of mass singalong, mangling the chorus to “All the Small Things.” The harmony was bad, but the energy was infectious.

Connor leaned in again, his voice quieter. “The raccoon story’s true, though. It allegedly broke into the kitchen and made pancakes.”

“Allegedly,” Gabriela repeated, savoring the word.

He nodded, solemn. “Rumor is it left the dishes in the sink.”

She pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh again, but failed. The cider didn’t help; it made everything a little looser, the edges of the night less sharp.

She felt the ache of smiling, muscles in her cheeks refusing to unclench, and for the first time in weeks, she didn’t care if anyone noticed.

They sat like that for the rest of the fire, close enough to share a blanket if either of them had been the type to admit they were cold. The stories wound down, the cider ran out, and one by one, people drifted away—some in pairs, some alone, all trailing the peculiar comfort of a night well-spent.

When the last song faded and the embers had started to collapse, Gabriela stood, stretching the stiffness from her back. Her mug was empty, but her grin was stubborn, still fixed in place. She glanced at Connor; he nodded, hands in his pockets, face lit by the dying glow.

She walked back toward the cabins with laughter still echoing in her chest, the kind of laughter that didn’t need an audience, the kind that stayed with you long after the night was over.

After lights-out, the camp went almost feral in its quiet. The screens on the main lodge flicked dark, only a single bulb left to burn above the threshold. The cabins dropped into hush punctuated by the bark of a far-off fox or the short, yelping giggle of some kid, half-awake and telling stories to a bunkmate in the dark.

Gabriela slipped away from the counselors’ bunk just before midnight, counting on the fact that nobody would clock her absence unless there was a headcount or a kitchen raid. She didn’t head for the waterfront—too exposed, and too many mosquitoes this late—but for the arts-and-crafts cabin, which still carried the chemical sweetness of drying acrylic and old school glue, even after a full day’s airing.

Inside, the space was lit only by the one working bulb above the supply table and the faint orange flare from the woodstove embers, barely alive in their brick womb. The windows looked onto the darkness like portholes; outside, the woods pressed close, almost conspiratorial. She left the door cracked for cross-breeze and perched on a battered stool behind the counter.

The task she’d set for herself was pointless—one last friendship bracelet for a camper who had begged for the “deluxe” pattern, blue and white and gold with a ridiculous tangle of beads at the ends. She liked the feel of the floss between her fingers, the logic and repetition of the knots. After the riot of the farewell campfire, and the giddy, cider-fueled walk back through camp, this felt like detox. Just hands, string, and the hush.

She was midway through the final section when Connor appeared in the doorway, ghosting through without a word. He wore the same hoodie from earlier, sleeves shoved to the elbows, forearms smudged with sawdust and something dark, maybe paint. He didn’t ask permission, just took the seat opposite her and fished a stray paintbrush from the supply mug, rolling it between his palms.

For a while, neither spoke.

It was Connor who broke the silence, his voice soft enough that it barely rose above the ticking from the cooling stove.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Gabriela smiled without looking up. “Still on city time. And, you know.” She gestured at the table, at the braid in her hands. “Legacy project.”

He twirled the brush, thumb absently catching at the bristles. “You always make them yourself?”

“Somebody has to,” she said. “Otherwise, kids get stuck with those ugly plastic ones. They’re an insult to the institution.”

He laughed, a real one this time, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening.

She finished the last knot, cinched the braid tight, and reached for the charm—a tiny four-leaf-clover, enamel chipped at one edge. It was from the bottom of the bead bin, a reject, but it suited the bracelet. She worked it through the end, careful not to snap the cord, then laid the finished product on the table.

“You should keep it,” Connor said, nodding at the bracelet.

She shook her head. “It’s not for me.”

He held out his hand, palm up. After a tiny, wry hesitation, Gabriela slipped the loop around his finger, then let it drop. Connor turned the bracelet over, considering, then looped it around his wrist. It looked absurd—delicate and homemade against his broad hand—but he flexed his fingers, tugged the braid once as if testing its strength.

“I’ll pay it back,” he said.

She looked up then, and for a moment, neither moved. The bulb above them buzzed faintly, casting shadows that swung and drifted on the walls. Outside, the night pressed tight against the glass.

“You leaving tomorrow?” she asked, finally.

“Day after. Preseason stuff.” He leaned forward, forearms bracketing the table, bracelet glinting in the light. “Honestly, I’d rather stay here.”

“Liar.”

He shook his head. “This place is better than anything waiting for me in Vancouver.”

She didn’t laugh, didn’t argue. Just looked at him—the paint and sawdust, the slouch of his shoulders, the easy way he held the quiet between them like it was somewhere he’d always lived. She turned her eyes back to the beads and thought, for a moment, about what she must look like from across the table.

The minutes stretched out, unhurried and unfilled. Gabriela ran a fingertip over the spare beads, aligning them by color, a pointless task she couldn’t seem to stop. Connor drummed the paintbrush, softer and softer, until it stilled.

When she finally stood to leave, she flicked the switch on the wall, and the bulb died with a tiny pop. They walked out together into the night, the air cool and full of crickets, not speaking but not needing to.

She watched him cross the grass toward the boathouse, the blue-and-gold bracelet still bright against his skin, and wondered if he’d wear it past tomorrow, or if it would vanish into a drawer with all the other relics of camp.

She hoped it might last.