It's 6:24 p.m.

The air is filled with celebration outside, yet all I feel is trepidation. I didn't even have it in me to join some of the fun outside earlier, where most girls are down by the beach or eating from the array of party food brought out to commemorate the last night here.

I'm stuck in front of my collection of clothing, hunting around for something to wear. Most of the pieces I brought are for working out or lounging around, nothing appropriate for a dinner out, but then again, who says I have to dress up? Nowhere did Axel make it sound like this was a date, and even if he did, I could never consider it one with this much dread flowing through my veins.

I look harder and find my favorite pair of girlfriend jeans and a white top that rests slightly off my shoulders, accentuating my collarbones.

Now I'm getting somewhere.

I hurry up and pull on the jeans, realizing they're so much looser than they were last month. I ignore the different fit, seeing that they look trendy enough anyway, and pull on the white top and a small necklace.

Axel has never seen me even remotely dressed up, nor have I ever worn makeup around him. It's strange how I've never been insecure in my natural form around him, and maybe that says something about him. Either way, I have to deal with the little makeup I brought and conceal my small blemishes, line my eyes, and run enough mascara through my eyelashes to land me a Maybelline commercial.

When I'm done fixing my hair and applying a nude lipstick, I grab my phone and head out the door. I slip out the exit of the dorm building and hurry towards the parking lot on the opposite side of the camp. It's 6:59 when I reach the lot, and I try to locate Axel before finding his car, having no idea what he even drives.

I find him in the middle of the lot, standing in front of an older black BMW, and make my way over there, adjusting my hair again. I was hoping I'd be the first one there, but I remind myself that not everything has to be a competition at this camp.

When I approach his car, I notice that he's decided to clean up in almost the same way: a white linen shirt rolled up to his elbows, with a few open buttons at the top, and a pair of fitting dark jeans. His clothes are so simple yet they make him look even more attractive—if that's even possible at this point.

We don't say anything for a few seconds, our eyes doing all of the work.

"You look pretty," he says, comment so innocent for that wandering gaze.

"We kind of match, don't we?"

"Can assure you that wasn't planned," he jokes and holds open the passenger door for me.

We don't say much as he drives. I keep my gaze trained on the window, counting trees and stop signs absentmindedly, trying not to think about what might come out of this dinner. There's that thick tension between us again, and this time I can blame it partly on the outside, since Axel's half-open window lets in the muggy late July warmth.

But the light goosebumps forming on my arms can't be from the weather.

After around twenty minutes, he pulls up into the far end of the parking lot of an upscale steakhouse, one I went to once for Poppy's high school graduation. When we get out of the car, he looks down at our hands. Mine gravitates towards his on instinct, but I pull it away at the last minute, not wanting to seem desperate. A trace of a smile meets his lips as he brushes his fingers against mine as some middle ground.

My stomach roils when we finally sit down at our table. Everything about this, from the table for two to the lit candle in the middle of it, screams first date.

But it's not.

"You comfortable?" Axel asks, taking note of how I'm sitting on the edge of my seat. He picks up his glass of water gingerly, eyeing me from behind it as he drinks.

I pick up my own. "Yeah," I say and release a small breath. I lean back in my seat and cross my legs. "I am."

We continue playing a game of staring and small talk, while our eyes periodically dart to the breadbasket in the middle of the table.

I pick up a thick slice of ciabatta and rip off a piece with more force than necessary. "Let's get to the point here, Axel." I chew without thinking and swallow before leaning over the table. "You didn't bring me here so we could stare at some bread. You brought me here to talk."

"We haven't eaten yet," he says. He peruses the menu, even though I'm sure he already knows what he wants. "Shame if we left before ordering something."

"Are you assuming I'm going to lose my appetite by the end of this?" I trail my fingers down the stem of my glass. "If so, why waste money on a meal, then?"

"You would never be a waste," he says and takes a slice of bread for himself. I hate how my heart skips a beat at the offhand comment, knowing how easily a couple of sweet words from him could make me forget the whole point of this dinner. "You can't say we're not talking right now."

I huff. "You know exactly what I mean, Axel."

"Fine." He puts down his already half-empty glass of water and leans on his elbows. As he opens his mouth to finally reveal one of his thoughts, a server stops by our table and asks if we're ready to order. I gesture to Axel to choose for me, as I haven't even bothered to pick up the menu.

When the server, Hugo, leaves with our orders, Axel knows he has no excuse now. He runs his fingers over the stubble on his jaw and gazes over my head, while I wait in silence, my patience growing thin.

"Did you ever notice, Whitney," he asks, looking at me again, "how much more I learned about you...than you did about me these last five weeks?"

I pause, unsure how true his statement is. I learned a little about his family, a little about his educational background, and a lot about his motivations, at least when working out.

I laugh lightly. "Well, if I recall, you were the one who told me, 'the purpose of this experience isn't to become friends.'"

"Fair," he muses and puts down his cup with a small clink. "What if I told you that you know more about me than you think, and you just need someone to put the pieces together?"

I freeze in my seat. "What do you mean...?"

He answers my question with another. "How much does a subway accident jog your memory? New York City, ten years ago this November."

I choke on my sip of water and force the rest down with a small cough. There's no way. No way. How does he know about the very incident that turned my family upside down and made us leave New York without ever looking back?

He finishes my thoughts for me. "My father was in that accident. One of the seven lost forever."

My heart drops to my stomach, and my piece of bread slips out of my fingers onto the plate with a light clink. A lump the size of a golf ball starts to form in my throat, and I struggle to swallow. "My dad lost two of his coworkers that day."

"He did," he says, oddly calm, "and my dad was one of them."

"D-did they know each other well? I never knew if they were more than colleagues."

He shrugs. "Colleagues, partners, whatever you want to call them. One thing they weren't was friends, but I guess that's why you know so little."

I start to fume a little at his demeaning tone. I'm not sure how sensitive topics are handled in his household, but that subway accident was a no-go zone in my house for years. My mom used to urge me to never mention it around my dad because it "worked him up," but I never got an explanation as to why. He wasn't actually in it—he'd been fine in all ways physical. But maybe not mentally, leaving me to attribute his silence to some unresolved PTSD.

"I guess what I do know, Axel," I say, looking into his eyes, "is that I was eight years old at the time of that accident, and that's why I know almost nothing. But before you crush my hopes, do tell me: did you find out about this history before or after I came to this camp?"

He licks his lips and looks away. "I don't think you need me to answer that."

I release a defeated sigh. "So that's what you meant when you chose to work with me, right? Did you see me as some key to the past, or better yet, a way to get to my father? Because have fun trying to reach him when he doesn't even have the time of day for his own daughter."

"Neither," he blurts. He frets over his next few words, his mouth opening and closing. At last, he reveals his true thoughts, "All I wanted to know at first...was if you were anything like your father."

Like your father. I replay the words in my head a few times, hating the way they sound from his lips. No one should know my dad better than his own daughter, yet I know that's far from the truth, as he's a closed book with me—or anyone else in my family, for the matter.

"What do you know about him, Axel?"

He notices my disillusioned expression and looks away again. In the meantime, another server arrives to fill our drained water glasses and asks if we need anything else.

Yeah, a way out, I think, unsure if I can bear this conversation for much longer.

"Fuck," he mutters and presses his fingers into his forehead. "I thought I could tell you all of this like it was nothing, but it feels wrong now."

I shake my head. "Forget my feelings. I want to know the truth."

He drops his hand to the table and nods slowly. "I thought, Whitney, when I first saw your name on the list of applicants, that I hated you. Not you, but the family you came from, ever since I learned about the days that surrounded my father's death." He has my attention now, in spite of my bubbling anger. "The day of the accident was his last day on the job, working at the same investment bank as your father. It was all supposed to be fine. He had a new job lined up, one that paid better and was less stressful. And we were finally going to move to Manhattan and start a new life. But on that same day, he found out your father took away that job offer with a blatant lie, one that would have blacklisted him from any other firm in the future. Something so calculated had to have been done out of spite, but what I know for sure is that your father was well aware that job was going to help support a wife and two kids, and he would have destroyed a family. Well, it was destroyed, anyway." My stomach turns as his tone grows colder. "They had a heated confrontation that day, and my dad chose to leave a few hours earlier than he normally did. He boarded that train...and then... And then he died."

Every word that comes out of his mouth feels like another brick to the head. I can't accuse him of being a liar, because the story checks out. What else would have made my dad desperate for a new life, only months after the accident, other than overwhelming guilt?

"Please tell me my dad reached out afterwards," I say, voice weak and palms slick. "Or that he did something for your family. Please."

He looks away and scoffs. "He helped covered the funeral costs, but he didn't actually show up. And you know what, I don't blame him. He didn't kill my father. He didn't even intend for that day to end the way it did. But God...it could have ended so differently."

I don't tell him that I do blame my dad, knowing the power of choice all too well at this point.

I just couldn't believe his own had followed me this many years into the future.

"I guess I should pose the question then," I say, voice barely above a whisper. "Am I anything like my father?"

"No," he breathes, reaching for my hand. I leave it frozen on the table, not reacting when his fingers grasp mine. "I don't even know what your dad is like now either. I just wanted to prove something to myself with the knowledge I had, and all I ended up with was the pleasure of meeting the sweetest girl in the world."

Our food arrives, and I heave an internal sigh of relief, needing a second to process everything I've learned. In some ways, the image of my father has shattered before my eyes, but it already had a few cracks before, when I thought barely knowing him was my biggest problem.

But maybe it was.

"Please say something, Whitney," Axel says, pushing his plate to the side. He tips my chin up with his fingertips, and he finally sees my glassy eyes. His face breaks, washing over with guilt.

I blink back my tears and force a smile. "I guess I had to find out about this eventually, even though I know my dad would have never told me the truth himself. I can't talk to him like that, Axel. I don't have what you think I do."

I expect him to guilt me with the fact I still have a dad, but he says nothing. Gone is the almost cocky confidence with which he began this conversation, lost in the same place as my appetite.

"I didn't have bad intentions," he says softly. "I just wanted closure. I heard so many stories from my mother, my dad's old friends, endless Google searches. When I confirmed you were his daughter, I thought I'd be even angrier." He leans over the table, his face a few inches from my own and finishes, "Turns out you were my closure, Whitney. My reasons may have been off in the beginning, but my feelings for you have been more than real this whole time."

"Feelings?" I repeat, realizing this conversation is now taking a different direction. "You want to freely admit them right now?"

"We're being honest tonight, aren't we?" I nod, unable to argue that point. "I'll admit that day in the lounge could have gone a very different way, if you'd wanted it to." He notices the way I suck in a breath and purse my lips and adds, "That offer doesn't have an expiration date, by the way."

I regain an ounce of dignity and clear my throat. "How do I know you don't have an ulterior motive this time as well?"

"What do you suspect I'm hiding?"

I huff. "I don't know; I'm just getting with the program."

He shakes his head, disappointment flickering in his eyes. "My honesty doesn't apply to only certain matters," he says and grabs my hand. I let mine mold into his, hating how perfectly it fits. "What do you need to believe me? Time? Written proof?"

"What do you need from me, Axel?" I lean over the table and corner him this time. "The problem is on my side, isn't it?"

"I don't need anything," he begins, his response seeming so simple. Then he finishes, "Besides you."

Choosing not to answer him, I make the first cut into my steak, practically stabbing the piece of meat with my knife.

Axel watches me eat warily, while I simply stare off into space, wondering if the pieces of this relationship have fallen apart tonight—or if they've finally fallen into place.