by Wood, Vivian
Rachel is standing in my old loft apartment, the one I lived in from age fifteen on. I live in East Orange, just thirty minutes from downtown Manhattan. And yet my neighborhood is so poor that a young kid can afford the rent on this massive one-bedroom.
Okay, it’s less of a one bedroom and more of an abandoned warehouse with one corner cordoned off with bedsheets for walls. But still. It’s cheap as sin and I can afford it, even though I came from nothing. It’s a hell of a lot better than the one bedroom house I had to share with my mother, my two little sisters, and whatever man my mom is bringing around these days.
I look at Rachel, who is standing on my bed. I’m at her feet, laying comfortably with my arms behind my head. I’m naked except for a pair of white cotton boxer briefs. Rachel isn’t wearing anything but a dark blue bedsheet yet she stands like a fucking queen.
She’s so fucking regal, I can’t stand it. Born to it, judging from her house and the little red Mercedes that she drives down to East Orange every time she misses me.
Rachel adjusts the bedsheet, pulling it over her shoulders so it’s more robe-like. She lifts her head just so, her honey-colored hair spilling down her back. She holds her hands upward, curling them around the ends of a hairbrush. I forget to breathe for a second. She looks for all the world like an old-world painting.
Not to get all sappy and shit, but if I could paint, I would splay her out across my canvas and capture every single detail of Rachel with my brush. The shallow arch of her forehead. The tumble of her hair, sweetly amber. The subtle glow of her pink-stained cheeks. The proud line of her nose. The curve of her jawline and how it leads gently into her throat. Her collarbone…
God, I could spend countless hours on just that.
I realize that I’m getting hard just thinking about her collarbone, which should be weird. But it’s not. With Rachel, it makes sense. Or at least, I am comfortable with it.
“Okay, I think I’ve got it,” she says. She glances at me and sees that I’m daydreaming. Giving me a fiendish look, she tries to tickle me with her toes. Then she straightens, resuming her pose. “Pay attention. Do I look like that painting of Lady Macbeth we saw at the Met?”
She lifts her head again. It makes me smile.
“Lady Macbeth had a fancier dress on.” I squint. “And she held a crown up, not a hairbrush…”
Rachel rolls her eyes. “Use your imagination, please.”
I give her a devilish smile. “If I let my imagination run wild, there wouldn’t be any posing. In fact…”
I reach out and grab her calves, pulling her down onto the bed with me. Quick as a flash, I am on top of her, driving my hands into that amber mane of hers. She reacts exactly how I want her to. How I need her to. Her breath catches in her throat, her eyes widen.
Desire flares between us, rising high like a flame that’s just touched a stack of kindling. Her lush lips part, drawing me closer. I press my lips to hers, drawing in a lungful of her scent. She is so sweet and so willing, it practically kills me that I’m not already inside of her.
I push away the bedsheet that separates us. Then I can touch her soft skin, cup her bouncy tits, snake my hand down between her legs, and find her wet and ready for me.
Then I am lost in her, breathing her in, capturing her whimpers of pleasure with my tongue.
A forgotten child, an abused youth, a young man who enlisted in the damn Navy just to escape his life. For this moment, I am none of those things.
I’m no longer a street rat and she is no longer royalty. Here alone, in this bed, we are equals.
Rachel groans into my shoulder and wraps her legs around my back as I stroke her again and again and again. And I taste the salty-sweet skin of her lips, her neck, her collarbone.
Yes, I think.
I need her.
I love her.
She’s my everything.
My eyes fly open on that thought. Sweating and disoriented, it takes me a minute to get my bearings. The starry night sky is the only one to greet me.
Rachel is fading away, making me reach out in the dark in a desperate attempt to hold her tight to me. I feel so alone, so bereft just at this moment.
I’m at base camp in the Olympic National Park. I’m not in that bed with Rachel, no matter how badly I want to be.
That moment passed a long, long time ago.
Fuck. I tense my whole body and recite my mantra to myself quietly, regret sinking deep down in my bones.
“It is the year 2018.” I whisper it to the stars, my only companions. “It is the fifth month, the month of May. It is the seventh day of the month, a Monday. I’m currently in the Olympic National Park. My name is Grayson James Sellwood and I am okay.”
“It is the year 2018. It is the fifth month, the month of May. It is the second day of the month, a Tuesday. My name is Grayson James Sellwood and I am okay.”
My voice breaks on the last word, my eyes misting over.
I’m not okay. Far from it. But if I just keep telling myself that I am, maybe one day it will be true.
The stars don’t have any reply. They just look on, silent and brilliantly clear.
I suck in a deep breath and begin repeating my mantra again.
Chapter Eleven
Grayson
Once I am awake, it’s still pitch black out. There is a patch of sky just above where I strung up my hammock. I can just make out the stars through it, glimmering brightly above. They seem to whisper something to me. But try as I might, I can’t make out what they are saying.
My heart thuds painfully in my chest.
“Hey.”
I whip around awkwardly in my hammock to find Rachel approaching. She’s wearing this oversized light blue sweater and white shorts so tiny that they all but disappear underneath her top. I frown at her.
“It’s the middle of the damned night.” I climb up out of my hammock, feeling damp and sweaty.
She doesn’t apologize. She just shrugs and casts me a long glance, head to toe.
I feel weighed and measured, judged by her mere presence. I’ve always felt that way about Rachel, that she is always assessing my value. Like at any moment she might calculate my worth to be too little and cast me aside.
“I need to talk to you,” she says, her voice hushed. “I need to ask…”
I flinch internally but struggle to keep my face neutral. This is my mask that I use to shield myself from the world, to shield the world from my angry outbursts.
“What?” I ask. My tone is aggressive, giving away my myriad of feelings right now.
She shivers, lifting her chin. She looks like a Greek goddess standing there in the moonlight. Like Selene, who drove her divine chariot through the night sky, wishing for her Endymion.
“Where did you go?” she demands. “You disappeared from my life. Why?”
Her voice breaks a little on the last word. And it absolutely breaks my heart. Still, there are things that she’s better off not knowing.
Things about me.
Things about her family.
It takes a second for me to respond. “I had to leave.”
I can see tears shining in her eyes. She makes a bitter face. “To go where?”
That’s really not the right question, but I don't tell her that. Instead I change the subject a little.
“It wasn’t much of a choice. Know that.”
A tear breaks away and rolls down her cheek. She’s so vulnerable, so fragile. I am like a bull stomping around a china shop. I can’t be trusted around something so raw and I know it. My whole body aches to hold her, my fingers clench with the need to touch her.
I’ve never missed anything so much as I miss a younger, more naïve version of Rachel. Back before I ruined everything. Back before she found someone to take my place.
My mouth turns into a hard line.
“So you won’t tell me anything, then?”
Her aggravation and her weakness come through her voice in equal measure.
If it
were that easy to unravel the threads of what I was running from — my fury, my impotent anger, my deep depression — I would have done it for her. But I can’t even begin without thinking what if, what if…
My despair feels like a physical thing living inside my chest, burning me alive and struggling to get out at the same time. It threatens to break free, rampaging everywhere.
And then before I know it, I am spiraling out of control. It has happened a dozen times since I first arrived at Whiskey Bend, a broken and bitter man.
No. I know myself. I know this pain that I live with. Confessing to Rachel will only make it worse at this point. It is better to keep it inside buried deep, where it can only harm me.
“No.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Can you deal with that? If not, you should go back to New York.”
Her jaw stiffens. Her eyes narrow. She hugs herself. “And give up the summer internship? That’s not likely.”
I shrug. “Then there is nothing left to talk about. We will go to take your samples. We will camp out side by side. We will be polite to each other. And then at the end of the summer, we will go our separate ways.”
She huffs scornfully. “It’s as easy as that, huh?”
No, it’s a million times more complicated, like everything she touches. But I won’t give her the satisfaction. “It is,” I reply evenly.
“You really are a piece of work.” Rachel fires that off as her parting remark, spinning and heading back the way she came from.
I watch as she goes, feeling the wind stirring. A thundercloud beginning to gather above me in her stead.
Watching.
Waiting.
I feel like that thundercloud sometimes, waiting and watching for signs that Rachel is going to break down and leave the camp altogether. But there has been no sign, not yet at least.
Frustrated, I climb back in my hammock as I feel the first few droplets begin to make their way through the canopy above.
Chapter Twelve
Rachel
I sit bolt upright in bed. My brain is as fuzzy as my teeth feel. It’s still dark out, before even the most industrious would rise.
Buzz buzz buzz. Buzz buzz buzz.
I grab my phone and look at the screen. Mom is calling me, ignoring the fact that I’m two whole timezones earlier than her. She’s upset that I’m still in Washington, if I had to bet. Gritting my teeth, I swipe my finger across the screen and answer the call.
“Mother, it’s the middle of the night here.”
It’s not really. The sun is definitely already up, but it feels good to grumble at someone. It feels doubly good for that someone to be the negative voice in my head, criticizing me when she’s not even around.
She doesn’t sound repentant, though.
“Well, that’s your mistake. Why are you on the opposite coast when you know you should be right here with me.” I can almost feel my mother smirking at me, doing that smiling and talking through her teeth thing she does when she is very, very angry.
My mother isn’t ever mad because as she says, it’s not ladylike. I roll my eyes. Inside though, I feel small. Talking to my mother always makes me feel like some dumb child with rose colored glasses.
My mom is just cruel enough to consider it her duty to make sure I see clearly.
“Well, that will have to wait. The west coast is charming and I plan on spending the whole summer out here.” I stifle a yawn.
“Oh, I just bet it is wonderful.” She sounds clenched even through the phone.
“It is. I’m even getting to see old friends while I’m out here. Grayson Sellwood is going to show me around this summer.”
I mean it as a barb, to taunt my mom a little. She detests Grayson.
As soon as I’ve said it though my brow furrows. I’m exhausted and I didn’t mean for that to come out. If there is anyone who disapproved of me dating Grayson, it was my mother.
There is a moment of silence before she answers. “Isn’t that the boy you dated in college? The one who, if I remember correctly, made you sob helplessly into your pillow for three months when he up and disappeared?”
My face heats. Of course she remembers. She was the one who helped me pick myself up and taught me to guard my heart with a thick shield of money, power, and privilege. I clear my throat.
“He’s turned up, I guess.”
A resounding statement if ever there was one.
“Rachel, dear…” My mother sighs dramatically. “It sounds to me as if you are out there on your own, working toward getting your little heart trampled all over again. I have to tell you, I couldn’t approve any less.”
I feel a little bit of that old teen rebellion rising inside me. So what if my mommy doesn’t approve! I do what I want!
I don't say that though. Instead I just suck in a breath. “I’ll take that under advisement.”
My mother huffs out a laugh. “Okay then, Rachel. Well, there are several ways that this phone conversation could have gone, but… so be it.”
I grind my teeth and say nothing. Which is perfect, because my mom is only winding up.
“Here is a little advice, from woman to woman. Spend the summer chasing your old boyfriend. Sow your wild oats. Fall in love for all I care.” She pauses. “But as soon as the leaves start to turn, you get on a plane to New York. Come back here. Marry Clay or marry some other Wall Street boy. Settle down and get pregnant. Because if you don't…”
She trails off, meaning for me to fill in the blanks. But I’ve never been one to color inside the lines where my mom is concerned.
“Then what?” I say, disbelieving. “You’ll cut me off?”
“Oh, Rachel.” She laughs. “That is only the beginning of what you’ll bring down onto your own head if you continue to push me.”
Without really meaning to, I hit END on the call. I stare at the screen afterward for several seconds, unable to swallow everything my mother laid out for me.
What the hell just happened? Did my mom really just threaten me with excommunication from my own family?
I almost don’t believe it. But then again, it’s my mother. She doesn’t bluff. She doesn’t need to.
I grind my teeth. Even if I wanted to leave, after that call I wouldn’t dare. If I bend to my mother’s whims again, she will gain the upper hand. And I can’t let that happen, not now that I’m an adult. Otherwise she will make my life a living hell, forever demanding something.
I carry the conversation with me into the morning. It hangs around over my head as I go into my final day at Whiskey Bend base camp.
Grayson is nowhere to be found in the morning, savoring his last moments alone I guess. I eat and then pack most of my camping backpack, jamming it full of changes of clothes and makeup. Then I look at the mound of things on the bed, still waiting their turn to be packed.
I have way too much stuff.
Pulling everything out of my backpack I start again. The sample taking equipment is a no-brainer. That has to go. And the bag of makeup essentials is also easy to pack. But when I get down to choosing which clothing stays and which goes, it is much harder. Slowly but surely, I whittle the pile down until it is the bare minimum. It’s still way more stuff than I think technically should go in the bag, but I think I can squish it down and make it fit.
There is a knock on my cabin door. I step over the mess I’ve made and drag the door open. There I find Grayson, who has his arms full of camping stuff. He seems to be uncertain, like he’s not sure what sort of mood I will be in today.
As if there is any way that I am just okay after this week. He shifts the load of stuff in his arms.
“I come in peace. I wanted to make sure you had everything—” He stops talking midsentence, looking at my backpack. “That isn’t going to fly. You have at least twice as much stuff as you need there.”
That isn’t what I wanted to hear. Screwing up my mouth, I twist around and look at the backpack.
“I was thinking I could make it fit if I just stuff it
down.”
Grayson gives me an exasperated expression. “First of all, you need to fit all this stuff I’m holding in there. And second, you have to be able to actually carry it.”
I step back, pulling a face. “I know.”
He enters my tiny cabin, crowding me, and sets down the stuff he’s carrying on top of the pile on my bed. “Have you even tried to lift it yet?”
My face heats. “No.”
It’s strange, but I feel the same about Grayson just now that I do whenever I talk to my mother. Small and stupid, for a start.
And oh so very weak.
“Okay.” He looks at me and then casually leans over the bag, catching the whole thing in his big hands and dumping it out in one smooth motion.
“Hey!” I protest. “I am still figuring out what goes in, okay?”
He is unruffled by my annoyed words. He’s already picking through the pile he’s created on the floor. “God, you have so many clothes. You need like half the amount of clothing that is here.”
I cross my arms and cock my hip. It’s hard to bite my tongue, but I can’t argue about the amount of clothes that I have. It is a ridiculous amount, especially considering the fact that I have three times as many brand-new camping outfits that I didn’t stuff into my backpack. I cast my gaze over the items on the bed as Grayson sorts things into piles.
As I stand and watch, I can’t help but watch his body flex as he moves around. His arms bunch when he lifts my backpack. When he leans down to pick something up off of the floor, I get a tantalizing glimpse of his muscular back.
He was a work of art back when I knew him. But now, his muscles are honed, all trace of fat whittled away until there is nothing left but a gorgeous male specimen.
I look on, biting my lower lip.
At the top of the new pile are the things that Grayson brought. A first aid kit. Matches. A length of rope. A spade. A long heavy duty flashlight. A jar of peanut butter. A map and a compass. And a rolled up thing, sort of like a yoga mat but thicker.
“What is this?” I ask.
He glances over his shoulder. “A sleeping pad.”