by Lindsey Hart
“I can walk to the park office and see if they have any aloe vera gel.”
“Doubtful.”
“Then the store that was connected to the off-sale where we got the beer. I’ll walk there.”
“It’s ridiculously far.”
“That’s okay. We’ll pack up the campsite and drive to the cabin, assuming it’s ready, which it must be if you got the key already. I’ll unpack, and you can take a cold shower and lie down.”
It seems like a sound plan, and Adam just nods in agreement. He rolls off the towel, picks it up, and we walk back to the campsite together. I’m sure every step must hurt, that the stinging and burning and the heat of his pink skin must be fully embedded into Adam’s consciousness, but he doesn’t say anything.
He helps me pack up the campsite—messily, but that’s okay—into the car trunk, which seems to have shrunk since I saw it last, then slides in behind the wheel and consults the paper map the park office gave him. He sets it aside, starts the car, and drives us deftly there, avoiding all the holes and bumps in the gravel road. I don’t point out that if he’s looking to prove to himself all the things he’s good at, navigating a sports car with half an inch clearance around somewhere that’s only fit for trucks and SUV’s is a feat all in itself. Also, finding the cabin just by looking at a really crude paper map that looks like it was drawn by a five-year-old who had no notion of what he was doing and just put a bunch of random buildings and crap all over the place is really impressive, and Adam doesn’t get lost. He takes us straight to the cabin.
I take the key from the dash and go to investigate. The cabin is small. And not log. Just some kind of place painted wretched brown, and it’s not new or nice. But still. It’s pretty much paradise at the moment.
I push open the door, not expecting much judging from the exterior, but I’m impressed. It’s not modern or nice, but it is homey in here. The walls and ceilings are blonde-stained wood. There’s low pile grey carpeting on the floor and a living room and kitchen combined into one. A couch, a small table with three chairs, a fridge, a stove, and a counter with a tiny sink that looks like it was taken from an RV at one time, and token faded pictures of fish complete the first bit. I kick off my flip-flops and walk to the door at the far left down the tiny hall that juts past the living room. There’s a bathroom with a sink, toilet, and the kind of shower stall that also looks industrial like it might have been borrowed from a previous life because it fit in the tiny space. But it’s still indoor plumbing and our own shower, and I’m thrilled to see it. There’s only one more door, and when I push that open, I’m surprised to find a bedroom with a queen-sized bed with no headboard or footboard, a beat-up wood nightstand, and a small dresser that looks like it’s being held up by hope and a prayer.
Which is fine. It would all be fine. Except there’s just one bed.
I don’t know how I feel about that.
Fine, I can imagine feeling pretty good doing a few things on it with Adam, but I know I’m not supposed to be considering that, so I cut off any such emotions about pleasure immediately. I’ll take the couch. It’s big and upholstered, and it looks as comfortable as the bed.
I hope.
Why didn’t I agree to go home when Adam told me he’d take me back?
Hmm, I don’t want to think about that either, because it’s trouble, and I think since we got here, we’ve had enough trouble and mishaps to fill up a whole month.
“It’s alright?”
I startle, jumping on the spot and spinning around like I was just caught doing something terrible even though I was just standing here looking. I didn’t hear Adam come up behind me.
In the low light that’s filtering into the small hall from the bigger windows in the living room, Adam’s burn looks even worse.
“Jesus,” I breathe loudly. “You scared the shit right out of me.”
“I really hope not.”
“Your burn must sting badly. You should get in the shower and get some cold water on that. Don’t burns keep burning after unless you stop them with some kind of cooling agent?”
“I don’t know. I’ve heard you should rub dirt on them.”
“Don’t do that!”
“I was kidding. I think that’s wasp stings.”
I let out another shaky breath. “You should get in the shower. I’ll walk and see if I can find that aloe vera gel. Just leave the car. I can unpack it when I get back.”
“You shouldn’t…this isn’t…I…”
“Just please get in the shower,” I say gently but firmly because I don’t want to have another conversation about inadequacies or the need to prove something.
We’ve talked about it endlessly, and I’m already exhausted. The heaviness weighing me down after spending a cold, wet night in an uncomfortable car hasn’t exactly been offset by the nap I took on the beach, and I have to say my patience is at an all-time low. I’m worried about Adam because his burn is nasty, and I’m aggravated with myself for not doing what I feel is my basic job, looking after him. Why didn’t I watch to make sure he put the sunscreen on? Why didn’t I wake up sooner? Why did I have the extremely bright idea of lying out on the beach under an unmercifully scorching sun in the first place?
“I can walk with you. I feel bad. Let me drive you—”
“Just. Shower. Please. I can’t stand looking at that. I can almost feel it in my own skin. I know it hurts. So, please. Have a shower. We can talk about what we’re going to do after I get back.”
“It’ll fade into a nice, deep tan by this evening.”
“Good luck with that. I really hope so. Or at least, by tomorrow morning. If you turn cherry red, I’m calling an ambulance.”
Adam sticks a hand on the wall and leans against it. He runs the other through his hair. Even in this state—tired, disheveled, slightly sick looking, probably a little bit hungover, and sunburned near to a crisp—he’s absolutely, devastatingly gorgeous. Sunburned Adam is still so beautiful that it makes my ovaries throb. The lady bits want to get in on that action, but I press my lips together and spin around.
Aloe vera gel. I need aloe vera gel or a bottle of whisky. If I can’t find one, I’ll make do with the other. I’ve heard they both take the edge off fine. That’s my mission.
My purse is in the car, so I grab it and head down the road in what I hope is the right direction. I’m slightly hungover, and being so tired doesn’t help with brain function. I need all those cells to get myself oriented, and my gray matter is not cooperating, but luckily, there are huge signs along the road here and there that say things like beach, trailhead, park office, showers, firewood, and whatnot, and those are fairly helpful.
I walk until my shins threaten to disown me from choosing flip-flops for such an arduous task. My purse is heavy, and the strap digs into my shoulder since it’s bare. I was so thoroughly unprepared for this walk that I want to laugh and cry at the same time, but then I think about the hiking boots and the damage they did to my poor feet, and I want to cry for real. Now that I’m thinking about those blisters, I can feel every single one of them with every step I take. How could I have forgotten? Oh right. Tent falling in and soaking us, being slightly drunk, having to sleep in a car, and passing out on a beach. That’s how I forgot.
I’m tough. I can do this.
And I do. Even though I’m grinding my teeth in pain by the time I get to the park office, I make it to the attached tiny store that sells things like milk, bread, canned goods, stomach upset medication, tampons, and condoms (obviously, they have the important things down), bug spray, sunscreen, and thankfully, aloe vera gel.
I pick up the three tubes they have, even though they’re industrial-sized and three times the price of what I’d normally pay for something like that, and head to the register. I don’t feel right paying with Adam’s company card, so I use my own. My eyes water at the fifty dollar price tag, but I accept the paper bag gratefully.
The guy behind the counter eyes me up for a minute, his bu
shy white brows shooting up towards the big, floppy green hat he has on his bald head. He’s fairly stooped, utterly adorable, and looks older than the campground itself. When he grins at me, it’s all dentures, and it melts my heart.
“You look like you could use a ride. I have a golf cart out back. Can I help you back to your campsite?”
My heart melts some more. Or maybe it’s my eyes. It’s hard to tell. When I sniffle, my nose feels wet and blocked, so yup, it’s probably my eyes. My pride tells me to thank him and decline. But my feet tell me a ride is a must, and I want to fall on the ground and dissolve into a puddle of messy, snotty, tear-filled gratefulness.
“Thank you,” I manage to say with some dignity. “We’re staying in the row of cabins that are by the big blue pelican statue.”
“Pelican Lane. Yes. That’s not far. I can lock up the store for a few minutes. Come on.”
“Oh! I can’t let you do that! What if someone comes and needs—”
Now it’s his turn to snort—he does it in a cute, dignified sort of way though, not at all like the gross watery noise I made—as he waves his hand. “Come on. I close the office all the time for a few minutes. That’s why I have the sign on the door. Back in five, it says.”
I’m really too tired to protest. I even let the poor elderly gentleman hobble to the door and flip the sign. He walks like he needs a ride everywhere, and it makes me feel absolutely ashamed that he’s taking time out of his day for me when I’m young, fit(ish), and healthy minus the blistered feet which are my own dang fault.
George. I finally realize he has a name tag on his shirt. It was mostly hidden away and is so old and battered that I can barely read it. But I think it says George. I’m going with George.
George gives me one more denture-filled smile and waves me to the back. I have to walk behind the glass counter, which feels a little weird, before walking past all the back rooms, which are mostly an office and storage room for extra stock, then out a heavy back door. The white and green golf cart with a logo of four different kinds of wildlife—a raccoon, squirrel, owl, and a bear—awaits me.
I swallow nervously. “Do you have many bears around here?” I get into the passenger side, my feet aching with every step.
George starts the old cart up. It wheezes and whines but whirrs to life. He backs up slowly but heads down the rutted road at such a pace that I have to grab the sides and hold on for dear life. Choking gravel dust rises around us at his mad clip. I think he’s maxing out the cart if the engine’s high-pitched scream is any indication. But I don’t mention any of that. A ride is a ride, and it’s honestly quite far. It’s probably a three-mile walk, and my blistered heels and toes spontaneously start bleeding again at the thought.
“Not really,” George finally responds. “We used to have a lot more, but most of them have been relocated or have just moved on as the park became busier and busier. Back in the good old days, we were pulling bears out of here every other day.”
“The good old days.”
“Oh, yes. Those were the times!”
George rattles off a list of all the wildlife he used to encounter, some crazy bear stories about bears threatening tents, cars, coolers, and chasing people up trees, which I find absolutely terrifying, a story about a forest fire that burned so close to the camp that they thought they’d lose it, and about some of the drunken long weekends he’s had to put up with. By the time I get to the cabin, I’ve realized two things. George is quite entertaining, a natural-born storyteller, and he’s also probably the owner, or one of the owners, of the entire campground.
“Thank you!” I always mean it when I thank someone, but this thank you is all breathy and so sincere that it makes my eyes feel watery again.
“No problem. You take care now.” George grins at me. “Come back and visit me again.”
“I will!”
It’s not until after he drives off that I wonder if he means to come back to the campground or go to the store. Before we leave, I’ll go back to check out and thank George again. That ride was one of the kindest things anyone’s done for me in a long time. I could sit and listen to George’s stories all day, even if the ones about bears scare the life out of me. It’s not very often you meet a truly kind soul, and George is one of those special, unique people that are so hard to come by.
I might even consider coming camping again, just to be able to sit and visit with him for another few minutes.
I shake my head as I walk up the two steps and across the tiny porch. What am I thinking? I will never come camping again. Look at the disaster it’s been already.
Speaking of disaster, when I open the cabin door, I find Adam sprawled out on the couch, still shirtless and clearly not showered at all. He’s on his back with one leg off and a hand on the coffee table in front of it. He has the other across his eyes. He reminds me of me the few times I went out drinking with friends a long time ago and wasn’t exactly responsible with the amount I consumed. The couch was my friend when the room wouldn’t stop spinning, and neither would my stomach.
I grip the paper bag and walk over. When he hears me approach, one beautiful eye cracks open, and he groans. “This was such a bad idea. I’m sorry I dragged you out here.”
I ignore him. It’s too late for apologies and regrets. We’re here.
We’re here, and I actually don’t regret any of it. Not your kisses. Not your touch. Not the taste of you or the silky feeling of your skin. Not the fact that I want to do all of it again.
“Here’s the aloe vera gel.” I thrust the bag at him, sure that my face is redder than Adam’s burn. I study the bag in my hand so he can’t look at my eyes. He’d know what I’m thinking for sure.
Are we ever going to be able to talk about what happened last night? Or how it can’t ever happen again?
“I think you should shower first, or you’ll wash it all off. I’m sure the cold water would feel really good.”
“I just…I just need to lay here for a few more minutes.”
On instinct, I brush my fingers over Adam’s brow, where he’s not covering it with his arm. He’s warm but not feverish. “Do you have heatstroke too?”
“I have no idea.”
“Are you sick? Is your stomach okay? Are you in pain? Is it that cut?” The wound is mostly scabbed over, and really, it doesn’t look as nasty as it did when it happened. With the tent, the rain, the car, and the burn, I’d completely forgotten about it. “Are you concussed? Should I call for an am—”
“No. Do not call an ambulance,” Adam groans. “I’m fine. Just tired and slightly hungover, if I’m honest, which is embarrassing.”
I bite down hard on my bottom lip, but the words tumble out anyway. “Are you embarrassed about last night?”
I’m not looking at Adam. I can’t bear it. I probably should, because I know him, and I could read him, but I also know he won’t lie to me because he’s not like that. “No.” He shifts on the couch and groans. It either hurts, or he’s thinking about all the complications that come with what we did in the tent, which, by the way, is still in the campsite, waiting to be wrestled down and thrown in some trash can.
I should have asked George about that.
“Can we talk about that in a few hours when I’m feeling better? I doubt I’d say the right thing, but at the moment, my head is aching.”
“Like you fell off a cliff, were attacked by a snake, attacked by a falling tent, slept in the world’s most uncomfortable car, and got extremely sunburnt on the beach?”
“Yeah. That and the slight hangover.”
“Okay.” I set the bag down on the coffee table and push down the anxiety that keeps clawing through my stomach and chest like a wild animal. I wish I could relocate my apprehension and uncertainty like those bears George talked about. “I’ll get you some water. You’re probably really dehydrated. Drink a couple of glasses, take a cool shower, and put the gel on. Then take a nap. Maybe not all in that order. I’ll bring in the stuff from the car.”
“Steph,” he groans. “Just leave the stuff. I’ll help you. It doesn’t make me feel any better, thinking about you doing it all.”
“If I can’t handle a few backpacks and a couple of coolers, I have bigger worries than anything so far,” I retort. Really, I just need the physical labor and distance to distract myself.
Adam probably senses that it’s futile to argue with me. It probably hurts too much to work up a protest, so he gives me a pass. I get him a glass of water—running water is a great, great thing—and set it on the coffee table before I retreat back outside into the sweltering sun.
I give myself a few minutes, just standing on the tiny porch overlooking other rows of cabins that people haven’t pulled up to yet or are away from at the moment. It’s quiet. There are only a couple of vehicles here and there, but they’re very far from where we are. And everything here is so still. Fresh. Not like the city at all.
Not busy enough, not rushed enough. I don’t have anything to do other than unpack the car and make sure Adam survives the rest of the trip, which is obviously harder than it sounds. It’s kind of weird not having a thousand things to do, to worry about. Tasks to keep me busy as I rush here and there, working on the house, working for Adam.
I have a whole day free. Nothing planned. Quiet. Still. Adam.
I don’t know which part I find most disconcerting.
CHAPTER 12
Adam
I’m still on the couch when Steph is done with the car, and I’m still not wearing a shirt. I still feel like death’s regurgitated snack. I want to get up and take a shower, but I feel nauseous, achy, and slightly dizzy. The pain thrumming behind my eyes like someone is sticking forks in both eyeballs doesn’t help my spinning stomach. In short, I’m a wreck. I’m pretty sure camping trips aren’t supposed to go like this, and the irony of the situation isn’t lost on me. I set out to prove something to myself and only proved the exact opposite.
“Hey.”
I open my eyes and find Steph standing over me. She has a brown washcloth in her hand, and when she folds it and sets it on my forehead, it’s cold and soothing, even if it’s a little bit like something my mom would do, and I don’t want to think of Steph as my mom. I don’t exactly know how to think of Steph.