Starry Eyes(33)

True. It’s not as if she cares that I’m a carnivore, but if she’s cooking, it’s a vegan freezer meal. “Last night was the first meat I’ve had this week,” I admit. “So I’m going full-on cavewoman here. Just meat and coffee. Maybe some sugar,” I say, adding a giant cinnamon roll to the top of my sausage stack. I spot some brown sugar among the oatmeal toppings and briefly consider sprinkling some on my bacon.

“Ah, the ol’ Paleo Diabetes diet.”

“I’m the picture of modern nutrition,” I say.

“It gives your cheeks a healthy glow.” Eyes merry, he looks me in the face for the first time this morning, really looks at me, and I feel my ears warming.

“That’s just good old-fashioned fear,” I tell him as I focus on the breakfast table, reopening a chafing dish I’ve already inspected once. “I had trouble sleeping last night. Too many things going bump in the night.”

“It’s different, isn’t it? Even sleeping inside tent cabins. It’s still . . . wild.”

Indeed, it is.

Lennon hands me some silverware wrapped in a cloth napkin. “Want to eat on the deck and watch the sunrise? They’ve got patio heaters set up, and it looks like they’re bringing around coffee.”

“Say no more,” I answer, hoping I sound casual and not as though I’m inexplicably happy to be eating breakfast with him.

We carry our plates outside and find a place away from the other early risers, near a patio heater. The juxtaposition of gently billowing heat and nippy morning breeze mirrors my feelings about being alone with him. He’s both familiar and foreign, and I’m in a constant state of being on edge when we’re together.

“Your plaid game is strong today,” he comments, sliding a fleeting glance in my direction.

I smooth a hand over red-and-black plaid pants. They’re tight, and a little punk rock—pretty daring, at least for me. I don’t think he’s teasing. It’s hard to tell sometimes. “Thanks?”

He nods, and I relax.

“So,” I say, digging into my mountain of food. “Did you and Brett retrieve the wine?”

“I didn’t,” he says. “He wanted Kendrick and me to go with him last night after we got back to our tent cabin. We both refused. Brett said he’d go himself, but I’m not sure how he planned to carry a dozen bottles, because he left without his pack. But he reeked like a French restaurant when I got up this morning—which is, frankly, better than that disgusting ax-murderer body spray he’s been wearing.”

“He got drunk by himself?”

“Or maybe he pulled a Summer and dropped another bottle,” Lennon says, shrugging lightly. “But when I came up here this morning, I checked the garbage bin and the bottles were gone, so I assume he managed to rescue them.”

We eat in silence for a while. I’m not sure I want to discuss Brett any further with him, and he doesn’t offer any other information. He finally pats his pocket and says, “I picked up the backcountry permit at the front desk from Candy’s husband, so we’re good to go with that. I also checked out the store in the lodge. They’ve got bear canisters for rent. If you’re caught with food and you don’t have one, you get fined. It’s on the King’s Forest information sheet that comes with the permit, if you want to see it.”

He starts to dig it out from his pocket, but I wave it away. “I believe you.”

“But . . . ?”

“It’s just . . . I don’t know,” I say, snapping off a piece of crisp bacon. “I joked with my mom about seeing wild animals on hikes, but it never truly struck me that they’d pose that much of a threat.”

Lennon chuckles. “There’s danger lurking everywhere. I’m talking deadly.”

“Terrific,” I mumble.

“Not just wild animals, either. Out in the Sierras, people have been killed by rock slides, drowning, falling off cliffs, heart attacks from hiking tough trails, being crushed by falling trees—”

“Jesus.”

“—heat stroke, hypothermia, boiled to death in hot springs, killed by crazy serial killers, poisoned by plants, contracting hantavirus.”

“Hanta what?”

“Transmitted through deer mouse droppings.”

“Um, hello. Trying to eat, here,” I complain.

“I’m just saying, there’s a lot of lethal stuff out there. But that’s half the fun.”

“Not surprised you’d think that.”

“I don’t mean in a thrill-seeking way. I mean learning how to spot danger and avoid it in a responsible, careful way. You have to understand your environment. Respect it. Do you think my parents would let me go backpacking if they didn’t believe I knew how to handle myself out there? They trust me because I treat it seriously. And that’s why they wanted me to come. I mean, you know they wouldn’t just agree to take care of my reptiles for a week unless it was important.”

True.

“Wait,” I say. “Your moms wanted you to come?”

One shoulder lifts briefly and falls. “I was worried Brett would go derping off to look for the hidden waterfall himself if I didn’t help. And we both know what a moron he is. No offense. I know you used to be into him. Or maybe you still are. . . .” Eyes down, his gaze briefly flicks to mine.