Starry Eyes(75)

“Know how to have a relationship.”

“Oh good, because I don’t either.”

“We’ll figure it out eventually. If you want to, that is.”

“I think so,” I whisper.

His smile is almost shy, but when he sighs one last time, exhaling sharply through his nostrils, he sounds content. And that makes me feel less anxious about everything.

He clears his throat. “So . . . I rented us a campsite,” he says, holding up a small, perforated card with a number printed on it. “Not a presumption, by the way. If you were leaving, I needed a place to sleep tonight, and I really didn’t—”

“Calm down. I believe you.”

“Okay,” he says, and we both smile at each other again.

Focus, Zorie. “Campsite. We’re not camping in the wild?”

“The sites make things easier, so I thought why not take advantage of convenience for a night? And we’re lucky to get it. They were completely booked until the mountain lion scare we saw posted on the board outside. Apparently one tried to attack a small child at another camp.”

I’m suddenly alarmed, but Lennon holds up a calming hand.

“Mountain lions usually steer clear of populated areas, but if they try to attack, small children look like prey in their eyes. We aren’t children. We’ll be fine, especially with all the other campers around. And besides, that report was miles from here, and the little boy escaped unharmed.”

Still not feeling better about this. . . .

“Now skootch,” Lennon says, waving me aside. “Let me call the parental units before the ranger kicks us out.”

I feel strange about listening in to his phone conversation, so I busy myself outside the station, picking up a free park map from a covered plastic box as the sun begins setting, shining warm orange light through the trees. When Lennon emerges, he’s all smiles, poise, and swagger. Whatever was said between him and his moms lifted his mood considerably. But before I can ask about this, he waves the camping permit at me.

“Okay, Medusa. We’re looking for an open site somewhere down there. Let’s make camp. And bonus, there are toilets and hot showers.”

(A) He hasn’t called me that nickname in forever, and (B) showers. SHOWERS!

“You really know how to win a girl’s heart,” I say, grinning.

“I’m trying my best,” he says, and I feel said heart skip a beat.

We wander down a trail through the camp, nodding at strangers who lift a hand in greeting. It must be a camping thing. I’m not accustomed to so much open friendliness among strangers. Don’t these hippies know this is a good way to get mugged? Head down, eyes on the sidewalk—that’s my motto. Then again, maybe they’re so cheery because they all have cars, either pulled up right next to their tents or out in the nearby parking lot, and Car Camping seems to be a completely different ball game. These people have coolers of actual food—not freeze-dried meals—and portable chairs. Since when did I become jealous of a chair and a package of cheap hot dogs? But, gods above, it looks enticing.

“Bingo,” Lennon says, pointing toward a deserted piece of dirt. “Ranger Bob said there were two sites open, and we can choose. I see another one open near the toilets, and I’m gonna suggest we pass on that, because I’ve camped near restrooms before. It’s like sitting near the toilets on an airplane, but worse. So much worse.”

“Say no more. This one smells and looks perfect.” Well, that’s a stretch. It’s somewhat barren, and the sites on either side of it are a little closer than I’d like. But on the other hand, it’s flat, there are no rocks or twigs to clear away, and it has a private picnic table, a bear locker, and a rusty fire pit ring with a grill. “Score. If only we had some hot dogs.”

“We have freeze-dried macaroni and cheese, and if you’re nice to me, I’ll let you have some of my M&M stash.”

“Deal,” I say.

There’s an awkward moment when we set our packs on the picnic table to fish out our tents. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I’m remembering sleeping with him the night before. Only now . . .

Yeah. I look up and see the confirmation in his eyes. He’s thinking it too.

Now it’s different.

“Uh, should we set the tents up side by side, here?” he says after a few tense seconds.

“Sounds good.”

It doesn’t take us too long to get the tents in place, and Lennon eyes the forested area near the campsite. “I can probably collect wood out there, but it might take me a little while, especially if other campers regularly hunt for it. You want to take a shower while I’m looking?” He squints and holds up a finger. “That came out wrong. While I’m looking for wood. In the forest.”

I snort a little laugh.

“Or the other thing,” he says.

“Just get the firewood.”

His smile is playful. “If you change your mind, holler.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

Before he heads out into the woods, Lennon informs me that now is a good time to wash out any clothes that need washing, and he digs out a minibottle of biodegradable castile soap. My snake-bitten, bloodied socks definitely need cleaning, as well as my underwear and a couple of tank tops. I gather them up, get my toiletries and a change of clothes, and head to the shower house, which is another rustic log cabin building that looks similar in design to the ranger station. After watching another camper parading through the campground in a bathrobe and flip-flops, I realize that this place truly is hippie-land, and no one’s concerned about etiquette.