Starry Eyes(76)

This is no glamping compound.

A slat-wood partition shields a door marked WOMEN. When I head inside, I find lockers for clothes and big, long sinks in front of mirrors. The water there is cold, and in order to get hot water in one of the three shower stalls, you have to feed money into a little machine. I have enough quarters for five minutes of hot water, and even though I rush to shampoo, wash, and shave, it still runs out when I’m peeling the bandages off my snake bite, making me yelp in surprise when the water turns icy cold. But I manage to endure it long enough to finish up, and after toweling off with a small microfiber camp towel—one of Reagan’s purchases—I brush my teeth and wash out my clothes in the sink.

One problem with showering in the wild is the lack of hair dryers, and the temperature outside is starting to fall along with the setting sun. It’s not chilly, but with a head full of wet curls, it’s not exactly warm, either. Luckily, by the time I walk back to our site, Lennon has gotten a fire going. He’s also set up a low-hanging rope between his tent and the picnic table for hanging up wet clothes to dry. I feel a little weird putting up my underwear for all the world to see, but other campers are doing it in their sites, so I guess this is one of those moments where I have to swallow my pride and say screw it. I quickly hang everything up before taking a seat on a bear canister in front of the fire, letting the heat dry my hair while Lennon takes his turn at the shower house.

The camp is really bustling, now that everyone’s coming back from day hikes and getting ready for dinner. It’s weird to be around so many people. It seems like a lifetime ago when Reagan abandoned us and I was freaking out about being alone with Lennon. I watch all the activity, wondering where all these people came from and why they decided to camp here. They’re definitely different from the glampers. I don’t know if that’s good or bad, or if it just is. But at least I’m not on edge, wondering which fork to use at a four-course dinner. Plus, everyone here seems to be in a better mood. And despite a bit of lingering worry over that call to my mom, I think maybe I am too.

After a few minutes of combing my curls out upside down in front of the fire, I hear a soft whistle.

I jerk my head up to find Lennon’s long legs walking up to our site. “My oh my. Look at all your unmentionables blowing in the wind. I mean, wow. I’m getting a real French-lingerie vibe here, and, to be honest, I expected plaid.”

“Oh my God,” I say, kicking his leg. “Stop looking, you perv.”

He’s hanging up his own underwear next to mine, a towel draped over his shoulders and his black hair damp and sticking up in the most adorable way. “I’ll stop looking when you do.”

“What’s there to look at? Black boxers? I already saw those last night when you were getting in my tent.”

“Mmm, that’s right. And have you been thinking about me in my skivvies all day?”

“Please stop talking.”

“Stop talking altogether, or . . . ?” He laughs and dances out of the way as I try to kick him again. I smell shaving cream and notice that he’s gotten rid of his stubble. “Okay, okay. Try to control yourself, and I’ll try to do the same. We have more important matters to take care of, like the fact that my stomach is trying to eat itself. Let’s get to making with the macaroni and cheese, shall we?”

As he breaks out our cooking gear, I keep my eyes on the other campsites, watching the comings and goings of kids and adults. There’s even a site filled with several teens, and one of the guys is unpacking an acoustic guitar. Lennon tells me there’s a wannabe guitarist at every campground. It’s practically required.

While the water for our dinner is heating up, Lennon checks my snake bite and fixes another bandage over the healing wound, proclaiming it “much better.” Then we prepare and eat our not-so-fabulous macaroni meal, which along with a cloying cheese sauce, also has dried beef in it, so we do a whole comical bit together, wistfully pretending it’s the same grilled hamburger we’re smelling from the campsite next to ours. Halfway through eating, it’s dark enough that Lennon needs to switch on our little camp lights—to see my underwear better, he jokes, and I throw my spork at him. When he pretends to be injured, the teen campsite with the guitar-playing dude starts group singing a hymn. Loudly.

“Noooo,” I whisper. “Nightmare. They aren’t even on key.”

“And it’s not even a good hymn. What about ‘Holy, Holy, Holy’? Now, that would be one you could really go nuts with.”

“Aha!” I say. “I just realized why Mac has you going to church. It’s not your diabolic ensemble of all-black clothes. It’s because you stole her credit card to use for the hotel room.”

He looks sheepish. “Busted. Though I did turn myself in, so that has to count for something. But yeah, she makes me sit through hymns as penance.”

“It’s all clear to me now.”

“So basically, it’s your fault.”

“Mine?” I say.

“You’re a tempting girl, Zorie. If you hadn’t kissed me last year that first time, I would have never wanted to get the hotel room, and—”

“Me kiss you? That was an accident!”

“Kissing is never an accident. Never in the history of kissing has it been an accident.”

“I slipped when I sat on the bench.”