“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.
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
