All my homemade wall calendars? I threw them in the trash. But I’m not ready to give up on blueprints altogether. Instead of obsessively bulleting every detail of my schedule for every day of the year on multiple calendars, I use star-patterned washi tape to map out a single grid on a corkboard, and pin fun paper cutouts on major holidays and planetary events.
Baby steps.
Avani comes by on Wednesday with her mother. They bring hummus, homemade banana bread, and a tray filled with sandwiches. It feels like someone died, and when I point this out, my mom jokes that she should get divorced more often.
In her defense, it’s really good banana bread.
While our moms chat, Avani tells me in detail what happened after we left Condor Peak—and everything that happened the two days before we arrived. Apparently, I missed both everything and not that much, all that the same time. It’s only when she shows me some of her photos of the meteor shower that I feel a little envious. But there will be other meteor showers, other star parties. For the first time, it really hits me that if Lennon and I hadn’t stayed in the sequoia grove that second night, no one would have worried that we were missing, and we may not have set off the chain of events that led to all of this.
The important thing is, I don’t have any regrets.
When Thursday arrives, Grandma Esther leaves after buying massive amounts of toilet paper and laundry detergent as a housewarming gift “for good luck”—a Korean tradition, she says. I’m sad to see her go, because of all the home cooking, but also glad, because the murder fantasies were starting to get out of control. And I have better things to think about than bumping off nice old ladies.
Like Lennon.
I’m so eager about him coming back into town that I’m shifting into anxiety mode. It’s been a week since we’ve seen each other—the longest, weirdest week of my life—and so much has changed. What if all of that alters the way we feel about each other? What if that week we spent in isolation was an anomaly? Sure, we reconnected in the wilderness, but what if we can’t make it work in the real world? I worry that the delicate balance of our friendship and our more-than-friendship can’t withstand the weight of everyday life.
My parents couldn’t make it, and they were married.
How can the two of us fare any better?
The longer I’m away from him, the more a particular thought niggles: What if we were just seduced by nature? The magic of twinkling stars. The scent of redwood. Majestic mountains.
What if this is what influenced Lennon to kiss me that first time at the top of the granite staircase? If we were here at home without the alluring rush of waterfalls in the background, would he have still made that first move?
Would I have been as receptive to it?
Is there a nature-related equivalent to beer googles?
Making out on a blanket under starry skies certainly is more romantic than groping each other on a park bench while Andromeda watches.
The thing is, we had a chance to make this relationship work last year, but neither of us wanted it hard enough to try. I allowed my dad to talk me into shunning Lennon. Instead of wallowing in pain, I could have gotten off my ass and forced Lennon to tell me what happened at homecoming. And Lennon could have come told me what happened. If he was brave enough to confess stealing Mac’s credit card for the hotel room to both his moms, he could have faced me.
But he wasn’t.
And I wasn’t.
And after all that time together in the woods, neither of us came up with a plan for what to do after we got back to civilization. No promises were made. No pacts. No I love yous were whispered in the dark. Does he still feel the same way about me, now that we’re home?
Can we make it as real couple in the real world? Or are we better off staying friends?
It’s easy to think you’re falling in love out in the wilderness, where everything is beautiful and a tent full of condoms is just steps away. Did we just have one weeklong one-night stand?
How do I know for sure if what we shared together is fleeting or real?
It probably doesn’t help that I haven’t heard much from him over the last couple of days—only a few brief texts to make plans for our date when he gets back. I try not to let uncertainty get the best of me and do my best to ignore random thoughts of him meeting someone hipper than me in the city and deciding I’m not worth the trouble. I know that’s just my monkey mind, chattering away, restless and distracted. But when he texts me that he needs to delay our date until after dinner, I have flashbacks about homecoming last year.
What if I’m being ditched again?
I know it’s not logical, and my mom tells me to relax before I’m covered from head to toe in massive welts. But I’m dressed and ready, wearing my most flattering red-and-black plaid dress, and the sun is setting, and still no Lennon.
It’s eight o’clock.
Eight thirty.
Eight forty-five.
The doorbell rings.
I nearly fall on my face, racing to answer it. And then he’s there, standing in front of me. Black hair. Black jeans. Boyish smile.
Lennon.
My emotions go haywire, and I’m so happy to see him, my voice dries up and vanishes. We’re both standing here stupidly, and I need one of us to say something—anything!
“You’re late,” I finally manage.
He looks dazed. “I had to
