I’m really too tired to protest. I even let the poor elderly gentleman hobble to the door and flip the sign. He walks like he needs a ride everywhere, and it makes me feel absolutely ashamed that he’s taking time out of his day for me when I’m young, fit(ish), and healthy minus the blistered feet which are my own dang fault.
George. I finally realize he has a name tag on his shirt. It was mostly hidden away and is so old and battered that I can barely read it. But I think it says George. I’m going with George.
George gives me one more denture-filled smile and waves me to the back. I have to walk behind the glass counter, which feels a little weird, before walking past all the back rooms, which are mostly an office and storage room for extra stock, then out a heavy back door. The white and green golf cart with a logo of four different kinds of wildlife—a raccoon, squirrel, owl, and a bear—awaits me.
I swallow nervously. “Do you have many bears around here?” I get into the passenger side, my feet aching with every step.
George starts the old cart up. It wheezes and whines but whirrs to life. He backs up slowly but heads down the rutted road at such a pace that I have to grab the sides and hold on for dear life. Choking gravel dust rises around us at his mad clip. I think he’s maxing out the cart if the engine’s high-pitched scream is any indication. But I don’t mention any of that. A ride is a ride, and it’s honestly quite far. It’s probably a three-mile walk, and my blistered heels and toes spontaneously start bleeding again at the thought.
“Not really,” George finally responds. “We used to have a lot more, but most of them have been relocated or have just moved on as the park became busier and busier. Back in the good old days, we were pulling bears out of here every other day.”
“The good old days.”
“Oh, yes. Those were the times!”
George rattles off a list of all the wildlife he used to encounter, some crazy bear stories about bears threatening tents, cars, coolers, and chasing people up trees, which I find absolutely terrifying, a story about a forest fire that burned so close to the camp that they thought they’d lose it, and about some of the drunken long weekends he’s had to put up with. By the time I get to the cabin, I’ve realized two things. George is quite entertaining, a natural-born storyteller, and he’s also probably the owner, or one of the owners, of the entire campground.
“Thank you!” I always mean it when I thank someone, but this thank you is all breathy and so sincere that it makes my eyes feel watery again.
“No problem. You take care now.” George grins at me. “Come back and visit me again.”
“I will!”
It’s not until after he drives off that I wonder if he means to come back to the campground or go to the store. Before we leave, I’ll go back to check out and thank George again. That ride was one of the kindest things anyone’s done for me in a long time. I could sit and listen to George’s stories all day, even if the ones about bears scare the life out of me. It’s not very often you meet a truly kind soul, and George is one of those special, unique people that are so hard to come by.
I might even consider coming camping again, just to be able to sit and visit with him for another few minutes.
I shake my head as I walk up the two steps and across the tiny porch. What am I thinking? I will never come camping again. Look at the disaster it’s been already.
Speaking of disaster, when I open the cabin door, I find Adam sprawled out on the couch, still shirtless and clearly not showered at all. He’s on his back with one leg off and a hand on the coffee table in front of it. He has the other across his eyes. He reminds me of me the few times I went out drinking with friends a long time ago and wasn’t exactly responsible with the amount I consumed. The couch was my friend when the room wouldn’t stop spinning, and neither would my stomach.
I grip the paper bag and walk over. When he hears me approach, one beautiful eye cracks open, and he groans. “This was such a bad idea. I’m sorry I dragged you out here.”
I ignore him. It’s too late for apologies and regrets. We’re here.
We’re here, and I actually don’t regret any of it. Not your kisses. Not your touch. Not the taste of you or the silky feeling of your skin. Not the fact that I want to do all of it again.
“Here’s the aloe vera gel.” I thrust the bag at him, sure that my face is redder than Adam’s burn. I study the bag in my hand so he can’t look at my eyes. He’d know what I’m thinking for sure.
Are we ever going to be able to talk about what happened last night? Or how it can’t ever happen again?
“I think you should shower first, or you’ll wash it all off. I’m sure the cold water would feel really good.”
“I just…I just need to lay here for a few more minutes.”
On instinct, I brush my fingers over Adam’s brow, where he’s not covering it with his arm. He’s warm but not feverish. “Do you have heatstroke too?”
“I have no idea.”
“Are you sick? Is your stomach okay? Are you in pain? Is it that cut?” The wound is mostly scabbed over, and really, it doesn’t look as nasty as it did when it happened. With the tent, the rain, the car, and the burn, I’d completely forgotten about it. “Are you concussed? Should I call for an am—”
“No. Do not call an ambulance,” Adam groans. “I’m fine. Just tired and slightly hungover, if I’m honest, which is embarrassing.”
I bite down hard on my bottom lip, but the words tumble out anyway. “Are you embarrassed about last night?”
I’m not looking at Adam. I can’t bear it. I probably should, because I know him, and I could read him, but I also know he won’t lie to me because he’s not like that. “No.” He shifts on the couch and groans. It either hurts, or he’s thinking about all the complications that come with what we did in the tent, which, by the way, is still in the campsite, waiting to be wrestled down and thrown in some trash can.
I should have asked George about that.