A Lie for a Lie (All In 1)

I blow out a breath.

I’ve been standing in front of my mirror for the past twenty minutes, practicing saying hello. The thing about being really into learning is that I haven’t spent a lot of time figuring out how to interact with people. I’m really good at presenting information and findings, but conversation isn’t my strong suit.

RJ said his cabin is a fifteen-minute trek down the beach. I use the term beach loosely. It’s more like a path cut into the grassy, sometimes rocky terrain with water on one side.

I’ve been here for two days. I have no internet reception. I’ve seen lots of birds and rodents and, in the distance, some whales. My only human interaction has come in the form of cashiers and a waitress at the diner I had lunch at today.

In the short time I’ve been here, I’ve made some interesting discoveries—such as, perpetual daylight sucks. Also, since I’m unable to connect to the internet, I can’t check my email or do any research. I have no satellite, and I’m bad at keeping a fire going.

More than anything else, this cabin sucks. It’s cold, drafty, dusty, musty, and creaky. There are a lot of spiders, and I’m pretty sure I have several rodent roommates, possibly related to the one I buried the day I arrived. Also, the hot-water tank seems to have an issue. So far my showers have been ice cold, which isn’t great, because my fire keeps going out—even though I took outdoor adventuring as a Girl Scout. Although I was never allowed to actually go on the outdoor adventuring trips because, according to my mother, those were too dangerous.

I called the rental office hoping they’d be able to help, or maybe they would have alternative accommodations better suited for human habitation, but they’re away on vacation and won’t be back for another week. So I’m stuck in this dump with only my textbooks and two novels, both of which I’ve already read. I also haven’t slept much, so I’m a little emotional.

This morning when I called my parents, I lied to them, which isn’t something I typically do. But I’m determined to make this work, so it was necessary. I told them I’m having a great time. I had to practice faking enthusiasm for ten minutes before I made the call. I’m also grateful for the terrible cell reception. It means my parents can’t video chat with me and see my puffy eyes or call me out on my lies.

After I got off the phone, I decided the best plan was to go to town and pick up a couple of tote bins to store my clothes and dry goods in. Hopefully it will make the cabin less enticing for rodents.

Two cab rides, three hours, some limited human interaction, one diner meal, and a shopping trip later, I’m back at the cabin. All of my clothes and dry goods are safely packed in totes, and now I have an entire afternoon free. With nothing to do.

So I’ve decided to bring RJ a thank-you gift. Well, it’s also an apology gift. It’s like killing two birds with one stone. Although I’d never kill a bird. But it’s a thank-you for being so kind and understanding on the plane—planes—and an apology for falling into his lap, accidentally kissing him on the cheek, and getting sick on the Cessna. And a thank-you for giving me a lift here from the airport.

I picked him up a six-pack of beer while I was in town, the same kind I saw him buy when we went grocery shopping together. I run my fingers through my hair and adjust my hat. Maybe a little makeup would be advisable.

I put on some lip gloss, but it’s very pink, and I don’t like how much attention it draws to my mouth. The mouth I used to kiss RJ’s cheek. His stubbly cheek that smelled like aftershave. The same mouth I used to toss my cookies. No. I don’t want to draw attention to my mouth.

After another ten minutes of practicing, I decide I’m as ready as I’m going to be. I leave my tiny one-room cabin and walk in the direction of RJ’s place.

The fresh air is nice, but the fifteen-minute walk is actually more along the lines of twenty-five, and I’m sweating under my parka by the time his cabin comes into view. If one could even call it a cabin.

The two-story A-frame has a huge deck and stairs leading all the way up from the water. It makes my place look like a derelict shack, which it kind of is. No wonder he was worried about leaving me there.

I smooth out my hair, which is blowing around my face thanks to the breeze, and take a deep breath. You can do this, Lainey. He’s just a man. I knock before I lose my nerve.