I laugh and smack my hand against his. When I go to pull my hand away, I find that I can’t. Brady’s fingers have slipped through mine and captured my hand. He flips it over, and for a moment I think maybe he’s going to kiss it.
But he doesn’t. He stares at it, then reluctantly lets me go. He meets my eyes, picks up a third brownie, and tells me he’ll see me in the morning.
13
Brady
I didn’t brushmy teeth last night. Gross, I know, but I wanted to keep tasting those incredible brownies. Addison’s brownies.
Who knew the crazy woman who yelled at me in the airport is actually a sweet as hell, little bit sassy baker?
It’s morning now, and the delicious taste in my mouth from last night has turned into more of an unpleasant, cottony aftertaste. I’d love to lie in bed and think about Addison and how cute she looked in that apron, but the situation in my mouth has me hauling my ass from bed and into the bathroom for a thorough cleaning.
I’m wide awake now, and my mouth is bursting with invigorating peppermint. A run sounds like a good idea, and then I can go through my workout.
In Chicago, I made good use of the gym on the first floor of my building. Here, I have to get creative.
I change into running clothes and shoes, and tuck my phone and cabin key into my pocket.
The early morning air is cool and crisp. Trails zig-zag around the property, and I really don’t know where I’m going. The map Louisa gave me on my first day here sits on the dresser in my cabin, unused after that day I followed it to the lake.
It only takes a minute before I decide how much I prefer running here in Oregon to running on a treadmill in a stinky, four-walled room in Chicago. Gulping in the fresh scent of the fir trees, I run on, alternating my speed between sprinting and jogging.
The sun is higher now, sending its rays through the trees, the shadows from the tree branches creating odd shapes.
In the near distance, I see a clearing in the trees. I slow as I get closer, until I come to a full stop at the top of what looks to be some kind of stage, and rows of seats, like bleachers, but made of concrete. An amphitheater? I step down the concrete stairs and run my hand over a row, brushing aside the blanket of fir needles.
When I was a kid, I went to a summer camp in Northern California that had a space just like this. We’d write and perform skits and plays, and on the final night, we played Charades. For six years I looked forward to the week I knew I’d spend there, but it was always hard to leave Lennon and Finn. Lennon wasn’t allowed to go to any camp that wasn’t the Bible camp her stepdad’s church put on, and Finn didn’t have the money to go to any camp, especially not one that required airfare.
I sit in one of the spots I’ve cleared of needles, and look down at the stage. For one week out of the whole summer, I lived with a bunch of other boys my age, and we became brothers for the week. Maybe it was proximity that initiated the immediate closeness, or maybe it was sharing a bathroom and cafeteria. Whatever it was, we attached ourselves to one another in a life that didn’t include school or organized sports. It was a life separate from the real one we lived the other fifty-one weeks of the year, and that detachment made it easy to share secrets without consequence. My bunkmates knew all about Lennon and Finn, my desire to protect and care for them, and the weight of responsibility I felt to be the good kid for my parents.
I haven’t thought of camp, or the boys I shared those weeks with, in years, but this amphitheater brings it all back. Maybe on some level that’s why I chose Lonesome. My subconscious knew it resembled the place I spent idyllic weeks of my life, and it was searching for that time, yearning for the moments when I wasn’t Brady the star baseball player, Brady the perfect son, or Brady the caretaker.
With a last look at the stage, I stand and take the stairs two at a time, then jog at a steady pace back the way I came.
Except I’m pretty sure I don’t know where I’m going. When I get to the point where the trails intersect, I pause and pull out my phone.
Oh, wait. I’m in the woods. The internet won’t load, the little bar across the top stopping about one-third of the way across the page.
I let out a growl of frustration, then a laugh trickles into the air around me.
I know that laugh.
My head snaps up and swivels around. About ten yards away Addison bounces from foot to foot in running shoes, her blonde hair swinging in a ponytail. She wears soft-looking black shorts and a matching sports bra. A long sleeve shirt is tied around her waist, and she’s smirking at me.
“Don’t look so pleased,” I tell her, embarrassed at my lack of an innate sense of direction.
She laughs and walks closer. Her chest heaves with her previous exertion, a lifting and falling that makes it hard to look away. Using all the strength I can muster, I rip my gaze from her chest and back up to her eyes.
The smirk is still on her face, but her eyes narrow. I’ve totally been caught.
“Fine, I’m lost. I admit it.” I’m hoping the admittance will distract her from my obvious ogling.
Addison steps lightly onto one foot and pivots. She turns back to look at me, motioning with her hand. “From now on I’ll be known as Sweet Escape Search and Rescue. Follow me.” She bounds away before I can come up with a response that will reinstate my man card.
There are a lot worse things I could be doing than following a bouncing Addison through the trees. The path is wide enough for both of us, so I lengthen my strides and soon I’m beside her. She grins and says a breathy, “Hey you.”
I tip my chin in acknowledgment and smile back. Addison is still the leader of this run, so when we come to other places where the paths intersect, I fall back slightly and let her lead.
