“Landscaper.”
“Uh uh. Although that’s remarkably close.”
“Lawn waterer?”
“That’s called a sprinkler. And it’s not a job. It’s a thing.”
He throws up his hands, palms out, in a sort of easy, charming, tall guy mea culpa. I mean, I enjoy that he’s funny and flirty and that I’ve got interesting company in the midst of all this debauchery and my own inner heartache, but seriously. Not a flutter.
“I paint houses,” I finally tell him, my stomach already tightening at the prospect of going back to work on Monday.
“Whoa.” He leans back and examines me. “Sexy.”
I lean down and smack him with my pad and he catches it. I dive for it and wind up on the ground, half on top of him. He’s hot and smells like sun on skin and sweat. Suddenly, he goes still, his eyes hard and watchful. My breath rattles in my lungs.
“Ohhhhh. This what you like?” he whispers. “To be taken down?” His eyes go wide. “Shit. It is, isn’t it?”
“Maybe.” I swallow.
His sharp gaze does a circuit of my face, lingering on my lips before returning to look straight in my eyes. “You sure you’re not into cocky, pansexual sadists with godlike bodies and charming personalities?”
“A sadist, huh?”
“Yep.” He winks.
When he doesn’t go on, my curiosity gets the best of me. “So, like, you want to spank people? Or whip them or whatever?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Circumstances. Where and when and who I’m playing with. Someone like you, for example? All tragic eyes and sinful mouth, with those long, long legs…” His head falls lazily to one side, but the stone cold look in his eyes is pure tension. “I’d reserve the big stage, in the main Dungeon.”
My mind goes right there—to the massive, permanent structure built at one end of the big gymnasium. Unconsciously, my stomach muscles clench, as if my imagination’s slid me straight into the scene.
22
Liev
There’sa lightness in my step as I make my way past the pool and a group of cabins towards one of the tenter areas. It’s ridiculous, I know, but when Jonas found the pad and pencil behind the counter, giving me an excuse to go after Grace, it felt like fate intervened. As if maybe being happy is allowed. As if she left her stuff there on purpose, giving me an excuse to find her.
Lamé warned me that it was perhaps unwise to race off after a woman in my current state, but a double espresso helped. Now, I’m just excited.
On the hill to my right, the pony enclosure’s overflowing. It’s clearly a meetup or some special event.
It’s also possible that I just haven’t noticed the uptick in ponies this year. Up ahead, the tents are gathered into little clusters that always remind me of Smurf villages. The first village is crowded with campers. A young Black couple plays cards at a folding table, chatting with a retired gay couple who’ve been coming to camp since the beginning.
They wave hello as I walk by and I wave back. Across from them, a woman sits casually on another woman’s face. She smiles and waves. Feeling a little more a part of things than I have in a while, I wave back, then pick up my pace as I near the area where Lamé told me I’d find the campsite apparently referred to as the Thunderdome. According to Lamé, I should have known about the Thunderdome, and Mad Max, the woman who occupies it every summer. Grace’s best friend.
Been a little busy, I told Lamé, although it does seem suddenly as if maybe I should pay more attention to what’s happening down here. Maybe, I concede for the first time, Lamé’s not all wrong when they call me the Grinch. Because, yeah, the camp’s mine, but aside from the occasional emergency intervention here and there, I spent a three full seasons essentially ignoring it.
I had work to do. It’s true. The commissions have ramped up over the years, in price, if not quantity. I’m down to one or two sculptures a year for which I’m paid very well.
Weirdly, that feels a lot like an excuse.
The real reason I don’t come down anymore has more to do with what drew me here to begin with—and that was Helen. As always, stirring up memories hurts, pushing out these unfamiliar good feelings, and bringing back the last year of her life. A year of pain, guilt. A year of begging and praying. A year of losing all faith. In everything.
There’s another thing, though, something deeper and more confusing. The camp doesn’t feel like it’s mine. It feels like it’s everyone’s. So coming down under the guise of some overlord, benevolent or otherwise, doesn’t sit well with me.
