I have hobbies, I swear. Well,had. I haven’t really had a chance to tackle them lately. Mom instilled a love of photography in me. I suppose I could download a few of them off my camera and spend some time editing them.
I rummage around my closet for my camera bag, and sit down at my desk in the living room. I pull the SD card from the side, and plug it into my laptop. I scroll through the images in the memory—trying to think back to when I even had a chance to get out and shoot these pictures.
Two years. Two years ago was the last time I was even able to go out and hike to the meadowland at the base of Steepled Mountain. It’s not even like the trailhead is that far from my front door, half-hour tops, it’s that I’ve just been too busy.
Parts of me that I’ve let go of, just taking care of my responsibilities.
Virtually, I take myself back to that trip there. The sun was out that day. I remember it being hot but not too hot. There was just enough of a breeze to watch it make the tall grass ripple like waves at the beach. Wildflowers danced and swayed everywhere—black-eyed Susans, wild perennial lupines, coreopsis, and wild cosmos. Monarchs bobbed and flitted, all dancing to the hum of bumblebees buzzing their way from flower to flower.
I saved a few flower clippings with the express purpose of letting them dry out to press them, but before I could get to doing so, I caught Sir Snarflington—Morgs named him, not me—in here gnawing on all the crunchy stems. He’s lucky he’s cute. I promised myself I would go back for more, but apparently that hasn’t been in the cards for me.
A couple of hours later, satisfied with my editing of four pictures, I email them to my mother. I’m sure I will get a reply back soon, telling me how impressed she is that I took some time for myself, for once. They’ll wind up as postcards in a few weeks, and she’ll sell them in her gallery—purchased by tourists who chose to come to the Western Hills region for the summer, instead of Maine’s iconic coastline.
I let her keep all the money she makes from selling my photography. I know the art gallery needs income to stay afloat in the winter months, though she’d never admit that to me. I also know that Ma should be fully retired by now, but is only partially so, affording them exotic trips around the globe.
Over the distant rumble of incoming thunder, I hear the ping from my phone, half expecting that reply, but it’s not.
Sully
SOS, el capitan. All the ships are loose on the ocean.
Sully’s been a longtime fixture of CHW, and, in my humble opinion, makes the best chicken-corn casserole ever. The campers all seem to agree. He likes to call this place a ship, and touts me as the captain and Morgan the skipper.
Unsure about what this vague text means, though, I look out the window down towards the mess hall, where it looks as though the campers are all gathering for supper. Beyond that is the lake, and suddenly, I see what he means.
“Oh no… no, no, no! This can’t be happening!” I mutter to myself
Heat lightning briefly lightens the sky enough for me to spot nearly all the twelve kayaks we own adrift and getting carried away by the chop that’s formed by the incoming storm. I should have known that a relaxing night in wasn’t in the cards for me. I quickly strip out of my clothing, find the closest pair of swim trunks, and haul them up. Someone must not have tied the boats up well in their haste to get the campers off the water and out of the looming storm’s path.
Those kayaks are all Old Town kayaks, the best of the best. I cannot lose a single one of those. That kind of financial strain, not even a full month into our season, would hurt us critically. Not giving a rat's patoot about the impending storm, I sprint down the hill towards the lake.
Chapter Twelve
“Brooks!” I yell out as I see him in a dead run past the staff cabin, heading down to the lake. “That damn fool is going to go out there in this storm, isn’t he?” I mutter to myself, shucking off my pants and pulling off my shirt in a rush. I dig through my bag until I find my athletic shorts.
I never even thought to pack swim trunks, which I guess is a stupid move on my part, given that I work at a camp dedicated to all things water activities. But no one ever said I wasn’t chock-full of stupid moves. In fact, I’m fairly positive agreeing to come to work here was probably the stupidest one.
Not because of the work here, it’s kind of nice to be able to work at a leisurely pace, without worrying about boat after boat piling up in the marina. And the work is actually appreciated. Nah, what’s stupid is my inability to see how working here, under the man who’s single-handedly made me second guess my ability to remain unseen for who I truly am, would be problematic.
Now, that stupidity is spilling over the bucket, as I chase after Brooks, hoping to hell he isn’t dumb enough to jump in that lake after those kayaks in the middle of a thunderstorm.
“Brooks!” I shout again. “Leave them until after the storm!”
“They’ll sink! The waves will batter them on shore!”
“Is it worth your li—” I don’t even finish, because he’s already jumping headlong off the dock. “Fuh-king damnit!”
I jump in after him, but he must be a damn expert swimmer, because he’s already out past the swim buoys collecting the first two kayaks. Lightning flickers across the sky again, followed by a mighty boom—one that sends shockwaves rippling across the water. I swim out for the next closest pair of boats, as the rain starts sweeping across the lake in torrents. In a mountain valley like this, the rumble’s echoes are amplified.
“This is fucking stupid, Brooks!” I cuss at him as he reaches out to grab one of the kayaks I’m swimming back in with and hauling it on shore. “Utterly fucking stupid.”
“Then go back! I didn’taskyou to come out here and help me!” he hisses in a shout, over another clap of thunder.
I haul the second boat up, and turn to grab him as he tries to head back out for another. “Brooks, just stop!” I yell at him, gripping his upper arm and tugging him back.
He spins on me, yanking his arm out of my grasp. “No! I’m going out there! I don’t need your help! I didn’t even ask for your help! You’ve been doing everything you can to avoid me for two weeks now, Evan. Just… go. I’ve got this all on my own.” His chest rises and falls harshly, as he waits—probably for me to deny that I’ve been avoiding him.
Fuck, he’s not wrong, though.
