But I can’t stop feeling as if they are.
After lunch, we pack up and begin the journey back to our campsite. The trail slopes downward now, making the hike easier. Penny skips ahead, no longer complaining.
“She’s like a different child on the way down,” Lily observes, matching my stride.
“The magic of a full belly,” I reply. “Plus, downhill is no sweat.”
“Until you get older and your knees protest,” she says with a laugh. “Then it becomes its own special torture.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m in my prime.” I flex, making her roll her eyes.
“Your prime, huh? Let’s see how you feel after a night on those thin camping pads.”
“I’ll have you know I’m an expert camper. I’ll wake up refreshed and ready to climb a mountain.”
She snorts. “Sure you will.”
We reach the campsite by mid-afternoon. It’s a nice spot with a cleared area for fire pits, picnic tables, and enough flat ground for tents. It sits on the edge of the lake, the water glittering. A few other groups are spread out. We search for a spot not too close to anyone to set up camp.
“Can I help build the tents?” Penny asks, bouncing on her toes with excitement.
“You got it, kid,” I tell her, unloading the gear from my truck. “Every good camper needs to know how to shelter.”
For the next hour, Penny and I work on the tents while Lily organizes our food and cooking supplies. I show Penny how to connect the flexible poles, how to thread them through the fabric loops, and how to secure the corners with stakes. She follows my instructions with her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth, serious and concentrated like whenever we go on repair jobs around our complex.
“Is this right?” she asks, holding a section of pole.
“Perfect,” I confirm. “Now let’s attach it to this corner.”
I’m so focused on our lesson I don’t notice the approach of a neighbor kid until he’s standing right beside us.
“Cool tent,” the boy says, eyeing our half-constructed dome. “Ours is bigger, but we haven’t built it. We’re not staying the night.”
Penny straightens up. “Ours is waterproof.”
“All tents are waterproof,” the boy counters. “Otherwise they’d be useless.”
Before Penny escalates the tent-superiority debate, a woman approaches—presumably the boy’s mother.
“Ethan, don’t bother the nice family,” she says, then turns to me with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, he gets excited around other kids.”
“No problem,” I reply, about to explain that we’re not a family, but Penny jumps in first.
“Want to see the lake?” she asks Ethan. “My mom says we can spot the fish from the dock.”
The boy nods eagerly, and both kids look to us for permission.
“Stay where we can see you,” the woman says, then glances at me. “I’m Kate, by the way.”
“Josh,” I reply, shaking her offered hand. “And that’s Penny. Her mom, Lily, is over there.” I nod toward the picnic table where Lily is arranging our food supplies.
Kate’s eyes dart between Lily and me, confusion crossing her features. “Oh, I’m sorry, I assumed?—”
“I’m a family friend,” I explain, heat creeping up my neck. “We’re not… I mean, Lily and I aren’t…”
“Got it,” Kate says with a frown that suggests she doesn’t “get it” at all. I don’t either. “Well, nice to meet you. I’m sure the kids will be fast friends.”
As she walks away, I catch Lily watching us, expression as enigmatic as ever. She must’ve overheard the exchange. What is she thinking? Does it make her uncomfortable that strangers look at us and see a family rather than whatever unconventional thing we are? I have no way to know.
