“Just look at the damned binder,” I say, but this time, there’s something else to the way we talk. Something lighter.
She resettles herself, folds her long legs up underneath her, crisscross-style, and puts the binder in her lap. One of her knees is resting against my thigh.Ten and two,I think.
“Turn on the radio,” she says.
I sigh. “I like the quiet.”
“Well, I want to read this and not focus on your breathing and your loud thoughts about how unpleasant I am.”
“You’re not unpleasant,” I say, but I wait until I’ve turned on the radio, so maybe she doesn’t hear.
She’s quiet for a long time, almost a full hour, studying each page carefully. This is my copy, but I’ve got a plan to have two more made for Paul and Lorraine once we get to the presentation. It still needs some work—it’s not just the spreadsheets that look dull as hell in there. I’ve incorporated stuff from a lot of the other Wilderness/Wellness camps, brochures and photographs, but a lot of it is numbers, budgets for necessary renovations, stables, that kind of thing. But I’ve also got a long—maybe too-long—section on the opioid addiction stats in this part of the country, which is about as sad as it gets. And there’s not much of me in there, not much that’d make Paul and Lorraine feel like it’s a trusted friend who’d be buying uptheir property.
“This is good,” she says, finally, and I don’t think I’d realized the way I’d tensed up my shoulders. “I mean I hate the spreadsheets, obviously.” She shifts and turns down the radio. Her knee is no longer touching my thigh.
“Obviously?”
“Spreadsheets are awful, God. Those equations up top when you’re trying to do them? Who even understands those? No one, that’s who. Okay, well. Other people, I guess. You seemed todo all right.”
“I almost Hulk-smashed my laptop over those spreadsheets,” I say, and she laughs, this quick, loud,Ha!, like a checkmark next to my joke.This one passes.I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
“Not that I’m saying you should take them out. They’re good for your budget stuff.” There’s a catch on the end of that, almost like she’s getting ready for abut, but she says nothing.
“Tell me.”Two words,Ahmed would say.
Zoe doesn’t miss a beat—she knows what I want. “Do you have a plan for distributing this? Because if you just hand them each a binder—that’s going to be a lot to take in. This is a lot to take in,” she says, smoothing her handdown the cover.
I think about lying, saying,Yeah, I have a plan. But there’s not much good that would do, except maybe saving what little pride I have left with this; Zoe already knows how shit I am with people. “I guess I thought I’d walk them through it.” She’s already shaking her head no.
“Boring. That’s the worst, when you’re in a presentation and someone’s reading you handouts that you’ve got right in front of your face. Youcan’t do that.”
How this blunt, forceful statement can be so much less annoying than the squirrel t-shirt is beyond me. But I’m getting used to her, I guess, getting used to the way she cuts through the bullshit, sayswhat she means.
She makes this little humming noise, taps her fingernail on the front of the binder. “I’m going to think,” she says, but instead she undoes her seat belt again, swivels to the her-ass-in-my-face position, and rummages around back there. When she comes back, she’s got a small notebook and a pen. She reopens the binder and opens her notebook, and then she’s off, making notes. She writes like she speaks—firm, quick, and I can hear the pen scratch along the paper. At one point she gets out a cookie from her Tupperware, takes a single bite, and says, “This is gross. Why didn’t you say something?” But she’s not really interested in my answer. She goes back to writing even before I formulate a response about not wanting to hurt her feelings. She stops to look up once we get to Coleville, and I think I catch something wistful, wanting inher expression.
“Need to stop?” She looks over at me, almost like she’s forgotten I’m there.
“I’m okay,” she says, getting back to her notes. I keep trying to sneak glances over there, but I can’t see much of what she’s doing without taking my eyes off the road for too long. I’m curious, and—well, this is fucking weird, but I’m kind of lonely, too. I wish she’d start talking to me again, even if we’re just insulting each other.
“We need to make this more accessible,” she says, as though she can hear what I’m thinking. “We need to tell a story. That’s what all good arguments are, really. Stories.”
“Sure,” I say, but the problem is, I can’t think of a story right now, not with her sitting so close. The problem is that t-shirt. And her ass in those jeans. Her knee on my thigh. Everything about her that is annoying.
“I mean, it may not be your usual style,” she says, right as I turn into the drive to the campground. “But I think you just have to decide how bad you want it.”
My only response? Another knuckle-dragging grunt.
* * * *
By the time we get to Saturday evening, I’ve got a new word to describe Zoe.
Game.
Last weekend, Zoe’s exposure was at a minimum—easier because it was a shorter weekend, but also because I kept acting like a dick and leaving her behind, obviously. But whether it’s because of our dinner on Wednesday or her look at the binder, or maybe the comfort that comes with being here a second time, Zoe’s got a new determination about her. Learning how to run the Hobart in the lodge’s kitchen? Game. Early Saturday morning hike with the Coburgs and the five kids they brought this time? Game. Spray-painting a set of tires for the obstacle course on the western edge ofthe camp? Game.
Having me in the cabin while she showers, though?
Not game.
