I kill the engine and the night settles around us—cool, quiet, and carrying the scent of pine and lake water. Erin continues to sleep, and for a moment, it’s just me and the night sky.
The last time I was out here begins to sink in.
Shortly after Rudy joined The Flying Tornadoes, Hayes gathered the team together for a social event to welcome him. At the end of the night, Rudy, Hayes, Oliver, Austin, Jack and I ended up as the last six standing.
We went to Hendrick’s Bar, and somehow, Jack managed to convince us to take part in a karaoke contest. Whoever the crowd loved the most would get to name their prize—no one could refuse.
Rudy won. He stood on that stage, shirt half unbuttoned, screaming the lyrics to “Purple Rain” as if he was auditioning to play in Prince’s biopic. His singing was awful, but he won over the audience with his charm and charisma.
And his prize?
I thought we’d end up with wacky matching tattoos, but he asked the six of us to make it a tradition to go camping the first weekend we have off when the season started each year.
We’ve kept it going, but this year, he also invited Erin. I love that she said yes. I’m so glad she’s here, but it’s like my body knows there’s still someone missing. That there will always be one person missing, no matter how many people get added to the tradition.
“Miss you, buddy,” I say aloud in the dark.
I asked the others if they’d mind me bringing Erin up the night before. Thankfully, there were no objections.
I check on her before I turn on the lights of my truck to allow me to see better so I can pull the items out of the back to set up camp.
Summer seems to have skipped right over Huxley Bay this year. It’s a shame—I’d love to see Erin in a sundress—but the cold weather makes for decent camping in the middle of the woods and holding a cold Erin in my arms is all the sunshine I need.
The mud and leaves beneath me are crisp, instead of the usual dampness you’d expect to see in October. They crunch under my feet as I walk. The ground is hard and unrelenting as I hammer in the tent pegs with a rock, securing the fabric from the odd gust of wind that pushes through the trees.
The old wooden jetty stretches over the lake. I’ve sprinted down the weathered boards a hundred times—Jack right beside me, Hayes yelling at us not to slip, Oliver claiming he can do better backflips in his sleep.
My lips curve.
I have no doubt someone will end up in it by the end of the weekend. Purposely or otherwise.
The air here always smells of burning logs and wet bark. I breathe it in and let it settle inside of me the way bittersweet memories do.
Once everything is set up, I head back to the truck and find Erin exactly where I left her.
Her hair falls across her cheek as she sleeps, a soft, warm curtain against the cold night. I brush it back with my knuckles.
“Wake up, Bookworm,” I murmur.
Her lashes flutter before her eyes blink open. She’s sleepy and unfocused as she steps out of the truck.
“Why didn’t you wake me? I would’ve helped,” she says, rubbing the exhaustion from her eyes as she takes in the tents.
“I didn’t have it in me to disturb you. Your little snores were just too cute.”
“Hey, I do not snore.” She pouts, then yawns. I know she’s tired, but I’m not ready to let her sleep just yet.
“Take a walk with me,” I say, gesturing to a trail.
We walk down to the lake, her arm brushing mine every few steps.
“Earlier today,” she begins, her eyes glued to the ground as she watches her feet, “when you scored, you did this thing with your hands,” she says, making a sluggish attempt to mimic the motion from the game, like she doesn’t quite remember—even though I know she does. “Is that something you did before the accident?”
I study her curious expression when she looks up, and I observe the way her eyes flick between mine as she waits.
She’s close.
Ready to let go of the reins and fall straight into my arms. And once she’s there, I don’t ever plan on letting her go. But this isn’t the moment to tell her I’ve already carved her into my skin.
