“Of course not!” Pen gushes. “I knew you wouldn’t. I mean, it’s best to keep that to ourselves. Other people wouldn’t understand. They don’t know our friendship.”
Friendship.Is this what friendship feels like? Like I’m roadkill? It’s hard to compare this to the memory of Eitan holding out his hand at the beach, goading me to jump in Lake Michigan. Of the two of us, submerged in water, howling at the sun.
“Anyway,” Pen breezes on, “I’ll pick you up Thursday at noon. You, me, Clara, and Calliope are driving together.”
“Okay,” I say, defeated.
“Joint-bach here we come! Bye, Rubes!”
I don’t camp.Well, I have. I did go to summer camp for seven summers. But as a twenty-first-century adult, I don’t. Before cancer, I was a big fan of glamping. Fancy desert resorts, cabin-in-the-woods rentals. Of course I still fantasize about traveling, but it’s difficult. My doctor’s appointments have only just slowed down in the last six months so that there would even be enough time for a trip. Not to mention the nagging fear that somehow cancer will reappear, and I’ll be too far from my care team. In this scenario, I end up taking my final breaths from a Madridhospital, a handsome Spanish nurse holding my hand in my last moments.
For some reason, this nurse looks like Eitan.
I shake myself out of it. This is a Thursday–Sunday trip, we’re driving, and my oncologist’s office is closed on the weekend.
I survey my belongings. Every pair of leggings and flannel shirt I own is packed in a duffle bag, and next to it, my backpack is stuffed with my computer, my writing notebook, my planning notebook, and two new books. It may seem like a lot, but it’s my strategy to avoid Eitan while we’re stuck in the woods together. Bury myself in some form of paper.
I check the clock. 12:45.
I lace up my newly purchased hiking boots tight and strap myself into my backpack, followed by the broad duffle strap. I wobble on the edge of my couch and fall back, off balance. I manage to stand—a megasquat, my pilates instructor would be proud—and teeter down the stairs.
It’s crisp and cool out, now that autumn has officially begun. Yellow and red have started to bleed into the leaves. I sit on my steps, leaning back on my pack, and wrap my sweater tighter around myself.
Pen’s Audi honks as it pulls up, fifty-four minutes late. “Get in, loser!” she leans out the window to holler. I smile, the expression forced. Her trunk pops and I haul my duffel inside. Clara is already in the front seat, so I buckle myself into the back with Calliope.
“Ready?” Pen asks, our eyes meeting in the rearview mirror.
Ready to spend a weekend in the woods with someone who gave me the best kiss of my life, and then promptly rejected me? Ready to deal with you, your demanding wedding, and your ultimatum offer that’s still my only lead to revive my writingcareer?Other people wouldn’t understand. They don’t know our friendship.
“Yep,” I say, looking away.
Pen and Claratwitter at each other like birds. I tune it out, watching the city, and then the marshland, zip past the window as we round the foot of the lake and carve our way along the western coast of Michigan. Calliope is sketching in silence with headphones, pretending she’s alone.
Honestly, not a bad strategy to get through the five-and-a-half-hour car ride.
“Craig wassobummed he couldn’t come,” Clara says from the front seat. She glances back at me. “Ruby, you’re, like, so lucky you’re single. This weekend is going to be a meat market.”
My ears perk up at the mention of my name. “I guess?” I say, unsure. I’m not sure who there’s left for me to meet. Or, more importantly, if I want to meet anyone.
“Do you have your eye on anyone?” Clara waggles her eyebrows. “Andres is so hot. The things I would have done to that man if I had met him before Craig.”
This is such a strange conversation. “Yeah, he’s, uh, really attractive. And he was nice when we?—”
“Or maybe you’ve got your eye on someone else?” Clara turns around to face me. “Maybe someone whose name rhymes withshmeitan?—”
How do I put a stop to this? “No, I?—”
“Oh, Ruby is not Eitan’s type,” Pen interrupts. “But one of Josh’s high school friends is this really cute nerd who’s an engineer named Ant who?—”
Calliope knocks her headphones off her ears. “Can you focus on getting us there in one piece, please?”
“Little miss sensitive,” Pen mutters.
I turn my head, leaning my forehead against the cool glass of the window. Pen and Clara keep tittering at each other, and I try to remember a time when I enjoyed being a part of their conversations.
We’re the last convoy to arrive at the campsite. Pen pulls in next to a green Subaru that makes my heart lurch. Everyone is unpacking bags and gabbing at the firepit. I see Josh, Deep, Andres, Eitan, and some other bridesmaids talking in a circle. In the minute I’m watching, Deep bats Eitan playfully in the stomach and lets her hand linger there. He makes no move to put an end to it.
As he should, I remind myself.You cut him loose. And yet, I can’t look away. My gaze is drawn to him, like a bug to a light that will electrocute it.
