“Tents are inside Bessie. We’ve got the campsite to ourselves tonight, so set up anywhere you want!” Skip gives us a pair of lethal finger guns.
It’s a mad dash to pair up for a tent. Pen and Clara cling together like they’re glued. A slap in the face to the person who spent all summer helping her put this wedding together, but I manage to stay reactionless. Deep and Emma are next. I swivel around, looking for Calliope.
She’s disposing of the Smirnoff Ice bottles. I step toward her, manic. “Want to bunk together?”
“Yeah, for sure,” she says.
I’m relieved that I don’t need to crawl to the only other person here I’d be comfortable sharing a tent with. It’s nice to be claimed, for once.
Calliope tosses a garbage bag full of Smirnoff Ice bottles in the trash, and I grab a tent.
It’s like a tween sleepover: where you sleep suddenly has profound importance in determining the social hierarchy. Eitan and Josh form the nucleus of the guys’ tents, and Pen and Clara are already flanked on either side by Emma and Deep and two of Pen’s Instagram-model friends.
Suddenly, I want nothing more than to remove myself from the pecking order.
I trudge to the other side of the campsite, and a weight lifts.
It’s been fourteen years since I’ve pupped a tent, but the summer camp instincts run deep. I lay out the tarp, stake the poles, and stretch the nylon tent over its frame. Intense focus on this task prevents me from having to think about Eitan. I was doing well when I was alone in my apartment, but being out here, getting lost in his eyes as we held in a fit of laughter, it’s harder to remember why things between us don’t work. Logic is superseded by the feel of his mouth on mine and the ticklish glow of his laugh.
“Nice work.” Calliope tosses her duffel inside the tent. “You’re like a real camper.”
“My counselors would be thrilled to hear that.” I wipe away the sweat forming from my nascent hot flash.
Calliope hands me a sleeping mat and a sleeping bag, then ducks inside the tent.
“So I’m guessing this isn’t exactly what Pen was expecting?” I ask, following her in.
Calliope’s grin is devilish. “I was asked to plan a camping bachelorette party, and I delivered.”
I try not to laugh too loudly.
“This is what Josh wanted. Eitan and I figured he should get at least one thing he actually wants for this wedding.” Calliope tugs on my arm, stopping me mid-unpack. “Speaking of! Now that those two gossips aren’t here, I must know what happened between you and him.”
I suck on my teeth. To spill or not to spill.
“If you’re going to deny it, you’re wasting your breath. Remember that I have a nose for these things.”
I sigh. “We kissed.”
“Shut up. How was it?”
An intense and detailed flashback hits me. Soft lips, sweet as sugar. Musk mixed with aftershave. His hands.
I shake myself out of it. “Good. Then bad.” I stare intently at my sleeping bag. “But ultimately very good. Alarmingly.”
Calliope tilts her head, narrowing her eyes. “Remind me again why it’s alarming that kissing a really hot guy is good? Pretend I’m five, explain it to me.”
The problem with spilling is that it opens up an entire can of worms I’m not prepared to divulge. “It’s just too complicated with the wedding.”
“In one month the wedding will be behind us.”
I pick at a loose thread. “Well, there you go. Once the wedding is done, Eitan is leaving. Off to San Francisco or Auckland or anywhere more exciting than Chicago.”
Calliope hums.
“What?” I ask, sighing.
“Has he told you that he’s leaving?”
