We say our goodbyes and head back to the house. Lennon is caked in mud, and without running hot water, cleaning her off will be miserable. I ask Beck to get the propane stove going so I can heat some water, and he does. I grab a washcloth, and we head to the back porch, where the propane stove and hot tub are, and I help Lennon clean up once the water is at a reasonable temperature. She sings songs while I wash her off. She tells me goodnight, and they head upstairs.
When I don’t hear them anymore, I get the other washcloth I grabbed and start washing myself off, too. We are out in the middle of nowhere, and I know Lennon isn’t coming back down with how exhausted she was. I look around quickly and slide my shirt and bra off. I haven’t bathed, and I feel gross.
“Oh, fuck,” Beckett stammers, and I jump, covering myself.
“Is it just you?!” I ask, panicked.
“Fuck. Yeah, yes. It’s just me,” he confirms.
I exhale a sigh of relief.
“Sorry, I just figured it would be a good time for me to wash off, too,” I explain.
“Makes sense,” he says, and I hear the anxiety in his voice. “I, uh - I’ll just go back in,” he decides.
“You don’t have to,” I say quietly, and I hear his restraint snap as his footsteps get closer until he crouches down beside me.
“Here,” he whispers lowly. He takes the washcloth from me, dips it into the hot water, and wrings it out. He pushes the hair on the back of my neck out of the way and runs the warm cloth over my shoulders gently, washing my back. My eyes drift closed.
“So, won’t be long on the bridge now,” I comment.
“Nope,” he responds, deadpan.
“That means I’ll be able to leave soon,” I press. His hand pauses for a moment, but then continues.
“Yep,” he says, more gruff than before.
“So . . . that’s good,” I say, trying to sound cheerful, because I feel like that’s how I should feel.
“Sure,” Beck laughs sarcastically.
I turn, taking the washcloth from him slowly. “You don’t sound like you think it’s good,” I comment cautiously.
“Doesn’t matter what I think,” he retorts, scratching his jaw.
“It does,” I whisper, reaching for him.
“No, Clover, it doesn’t. This isn’t our lives. This isn’t what our real days look like. It’s a fun little trip outside of the normal, but it’s not what our future looks like. We’re just fucking playing pretend,” he says, his voice low and angry. He stands suddenly and goes back to the door.
“Let’s go, Clover Jane. I don’t want to leave you out here in the dark.”
I can’t stop the sniffle that escapes me as I stand, pull on my shirt, and brush past him.
BECKETT
I’m beyond ready to have real electricity back. The kid’s going stir crazy. She insists we have read every book she owns “at least twelve times”, and even if her eBook tablet was charged, we couldn’t connect to the Internet to download new books for her, anyway. No cartoons. No toy oven that cooks shitty little pizzas. She keeps telling Clover and me that she’s tired of ‘camping’.
Clover, surprisingly, hasn’t complained once. She's been helping out with Lennon, cooking, keeping things clean, getting water from the spring for the toilets or whatever else needs it, and helping with the animals. She’s even gotten used to Princess Doom, the guard goat. She does everything with a smile, and it’s fucking unnerving.
This is not the Clover I grew up with. She hated chores. She hated being responsible. Honestly, she seems like the type of girl who couldn’t go for more than ten minutes without doomscrolling on her phone, so I thought this would be miserable.
It’s the opposite.
I look over and see her, jeans covered in mud, wearing my flannel with the sleeves rolled up. There’s something about herwearing my clothes that makes me feel . . . primal? I’m not sure how to explain it, but I feel very caveman about it. That’s new.
She laughs at something my mom is saying across the creek, and I instinctively smile, too.
“Son?” My dad asks, bringing my attention back.
