"Before you say one word," she says, walking up, "I packed light, I'm dressed for whatever you have in mind, and I have questions."
"You can have three."
She stops at the back of the Jeep, and I watch her eyes go over the cargo, the stove, the lantern case, the two rolled sleeping pads, and land on the tent bag, which is the size of a Labrador. Her mouth opens. Closes. I hold still and let her get all the way there, and there's a small braced thing in my chest while she does, because this is the moment she either lights up or asks how far the nearest hotel is.
"Finn." She looks up at me. "Are we going camping?"
"We're going camping."
Her face is doing something complicated, and then it resolves into delight. "I've never been camping in my life.Are you aware that you're dating a woman who considers the farmers market roughing it?"
Dating her. That's the first time she's ever acknowledged what's going on between us, and I have to admit, I like the sound of it. Far as I'm concerned, dating only scratches the surface of what we're doing together, but I'll take it.
"So, what you're saying is I'm going to be your first." I can't keep the grin down and I stop trying. "I like it. That's your first question, by the way."
"That wasn't a question, that was an inventory." She points into the door pocket. "Oh my God. That. That's my first question. Is that bear spray?"
"It is."
She's reaching for the door handle when she sees the back seat, and stops. The shell jacket. The base layers folded in their wrapping, the headlamp, the gloves, all of it new, all of it obviously not mine, tags still on.
"Finn." Her voice has changed registers. "Whose stuff is all that?"
"Yours. I guessed on your sizes." I say it like it's logistics, because if I say it any other way I'm going to say too much. "It gets cold on the mountain at night. I wasn't going to have you cold on my watch."
She looks at the little pile of gear for a long moment, and then at me, and whatever she's thinking puts that shine back in her eyes. She covers it the way she tends to do, with cross-examination.
Then she points at the door pocket again. "What exactly are we going to be doing this weekend that involves bears, Finn?"
"Statistically? Nothing. Black bears want your cooler, not you, and they want no part of anything that smells like people." I take her duffel off her shoulder and hand her up into thepassenger seat. "But I don't take chances with things I can't replace."
She goes quiet for a second, looking down at me from the seat, and I watch her decide to hear that the way I meant it.
"And if a bear defies your statistics?" she asks, softer.
"Then it'll have to come through me first."
I say it plainly, because it's not a line, it's the job description. Her eyes hold mine, gold-flecked and steady, and something passes between us that has nothing to do with wildlife.
"Okay," she says, the same way she said it in my bedroom last night, small word, whole flag planted. Then, teacher-brisk: "Question two. Where are we going?"
"North." I shut her door and round the hood. "You’re out of questions, so that's all you get until the signs give me away."
Obviously, she has no respect for the three-question rule. The interrogation starts before we clear town.
"North. Connecticut is north. Are we taking a ferry?"
"No ferry."
"Vermont. You strike me as a man with opinions about Vermont."
"Strong opinions. But not Vermont."
"Are there beds where we're going?"
"There's a bed situation."
"A situation." She turns in her seat to face me fully, delighted and appalled. "Finn, a bed is not supposed to be a situation."
