My Camping Trip

I just say that Kelly is with the same guy, and they seem happy. You nod silently, a sad look of acceptance that she has moved on. And I'm hoping the reason you asked me to go camping is that perhaps you are finally ready to move on as well.

You ask about my "piece of shit" ex, Ryan. I tell you he'll be far away from me and I'll stay far away from him. Good, you huff with satisfaction. He only cheated me the one time, I remind you, but I can see it's still offensive. If you ever see him again, you vow to knock his fucking lights out.

What I don't say is how Ryan cheated on me when I told him I didn't love him and never did. Something I could say with confidence when you and I had hung out just the day before. The feeling that I knew how much I enjoyed hanging out with you was in stark contrast to how he made me feel.

You hand off a little tin cup in speckled blue, the cocoa has little lumps of chalky dehydrated marshmallows floating in it. We drink in measured sips, silently staring at the crackling fire, trying to forget our tempestuous pasts and the unspoken feelings lingering between us.

As usual, I begin to feel drowsy, my eyes growing heavy. I announce this and you chuckle it's past my bedtime. I give you a pouty frown, partially because you are right and I don't want to be tired yet, but mostly because I don't want to sleep alone in the ridiculously small tent. You take my empty cup and say that you'll stay up until the fire dies down.

I climb inside the little tent and set down the flashlight I've been using. I can't fully stand up inside the tent, forced to stoop over a bit as I unroll my sleeping bag. Before I change into my nightclothes, I pause to listen. You were walking around the campsite, but now you've come back, closer to the tent. Then it sounds like you've gone to sit back down on the log by the fire.

I take off my t-shirt and shorts, awkwardly trying not to fall over in the little dome as I do this. Another pause before I remove my bra. A strange feeling to know how close you are, and that I'm undressing just a few feet away. There is silence outside the tent, and I wonder if you are listening to my process, as if there is any way not to. I shimmy into a pair of gray long underwear, the old fashioned thermal waffle-weave that has seen better days, and then pull on the matching thermal top. The goosebumps on my skin make me question if this will be warm enough to sleep in, but another part of me wonders if something else might keep me warmer.

I crawl into my sleeping bag and take my hair out of it's ponytail. I didn't brush my teeth or wash my face, but I have no idea how to go about that in this environment. Knowing I will wake up with rank breath and smeared eyeliner, I turn off my flashlight. Rolling over to my side, I see your silhouette sitting by the fire, and realize how well I can see through the semi-transparent fabric. A jolt of panic hits me that you could've seen nearly everything as I changed inside this tent when it was illuminated by my flashlight. And then I giggle to myself with embarrassment and a certain naughty delight.

Before I fall asleep, I call out to you. Goodnight, Bear. Thank you for dinner.

You answer me in a quiet voice. You're welcome, Amiga.

My eyes grow heavy as I try to keep watching you at the fire, watching as the flames get smaller and the light gets dimmer. Sleep comes despite the hard ground and the chill air. I'm briefly awakened by the crinkling sounds of the tarp, the shifting sound of you lying down. I mumble your name and you tell me to go back to sleep. This is so silly, but I know you won't come inside.

The sounds of birds chirping begins just as it grows light outside. I've always been the early riser while you are the night owl; a good system for when we've hung out with other hard-core partiers. Today I'm awakened by the birds and the need to pee. I sit up in my sleeping bag and feel the immediate cold. I grab my sweatshirt and pull it over my top, then slip on my hightops. The door to the tent is zipped closed, but I can see the outline of your shape on the other side. Quietly, I unzip the door and find your body inches from the opening. You're rolled onto your side, facing away from me, your shoulders rising and falling with your breathing. Each breath in is accompanied by a quiet snore that fades with your exhale.

If I want to leave the tent I will either be forced to hop over the top of you, or somehow manage to carefully wedge my foot into the narrow space between your back and the tent. I don't feel strong enough to make this gazelle like leap over you. Analyzing this predicament, I decide to slip off my shoes. My feet will be narrower without my shoes on, my slippy socks more nimble, hopefully.

With my body half-in and half-out of the tent, I carefully begin to lift my right foot. I've almost got my foot down when your snoring is snagged by a stall in your breathing, and you cough. This is just enough movement to send me off balance, and I go tumbling over your torso.

You wake up when I hit the ground, sending up a poof of dust. You raise your head up, squinting your eyes at my tangled up feet that are still hooked over your shoulder. Did I want to go play in the dirt, you ask. I give you a flustered frown and tell you I needed to pee and was blockaded by you. Pulling an arm out of your sleeping bag, you lift my feet from your shoulder and set them down on the ground. I dust myself off and stand up, except I'm still in my socks. Trying to avoid you, I step to the side of your head and try to reach into the tent to grab my shoes. Seeing how I'm about to lose my balance again, you roll over and extend your long arm out to grab them from inside the tent. Then you lay on your back and hold your arm straight up, staring up at me with shoes in hand. Your upside down face is smirking as I'm centered over you in a crotch to face position. I roll my eyes at you and snatch my shoes away.

After a very cold session of relieving myself in the woods, I come back to camp to find you lying still with your eyes closed, but I can tell you're still awake based on the slight smile on your lips. You crack an eye open as I come to a stop just beside the tarp. I ask if you want to go sleep inside the tent since I'm already up. No, you say the tent is just for me. But I'm awake. The tent is for sleeping and you were sleeping, I argue. Then I should go back to sleep, you counter with a groggy smile.

I sigh at your stubbornness and take a step over you. Straddling you. We stare at each other, my frustration fading as you grin up at me. The longer we stare at each other, the grin begins to fade, another expression taking shape as I stand over you. It would be so easy to kneel down and sit on your chest, to playfully wrestle while you are trapped within the sleeping bag. The type of thing we've done before, only to have our horseplay dissolve into a moment of frozen awkwardness. Awkward not because it was unwanted or repellant, but more so to feel how much I wanted to lose control, and didn't. Your eyes look away with a deep breath; I lift my foot up and step back inside the tent.

It seems bizarre to zip the door back closed when you're just on the other side, so I leave it hanging open. No longer sleepy, the only reason I get inside my sleeping bag is to stay warm. We're both lying there, not sleeping, not speaking. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, I try to remember we are friends. Just friends. Good friends, but still just friends. Except, you asked me to go camping. You asked me after I am now recently single, and you are also single.

Your breathing has slowed down to a steady rhythm; you've fallen back asleep. The birds continue to chirp and squawk, and my own breathing has started to relax when suddenly I feel something slimey touching my right hand. I open my eyes to see the slimey thing move and darts across the floor of the tent. My scream of fright makes you sit straight up, whipping your head around to see what I'm screaming at. I'm trying to stand up but failing to do so while I'm tangled up in my sleeping bag. You're trying to look into the tent while I'm kicking my feet free and squealing at the thing that is trying to escape my stomping feet.

You manage to hook a hand around me and snag me out of the tent. Once you calm my hysterics, you reach in and grab my sleeping bag, then shake it out over the tarp outside. I see the tiny thing fall free then darts out across the dirt to escape us- some kind of small lizard. I'm yelling and cursing the harmless little reptile, while you are laughing. You tell me they are all over in these parts, they crawl under things to get warm.

Why didn't you warn me, I demand with a light smack to your arm. You say that you didn't know I was scared of lizards, and hand my sleeping bag back to me. I narrow my eyes at you, and go back into the tent. I then lift up and shake out my duffle bag, being sure that no other living things are trying to stay warm in my clothes.

After the lizard incident, we both get dressed and you make us a breakfast of cold cereal using powdered milk mixed with some very cold water. You also boil some water for coffee, and to "clean up". I realize that I probably look less than stellar with unwashed hair and un-brushed teeth. I try to subtly ask about how to wash up and you remind me we will go swimming later. Oh, yes. Swimming.

While you are making other food preparations, I go and brush my teeth, feeling a savage for spitting my toothpaste onto the ground. I repeat an application of deodorant and brush my hair again, then put it into a bun.

When I'm finished, I come back to see this assembly line you've created for making peanut butter sandwiches. Pieces of bread are sprawled out on your green army blanket with layers of peanut butter on some, and what appears to be honey on the others. You're still in the process of spreading the honey with your bare fingers, which I have mixed feelings about.

Did you not have a knife, I ask.

You just give me a little raise of an eyebrow, and innocently ask if I have a problem with your fingers.

In the normal environment of the city, without batting an eye, I would retort something back clever. But today, I'm at a loss. I can feel my face get warm, a wave of heat that rushes through my belly and lower. You can't say these things to me while we are out in the middle of nowhere, after you just clutched me in your arms while rescuing me from a tiny lizard invasion. While you keep grinning at me, tossing your hair back while watching me sputter.

But all of this leads me to say something that feels like it came from the ether. Like I have been possessed by the spirits of the wilderness.

I tell you if you wanted me to eat off your fingers, you should've just said so. And hopefully you washed them first.

You reply that you did, and you do. Just like the smartass you are, with a quick suck of your pointer finger, licking off the honey.

Another wave of heat goes through me, a wave powerful enough that I feel a little dizzy. We've locked eyes with each other, I can see you take a deep breath in. My body wants me to charge up to you, to wrap my arms around your neck while I smash into your lips. A thought so provocative that I can feel an ache between my legs that also wants me to go through with this impulse. But the kiss would be more than just a kiss, it would be more than just one kiss, and I feel a little grimy and gross for the full scale of my desires.

I just say that you're gross, unable to conceal my smile at said grossness.

When you finish making the sandwiches, they get wrapped up in wax paper then stuffed inside your backpack. We're going to go for a hike around the lake, and when we get back we'll have lunch. I remember your warning about bears and wonder if it's wise to walk around with Winnie the Pooh's bait in your backpack. You try not to show that I am right, and argue it will be ok for just a little while. And we'll be moving. Uh huh.

We take off as the sun is now high enough and bright enough to get warm. I decide to leave on my sweatshirt and jeans, while you are just in a t-shirt with cargo shorts, your hair pulled up into a semi-ponytail with strands that fall out the back in an adorably messy way. It seems like your clothes look tighter than usual, or somehow more revealing, the material older and thinner. I try to ignore this and focus on the new surroundings.

You're leading us south towards the end of the lake. The water stretches out in a narrow but long oval, a surreal color of blue, gently lapping at the shoreline. I'm listening to another story of yours, trying to focus on your words. The cheerful way you begin to explain how you'd never been to this lake with anyone else, that it's one of your favorite places. One of your foster parents brought you and two other kids up here, showing you how to catch fish. The fish were really small, they scared you when they wriggled on the line.

So you have been here with someone else, I say.

Well, it was a long time ago, when you were a kid, you explain. You haven't been back here with anyone else since then. You've only come back by yourself.

There is silence for a bit, as we near the end of the lake. You pause near a collection of rocks and we gaze out across the blue waters, hearing nothing but the occasional bird and the quiet rush of wind in the trees. I'm standing a few feet from you, watching as you stare ahead thoughtfully. Then you turn and smile at me, a sweet and demure smile, and say you are glad I came here with you. I can barely whisper back that I'm glad I came. You keep smiling at me, making my chest feel tight, until you turn away towards the lake. And then you ask if I'm hungry.

For one of your finger sandwiches, I ask.

The scoundrel's grin returns, and you say you'll share a finger sandwich with me.

We sit down on the rocks and you give me a rolled up piece of bread, a single slice that's folded in on itself. You used chunky peanut butter, something we both enjoy to the contempt of the creamy-obsessed masses. It's a little dry, the bread absorbing the honey. I tell you it needed more honey. You say you only had so many fingers to spread it with. I can only shake my head at you and gently kick your leg with my foot.

You give me a drink of water from your plastic Nalgene water bottle in the trademark frosted white, and give me a choice. You offer to keep walking the entire distance of the lake by circling all the way around it, or we can walk back to our campsite going the same way we came. The shorter way, is what I decide, mostly because my feet are getting sore in my crappy hightops, and because I also want to go swimming.

The walk back is more animated, both of us energized by sugar and sunlight. We're discussing more pop culture facts and music trivia, we're complaining about the high cost of concert tickets. You got some tickets to a show down in L.A.. Two tickets in fact. I could go with you, if I want to, and I could just help pay for gas. Ok, I would love that. You reply with an enthusiastic "awesome". I think you just asked me on a date without realizing it.

By the time we get back to our campsite, I've pulled off my sweatshirt and regretting my heavy jeans. But the water will cool us off, you claim. It's going to be cold. Like really cold. Great, I reply and go off to find another tree to lean against to pee while you do the same.

After another fun squat that burns my thigh muscles, I come back and climb into the tent to change into my swimsuit. Like any typical SoCal girl, I own multiple swimsuits, including a two-piece. After much debating, I packed my one-piece in a shade of dark brown. It's a halter style that goes around my neck with a slightly lower v-neckline. My mom didn't like it, but she couldn't argue when it was on sale and fit me well. I think it's flattering to my tan skin, and it makes me feel more sophisticated than my brightly colored neon bikini would have.

Another layer of deodorant is applied and I take my hair out of my bun, deciding I can try to sort of wash it in the lake. I then wrap my beach towel around my waist to create a make-shift skirt, grab my flip-flops, and leave the tent.

You are standing near the edge of the lake, stretching your arms out like an Olympic athlete on the starting blocks. I've seen you without a shirt more than a few times, and your green swim trunks are much like any other pair of shorts. But you've never seen me in anything more revealing than a t-shirt. And it shows as I walk towards your direction, your eyes going over me. I can feel my breasts shifting with my footsteps, the flimsy built-in shelf bra doing little to contain them.

You bite the corner of your lip, trying not to leer at me. When I stop in front of you, unwrapping my towel, I think I can hear you choke back your surprise. I want to dare you to call me your little amiga when I look like this, if you still feel this brotherly affection for me. Because I'm pretty sure the boner taking shape in your shorts does not think of me like this.

I give you a moment to regroup as I fold up my towel and set it down on a nearby rock. You sputter out the water is pretty cold, and I should try to just wade my feet in it first. I lift my foot and swirl my toes around in the blue water. It is freezing. So cold it hurts my toes. I stifle my yelp of discomfort and you chuckle.

As I debate the sense of going into such frigid waters, you take my hand and start walking into the lake. No, Bear. It's too cold. Way too fucking cold. Bear, are you listening to me...

BEAR!!!!!!

The water enveloping my legs is nothing more than icy shards of pain. It is ten times colder than the Pacific Ocean in the springtime. It feels like we've traveled to the Artic and this is what it feels like to be an iceberg. I am screaming and trying to break free from your hand, but you're keeping hold of me. You drag me further until I am waist deep in the water, unable to even scream because the icy water has frozen my lungs. You are also screaming now, swearing how fucking cold it is while plunging us down. Below the water.

The moment my head goes under I snap my eyes closed. I feel you let go of my hand and I'm trying to swim, kicking my feet into the sandy silt that coats the bottom to propel myself up. When I emerge, you are a few feet away, also gasping for air. I can barely sputter what a fucking shit you are and smack the water with my hand, splashing water in your direction.

I kick a few times and can feel the shoreline rising up to meet my feet, finally able to stand and walk towards the beach. You are splashing behind me, laughing and teasing me it's not that bad. Oh yeah, asshole? I whirl around and push you back with both hands smacking into your chest. The sandy bottom works to my advantage and you are knocked off balance and fall backwards with a thundering splash.

I get immense satisfaction from this, and continue to walk towards the beach. But I don't get far. You have managed to scramble up and charge at me, hooking an arm around my waist. You swing us around and use the momentum of this turn to hurl me into the air, and fling me back into the freezing water.

It is only my burning need for revenge that keeps me going, that allows me to twist my body around and swim away from you, going sideways along the shore. I go far enough that I can safely walk towards the beach, as you stalk towards me. I warn you I will fucking break your nuts if you touch me, and you chuckle maniacally.

I have almost made it out, the water just over my knees, but you are closing the distance. You take a swipe at me with your long arms, and I duck down. I splash the water up as I pop back up and you scoop a paw into the water and fling it at me. My shorter stature gives me an advantage to use both arms to scoop up a particularly large fistful of water, except you grab hold of my swimsuit- taking hold of the halter around my neck. But two can play at that game, so I reach out and yank down on your shorts.