“Just let yourself feel something for once, will ya?” he says, as he walks off.
But that’s the problem. I’m feeling too much. All at once.
Lights out is when the camp is supposed to wind down. The fire is banked low. Guests are in their tents. Ranch hands are flopped on their bedrolls at the edge of the trees keeping watch for curious critters.
I lie on my back, staring up at a sky so full of stars I get dizzy.
I can hear the creek. I can hear Moose shift nearby on the fence post. Jim is snoring already, because Jim could sleep through a tornado. And I'm thinking about her light blue eyes and smart mouth against mine under an oak tree.
I thought I was content with my life.
I’m not sad or broken, just living at a low simmer. I do my work day in and day out, eat good food, hang with the other staff on the ranch when I get lonely.
Going to bed by myself seemed fine.
I didn’t need anything else.
And the older I got, the more I settled into this life.
Then this woman walked into my forge and lit every pilot light inside me at once, turning the burners to high.
It’s been so long since I’ve lived like that, I’m not sure what to do with it now.
A giggle cuts through the dark.
Then comes another one. Then a whisperedshh shh shhthat is substantially louder than the giggles. Three dark shapes are moving past the edge of my sight line, keeping low, heading away from the tents and down toward the water.
And then, clear as a bell, is Lark's hushed voice, trying and failing to be quiet:
"...skinny dipping is not acrime, Laurel.”
I'm up and pulling on my boots in a flash.
Guest safety,I'm telling myself, tying the laces with more aggression than is called for.This is open country. There are snakes. Mountain lions. Javelina. Three half-drunk women stumbling off in the dark to a creek is a recipe for disaster.
And all three of those women can completely handle themselves. So again, I’m full of shit.
I traipse through the trees, hanging back and out of sight when I get to the water.
The creek runs wide and slow here, moonlight laid across the top of it as if somebody poured milk over the surface. The three of them are already in. Laurel is shrieking about cold. Lyla is floating on her back, her braid coiled on top of her head. And Lark is in up to her shoulders, hair loose in the water around her, face tipped up to the sky.
I confirm there are no snakes, no lions, no javelinas, and no drownings in progress.
And I’m far enough away that I can’t see any private parts I’m not supposed to see…in detail.
They swim around, splashing and laughing. They chatter and whisper, and it kinda warms my heart seeing them enjoy the cool night without a care in the world.
I lean against a tree, watching over them.
I’m notleering.I’m protecting.
Don’t mind the bulge in my jeans.
After about ten minutes, Laurel gets out, grumbling about pruned toes. Lyla follows, toweling off near the far bank. The two of them head back up toward camp, giggling and smacking each other.
Lark stays.
She’s alone.That’snot safe at all.