And without thinking too hard about it, I’d let the church group know I'd be out of town, and I’d explained to my parents that I could be reached through the park rangers in case of emergency, and I’d told Jamie nothing. It's a long drive from home, and just before I lose signal on my phone, I stare at it from Logan's passenger seat and second-guess a little of everything. Then I turn it off and toss it into the backpack at my feet and do my best to forget.
Setting up our tent goes surprisingly smoothly given that my last camping trip was probably thirty years ago. Logan apologizes for the large mat we'll share—one he borrowed from his brother and sister-in-law without thinking—and I wave a hand at the sleeping bags that will keep us apart. I set up chairs next to the fire pit, and he sets up a small propane stove nearby. We eat and we drink. Before, during, and after, we talk and stare at the stars. Logan andI go to sleep separately and together, and other than a few distant voices from other sites and crickets closer than that, I only hear him breathe. I'm awake to notice because my tossing and turning never stops.
I'm on edge most of the night, physically more comfortable than I expected to be, but anxious enough to consider going home in the morning.
"Give it another 24 hours," Logan murmurs, pressing coffee into my hand as I drop into a chair. "If you still want to leave tomorrow, we will."
I don't think I said anything out loud, but maybe there are bags under my eyes giving me away. My free hand attempts to keep my hair out of my face, a hair tie left somewhere in the tent, and I force a smile weaker than what Logan deserves.
"I'm sorry."
"For?"
"Not being the good company you expected," I say, shaking my head at my coffee.
Logan reaches down, his fingertips under my chin until I look up at him again. "Everything was fine until you couldn't sleep. Let me wear you out today, and we'll see how tonight goes, okay?"
There are easy ways to interpret what he's said, and I have no doubt he's done it intentionally, almost a bitter and kind game of chicken. We're only friends, but the definition of friendship has been blurry to me for so damn long. I've been promised no strings attached, so I could take any of the things being offered and go home without a debt, but I don't know what I want.
For now, I simply nod.
While I use the communal bathroom and change into jeans, Logan makes us breakfast, and it surprises me because I know we're both used to grabbing coffee and running out the door in the morning.I take the time he gives me to keep breathing and watch the campground stir. There's no way for me to check for texts or hockey scores, and I make peace with that as well as I can.
Later, with our boots on, and Logan looking better than I could've imagined in his flannel and beanie, we go for a hike around the lake just out of sight from where we slept. It's a beautiful morning, and there's no need for us to talk about it or anything else. I get lost in the sight of the water and think about the last time I vacationed next to a lake, also with a man who knows what I sound like when I come. I must make a noise, because Logan turns to look at me, but I can't explain, and he gives up on me after a few seconds.
We stop several minutes later for water and shade, and while Logan drinks, I watch a droplet of sweat slide down his neck. I want to taste it, but it's unfair of me to want things here, so I only trace its path with my finger and stop when I reach the collar of his shirt.
"Sorry," I say again.
"For?" he asks again.
"Thinking you're pretty."
It sounds like I'm apologizing for the mixed signals, and I suppose that's true. But I'm angry with myself for using that word when it belongs to someone else. It has since the night Jamie and I met.
I push off the tree I've been leaning against and continue walking.
Back at the campsite, we make sandwiches for lunch and eat our weight in fruit. He's set up two hammocks, also borrowed from his brother and sister-in-law, and we let the food settle while we read books we’d brought along. Then, because we're camping or because he knows how good he looks doing it, Logan crouches next to my hammock and asks me to go kayaking with him. And sometimes—maybe too often—it's unfathomable to say no to him.
So, we spend the afternoon in the sun as it reflects off the chilly lake water. We talk about our families and our jobs and other safetopics we've covered before. On some level, it's all bullshit, but it brings us back to the afternoons we ran errands and the evenings we went out to dinner. It allows us to ignore the nights we spent in his bed, and how easy it would be to do that when we're on a camping trip we might not have thought through.
After kayaking around the lake, we return to the shore. After returning to the shore, we splash each other senseless. After splashing each other senseless, we return to the campsite. And after returning to the campsite, we change into something dry and we make dinner together and we rest. It's only when we're side by side in our chairs, warmed by the fire and made safe by the night sky, that we talk about something real.
"Was that Jameson Sinclair at your grandmother's funeral?" Logan asks, a mug of spiked hot chocolate in his hand.
"Yes."
"He's not a family friend."
It's a statement, not a question. I drink, then respond. "His daughter was in my freshman honors class, and then in my AP class as a senior. She also played varsity soccer all four years."
"How many other students' parents were there that day?"
That one's a question, but it doesn't need to be. "None."
"But you and he had become friends."
"I know him better as Jamie, yes."