“Why don’t you take the maximum dose,” he suggests. “Like, now.”
I do that, taking a couple extra pills just to be safe. The hives look ugly. I just had one of the best make-out sessions of my life, and now I’m a monster.
Screw you, universe. Screw you.
My sleeping bag is still rolled up, so I use it as a pillow, lying down on the floor of the tent. I try to concentrate on calming down, because stress will only make this worse. I’m vaguely cognizant of the “may cause drowsiness” effect of the antihistamines, which turns into “you bet your sweet ass these will cause drowsiness” when I double up on them, but the next thing I know, Lennon’s waking me up, and I have a horrible neck cramp.
“Izzt morning?” I slur, utterly groggy.
“No, it’s just past midnight. You’ve been snoring for about an hour.”
“Good God.”
He chuckles. “It was super cute. Not a loud snore. Your mouth was open.”
I groan and stretch out my neck. “Stupid antihistamines.”
Lennon lifts the hem of my shirt. “They’re working, though. Hives are going down. Tired?”
“So tired,” I whisper.
“The mountain lions are gone. Let’s crash.”
One step ahead of you, buddy.
But he doesn’t let me fall back down on the tent floor. He gently urges me into the chilly night air, which makes me grumpy, until I see the magic he’s working. He’s managed to zip our sleeping bags together into one massive bag. They aren’t quite the same size, so it’s slightly askew and mismatched, but he rolls out his foam mat and arranges the merged super bag on top. He also makes a long pillow out of some of our clothes, covering them up with our now-dry camp towels.
He’s a freaking camping genius.
And if I were more conscious and less addled, I’d like to show him how much I appreciate his skills by continuing where we left off before all the cougar screaming. But I can barely keep my eyes open. While he stows our packs in his tent, I climb into the double sleeping bag, shimmying out of my jeans once inside. And then he’s slipping inside with me, warm and solid. We gravitate toward each other, and as I curl up against him, head on his chest, his arms around me, random thoughts pass through my head.
First: This is heavenly.
Second: I don’t want it to end.
And the last thought, I say aloud. “The only way my dad will ever let me see you is if I confront him about his affair.”
Lennon’s response rumbles through my cheek after a long sigh. “I know.”
“It’s going to break up my parents.”
“I would never wish that. Not in a million years. If my parents split up, I’m not sure I could handle it.”
“What do we do, then?”
He runs his hand down my arm. “We’ll figure something out. I promise. Stop worrying.”
And I don’t. I’m too tired. But somewhere in the back of my head, I know our time together is dwindling, and that once we get home, there’s a chance everything will fall apart. I’ll need to come up with a solid plan of action. Create some sort of mental safety bunker in case my world is destroyed.
All this time, I’ve thought my life would be easier if Lennon wasn’t in it. I was half right. Now that he’s back, things are a million times harder. I never realized “us” would be so complicated.
* * *
The next morning, we leave the camp sooner than expected.
I wake up to a cold sleeping bag and manage to track down Lennon outside, finding him dressed. He’s also a ball of nervous energy. At first I fear that we still have a mountain lion problem, but he assures me they are long gone. There’s something new to worry about.
A summer storm is coming. A big one. It’s been brewing from the remnants of a tropical Pacific front off the coast of Southern California, and now it’s gathered strength and is headed north.
If we’re going to get to the star party, we need to make it through Queen’s Gap today—a narrow canyon passageway between two mountains. A river runs the length of it, and that river floods during storms. As in, floods the entire canyon.
“I talked to the ranger. He warned me that we can’t get trapped in there,” Lennon explains. “So we either need to hike through it before evening, or we need to stay here for another night. But there’s a chance if we do that, it could be another day before the canyon is cleared for hiking.”
“Are you sure we can get through it?”
“If the storm follows the track it’s on, we should have no problem. But we need to leave soon. In the hour.”
“Oh, wow.”
“How are your hives?” He inspects my arms, pulling up my sleeves. “Not as scary, but still there.”
“At least they’re not itching all that bad at the moment.” All I can do is keep an eye on them, manage them. Keep my stress level low and be proactive about medicating. I’m still groggy from the Benadryl, but I’ll take a nondrowsy prescription antihistamine with breakfast. And there is breakfast, I see, because Lennon already has everything laid out, including the all-important coffee.
“I’m going to need that caffeine as soon as I get back from the restroom,” I tell him. “As much as you can spare.”
“I’ll make it extra strong. It’ll taste like burned sludge. Milkshake thick.”
“I forgot how much I like you.”
One side of his mouth twists up. “You’ll like me better if I can get you to the star party without us being drowned in a storm, so hurry it up.”
“Hurrying!”
We have to rush to eat and get our camp packed, which involves lining our backpacks with garbage bags in case of rain. Once we’re ready, we head out of the campground with a few other wretched souls who are also up at the crack. It’s not long before those hikers leave us for the Silver Trail. Our western path is much smaller. Smaller means no fellow hikers—good—but it also means that we’re returning to the backcountry.
No posted signs, no bathrooms, no cell service.
We’re on our own.
The morning fog wears off as we head toward a small chain of mountains covered in Ponderosa pines. And after a brisk uphill hike, the forest levels off and opens up to a river that snakes through a long canyon: Queen’s Gap.
The canyon is fairly narrow and lush with ferns and moss. A slowly inclining trail on the right bank of the river is barely wide enough for two people to walk comfortably, and occasionally I fall behind to avoid running into overgrown brush. But it’s worth all the hassle—the rough path, spiderwebs, and occasional low-hanging tree branches that nearly poke my eye out—because it’s really spectacularly gorgeous here. The canyon river is babbling, creating a light mist where it dips down small hills of polished river rock, and unworldly ferns that cover the canyon floor seem to be growing larger and more luxuriant the farther we walk. It’s an embarrassment of ferns. As if nature said, here, you deserve an extra helping.
We’re making great time, and I’m glad to be away from guitar-playing campers and all their tempting grilled meats. I’m also glad to be alone with my thoughts. For once, instead of worrying about my parents or cataloging my plans for the day, I spend my hiking time in the canyon watching Lennon. Thinking about Lennon. In my head, I revisit our make-out session from the night before and throw some additional fantasies into the mix that are 50 percent dirtier.