by Piper Rayne
“Caleb,” a soft voice calls from behind me when I’m stuffing clothes into the washing machine.
I spin to see my mom, her short hair flattened and greasy and her gray-blue eyes distant.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, swallowing the sudden lump in my throat.
She chews her lip. “I … didn’t expect you.”
I suppress the emotions rising inside me. “I thought I’d stop by, help out.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she says with a raspy edge in her voice. Is she smoking again?
It’s surreal to be in a position of worrying about my mother’s marijuana intake. She never tried to stop me from experimenting, just cautioned me to stay in control, not to drive drunk or high, and to never, ever do heroin. That was basically the gist of our “say no to drugs” talk. Clearly, she is not in control. But am I supposed to try to get her to stop?
Annika’s warning blares: Peter thinks she needs help.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been around much,” I say.
“You’re busy,” she says, crossing her arms. “You and Pete are running the business. It’s a lot of work.”
Pete handles all the booking and payment stuff, so I just have to manage the guides, meaning it’s really not that difficult, or time consuming. “Yeah,” I lie, and turn back to start the washing machine.
When I return to the kitchen, my mom’s opening a vial of pills.
I bite back my anger. “What are those for?”
She fills a glass of water, then tosses back two small, tan capsules. “They’re herbal,” she replies easily.
I’ll bet.
“My stomach’s been a little upset,” she says.
I try to conjure up a dose of compassion, but the well is dry.
“Why is Leah in summer school?” I ask while adding soap to the dishwasher.
Her eyes glaze over. “Because she cut.”
Even though I changed Leah’s diapers and took her and Vonnie to the playground, we’ve never been super close. She’s always been an introvert. Though I can’t remember what grade she and Vonnie are in, even I know that it’s too young of an age to be wandering around in the middle of the day. “Where did she go?”
My mom braces against the sink, her back to me. “I’m … not sure. She said the library.”
Fuck. A mom who doesn’t know where her kid is? Her kid who’s clearly in trouble? “Maybe you should pay a little more attention.”
She flicks her wounded gaze my way. “I’m doing my best, okay?”
I scoff. “How is this your best?” I ask, opening up my hands to indicate the filthy house I walked into this morning.
“You try running this house on your own,” she mutters.
I hold back my retort. This conversation is starting to make me feel like shit, and neither of us need a fight.
“I hear you’re thinking about quitting school,” she says.
My guard goes up. “Who told you that?”
“Annika.” She swallows. “Your dad—”
“Save it,” I interrupt, flashing my palm for emphasis.
She glares at me. “Fine. Do what you want. You always have.”
I huff a sigh. “See you,” I say, and stride out of the room. When I reach the door, out of the corner of my eye I catch her profile, her head lowered and her hands gripping the edge of counter.
I drive home fuming. When I get there, Grady’s already left for the outfitting shop. I call Annika while doing a quick change into my river clothes.
“Who’s the fuckwit bothering Lori?” I ask.
“Jeez, good morning to you too,” she says brusquely.
“Sorry, I was just at the house,” I say, releasing a tight breath.
“And?”
“Can we cover that later? I gotta river to run.”
Annika sighs. “If you’re planning an ambush, things must be getting pretty serious between you and Lori.”
“They’re not,” I say. I don’t want anyone touching Lori but me. Ever. “I’m just not okay with any guy pushing any girl around,” I add, though my tone sounds off.
She gives a sarcastic grunt. “Fine, lie to yourself, but like I said, when this whole thing blows up—”
“Will you quit that?” I interrupt. Once again, nobody gives me credit for being a decent guy. What if Lori and I stay together? Would that be so crazy?
“Give me the guy’s name,” I say.
“Okay,” she replies. “But promise me you won’t end up in jail?”
Bill Tucker’s satisfied expression appears in my mind’s eye. “No promises there,” I say.
“To tell you the truth, I’m kind of worried. She was pretty upset yesterday.”
Fury fizzles up my chest, crowding into my throat. “The name, Annika.”
She sighs heavily. “Hans Frey. He’s the tennis instructor.”
“Thank you.”
“But please don’t wallop him in front of a bunch of kids, okay?”
“Give me some credit,” I say.
I go to hang up when she yelps, “Wait!” I bring the phone back up to my ear.
“Did you see Leah?”
“Vonnie said she was asleep.”
“But did you actually check?”
I frown. “No.”
Annika sighs. “Okay.”
“Why? Where else would she be?”
I wait through a long pause that eats at my skin like a swarm of fire ants.
“She’s … been staying at this friend’s. I told her she had to come home.”
I relax a notch. Staying at a friend’s house sounds like a win. Maybe this friend will adopt her.
“Sorry, I didn’t check.”
“It’s okay. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
We say goodbye and I refocus on Hans Frey. Nobody treats a girl like that.
On my way to White Cloud HQ, I stop at Growly Bear, expecting when I climb the steps to see Del delivering plates of breakfast to the busy tables. When I don’t, I walk inside. A rich, cinnamon-sweet cloud mixed with brewing coffee envelops me. I sigh in contentment.
“Hey Caleb,” the girl at the counter says when I approach. Though we went to high school together, her name escapes me.
“Hey,” I say. “Is Del around?”
Her small lips curl into a frown. “Called in sick today,” she says. “Can I get you anything?”
I’m already late, so decide against it, even though my stomach protests. “No, thanks,” I say, then make my way past the line of patrons to the door. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to go to Del’s house. Too many memories. I decide I’ll have to make time, but not tomorrow—I’m spending every minute of it with Lori.
When I arrive at our outfitting post, Grady and Pete are already there, loading boats and gear.
“You’re late,” Pete says.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
His eyes shift. “Everything okay?”
I shake my head. “No.”
A dark expression takes over his face. “What’s up?”
“It’s Mom,” I say, then regret it. I don’t want to have this conversation with him. I should have it with Annika.
“Is she—”
“High? Yeah,” I say.
Pete winces. “Shit.”
“She needs to get a grip. It’s been over a year.”
“I’ll talk to her again.”
“Did you know Leah’s in summer school?”
He nods. “She basically flunked fourth grade.”
“How is that even possible?” I ask. “Even I passed fourth grade.”
His face is pained. “She’s very bright, the teachers say. Just wouldn’t do the work.”
“What about the year before? Was she okay then?” Maybe my dad’s death is to blame for all of this. Though Vonnie seems to be doing fine.
“I don’t know.” He crosses his arms. “Did you see Vonnie?”
“Yeah, she had a babysitting thing.”
“Did she look okay?”
A wave of panic washes through me. “She looked fine, why?”
“She had strep throat. I … took her to the doctor last week. She’d been … sick for a while.”
I close my eyes as this final blow makes the problem that is my family burst to life in living color.
“I think Mom needs help,” Pete says.
“Good luck getting her to admit it,” I grit out. “She stood there and downed some kind of pill right in front of me. Said it was for stomach pain.”
Pete shuffles his feet, his eyes pained. “I’ll see who prescribed it. Have a talk with them.”
“She said it’s herbal, so good luck. And even if you get him or her to stop, she’ll just find someone else.” Not that I’d know anything about that trick.
“Yeah,” he says, and rubs the back of his neck. “If only…” He grimaces.
“What?” I ask.
Three cars pull into the parking lot one after another. Our guests for the day.
He shakes his head. “Forget it. We’ve got a river to run.”
But throughout the afternoon, as I play the part of charming raft guide for the happy families celebrating, my mind grows heavy with the many worries building inside me.
Pete’s unfinished comment rattles through my thoughts. If only what?
If only Dad hadn’t died?
If only my mom was stronger?
If only Dylan and the twins were older? I mean, they are old enough to do their own laundry and cook for themselves and stay in school.
The reason they’re not is because Mom’s not there.
So, when we all leave, who is going to care for them?
22
Caleb
My frustration simmers for the rest of the day, so by the time I’ve stowed the rafts and gear and climb onto my bike, my blood is frothing.
I should use the drive to the camp to calm down, but it’s no use.
Camp Osprey’s grounds are quiet when I pull up. I check my watch and realize it’s nearing dinnertime. From Lori’s description of her days, I calculate that the campers are enjoying their final rotation of activities before their pre-dinner downtime.
I hurry through the entrance on a worn dirt path. From the night I took Lori back to her cabin, I know the basic layout. I turn right at a sign for the courts and hurry up a hill. On my way, I pass a group of noisy campers ushered by a short counselor in long braids with a wooden nametag that says “Willow.” She eyes me suspiciously but doesn’t comment.
At the tennis court, a tall, blond guy in long, black running shorts and a pale-yellow polo shirt is wheeling a piece of equipment into a storage closet.
I’m halfway across the court before he notices me.
“Hey,” he says, startled.
I get right up in his face. “Are you Hans?”
“Yeah,” he says with a sneer. “Who the hell are you?”
I slam him into the court fencing. I am so going to enjoy this.
Fear takes over his eyes just as I swing my right fist at his face. It’s so fast he hardly has time to move. I connect with his jaw and he howls. The fucker doesn’t even try to fight back. He tries to run.
“I’m going to the camp director!” he says.
I grab him and in one motion, wrench his arm behind his back and shove him into the fence.
“Go ahead, Hans,” I say as white-hot fury drives me on. “Call them. We’ll tell him how you like to harass women.”
“What?” he says, breathing hard. “What are you talking about?”
I shove his arm up higher and he sucks in a painful breath.
“I should break this. It’ll be hard to chase balls around all day with only one good arm, but you’d manage.”
“Who are you?” he says between clenched teeth.
“Someone who cares about human decency.”
He’s breathing in panicky gulps now because I’m this close to breaking his wrist and he knows it. “Are you…Lori’s boyfriend?”
The word rattles through me but I shake my head to clear it. Boyfriend? Me?
“If I hear you so much as look at her or any other female for the remainder of the camp,” I say through clenched teeth, “I’ll break more than your fucking arm.”
“I was just having a little fun, jeez!” he says.
I slam his face into the fencing.
“Ow!” he says. Blood trickles down from his nose.
“Are we clear?” I ask as the fight is draining out of him.
“Get the fuck off me,” he says in surrender.
I let him go, then turn for the exit. I don’t look back.
* * *
The next morning, I pick Lori up the minute she’s free and whisk her away. The dried hillsides, now a soft brown and yellow after a full summer of sun, blur as I accelerate north. Lori hugs me tightly, her warmth filling me with hope. I try to picture walking the stately Stanford campus with Lori’s hand in mine. Instead, my stomach writhes. I don’t belong in a place like that. Yet she clearly does. What does she see in me besides a good time?
I drive carefully up a long gravel road that parallels Yankee Fork, one of Penny Creek’s tributaries. The valley opens, flanked by broad, bald hills. After a bumpy ride, the road dead ends at a preserved ghost town.
Lori and I explore the ancient buildings, then hike to a waterfall where I finally get her all to myself, then we end up back at Red Fin Lake so I can teach her to roll a kayak.
“Why should I learn to roll a kayak?” she asked me this morning when I told her the plan.
“So, we can kayak together someday.” My gut lurched. Had I really said that?
Her eyes widened. “I would love that.”
I kissed her, my emotions swirling because fuck, I would like it too. A lot.
That conversation rattles around in my head all the way to Red Fin. Summer’s ending in eight days. When will we have time to kayak together? After today, we’ll only have the end-of-the-season party. Then, I’ll put her on a plane in Boise.
We arrive at the lake and walk hand in hand down the dock to where my buddy Nate is stationed at the rental shack. I already bartered with him—a free ride in my boat next weekend for him and his girlfriend in exchange for an hour of kayak rental—so hoist the boat on my shoulder and carry it and the paddle back down the dock. Lori and I follow the shoreline past families playing in the roped off swimming area and broad strip of beach to a less crowded spot.
I set the boat down and slide the paddle inside it, then strip off my t-shirt and kick off my flip flops.
“Okay, ready for the run-through?” I ask.
She nods, her gaze focused.
I slide on the spray skirt, a tube of neoprene that at the moment, flares out like a skirt but once I’m seated, makes a waterproof seal around the cockpit and prevents the boat from filling with water. A waterlogged boat won’t roll. After climbing into the kayak, I push backwards into the shallows, rolling the spray skirt edges over the cockpit lip as I do.
“I’ll show you a few times first,” I say, setting my paddle across my lap so I can demonstrate where her hands should be. I lean forward and motion how to sweep the boat upright.
Lori watches me, rapt, that adorable frown scrunching her eyebrows together.
I demonstrate how to hold the paddle, and rock my hips to show her how to tip the boat. I go through the drill again above the water: fold forward, rotate the paddle, then sweep.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Yes,” she replies, her gaze electric.
Maybe it’s her enthusiasm, or maybe I just like having her complete focus, but teaching her is making my blood sizzle. I grab the paddle and flip the boat upside down. The cold water quenches my hot skin. I fold forward, line up my paddle, then sweep it up in an arc, using the pressure on the surface to flip myself upright.
“You make that look so easy,” she groans as I glide the boat back to the shore and hop out.
“Well, I’ve been doing it for ten years.” I pass her the wet spray skirt
. “Don’t worry, you’ll get it.”
Lori pulls off her sundress, revealing her black bikini.
“Do you only have one, or are you just a light packer?” I ask, unable to turn off my curiosity.
Her eyes flash with confusion, then she realizes I’m referring to her bikini. Her lips twitch. “It’s hard to find one that fits.”
This makes little sense. She lives in a big city, certainly with plenty of options. Maybe she’s too busy studying Newton’s Third Law to shop.
Lori’s face softens, as if she had been gearing up for a fight. “And I really hate shopping.”
“Me too,” I say with a smile, but I file away her reaction for later. Why did she get defensive?
Lori smiles back at me, and an emotion I don’t understand fills my chest. Half the time when I’m with her, I feel like laughing. The other half I’m dreaming of kissing her and holding her and making her come. It’s not a feeling I’ve ever experienced with a girl, and it’s starting to scare me.
She steps into the spray skirt and tugs it over her hips. “Okay, I feel kinda ridiculous,” she says, glancing at the way the nylon flares out.
“You won’t feel ridiculous if the kayak stays afloat.”
“Right,” she says, but there’s a nervous edge to it.
“You okay?” I ask, grabbing the paddle so she can climb into the cockpit.
She nods. “What if I get water up my nose?”
I laugh. “You will, so get used to the idea right now.”
She studies me, hands white knuckling the edge of the spray skirt.
“Try humming when you go under,” I say. “That’ll keep the water out.”
“What if I get stuck?”
“Underwater?” I ask, intrigued by her sudden anxiety.
She nods, her lips tight.
“I won’t let you drown, baby,” I say, stepping close to give her a wet kiss. “And you can always pull the loop if you feel like you’re stuck,” I add, pointing to the large black loop of webbing at the top of the skirt. One little tug and she’ll pop to the surface like a cork.
She settles into the boat and wraps the spray skirt over the opening.
