by Wood, Vivian
I purse my lips. “Why the jar of peanut butter? And the first aid kit… aren’t you going to be carrying one?”
He shoots me an irritated look. “First of all, I’m your guide. I’m not your Sherpa. It isn’t my job to carry things around for you. And second of all—” He pauses, standing up and looking imperious. “What if we get separated? If you are stuck somewhere with nothing else to eat or you’re alone and wounded, you will be glad.”
“Oh.” I look at the rest of the stuff. “What is the spade for? Am I going to be digging a hole to sleep in or something?”
He crooks and eyebrow. “You know that composting toilet that we have here in camp?”
“Ugh. The one that smells sooooo bad? Yeah, I’m familiar.”
He smiles. “That toilet is a luxury. A lot of places we are going won’t have one. You’ll just have to go in the ground. And burying it is considered polite.”
Horror snakes its way through my veins. I honestly hadn’t considered that. “Oh my god. Ewww.”
Grayson just shakes his head. “It’s not too late to back out now and cancel the trip.”
“No way!” I exclaim.
“Fine.” He grits his teeth. “Let’s get you packed, then. Everything in this pile goes with us. Everything over there stays here.”
I see that my toiletries bag has been discarded. “Um, I need that.”
“I looked inside. It’s like three quarters full of makeup.” He rolls his eyes. “You need your toothbrush, your deodorant, and maybe a comb.”
“I can’t leave all of my makeup here,” I whine. I hear my own tone of voice and wince. “I might need some mascara or something. There might be an emergency—”
“What kind of emergency requires makeup?” he asks pointedly.
“I don’t know. Wouldn’t you rather not find out, though?”
He ignores my question. “Also, I think you won’t need any of those three pairs of shoes. Maybe the Teva sandals if you insist, but—”
“Get OUT!” I demand, pointing at the doorway. “Get out right now before I throw you out!”
He straightens his spine, his jaw tensing. “I’m just trying to help.”
“You’ve done enough,” I say. Pushing against his arm, I begin to lean against him, not even being subtle about the fact that I want him gone.
“Okay, okay,” he grouses, ducking down and letting me push him out of the tiny cabin. “You have to pack all the things I brought, though—”
“Goodbye.” I slam the cabin door in his face. Fighting the stupid urge to cry, I sink down onto the floor and take a few deep breaths.
I knew this summer was going to be hard. Part of the reason why I am here is because wanted to get away from New York, to get away from myself. But giving up my makeup and most of my clothes will be hard. I’ve spent the last few years shielding myself from the world with a thick layer of Gucci and lipgloss.
Now I have the prospect of peeing outside and ground rough enough to require a sleeping pad to look forward to. I bite my lip.
At the beginning of all of this, I was so looking forward to a summer of freedom. As it becomes increasingly apparent that I have no real idea what I am in for though, I’m less sure.
But the alternative is to give up and fly home to Manhattan.
Somehow, that strengthens my resolve.
I took all the pain and devastation I felt when Grayson left and turned it into a kind of posh armor. Taking my mother as my example, I dulled the pain I felt, dulled all my feelings to such an extreme that I thought that nothing could ever make me unhappy ever again.
Until I walked in on Clay and all my carefully constructed walls started to crumble.
Still, giving all of my glamorous armor up, even just temporarily, is a struggle.
After some more cleansing breaths, I paw through my toiletries again. I take out the foundation and the two eyeshadow palettes. The primer, the highlighters, the powder. The false eyelashes have to go too. It’ll be too hard to put them on when I’m out in the woods anyway.
I already sort of knew that I wouldn’t be able to do what I’ve done for the last five years. This is just cementing those facts.
Finally I’m left with a mirrored compact of blush and a tube of mascara. I find a tiny pocket on the outside of my backpack and secret them away, then slowly proceed with repacking the rest of my bag. Tying my rolled up sleeping bag and the mattress pad to the top, I lever the whole thing up and get it on my back.
Holy crap, it’s heavy. Did I really sign myself up for carrying this thing around for three months?
Sighing, I slide the backpack to the ground once more. I spend the next few hours checking things on my phone for a final time. I’ll be turning it off and leaving it here. That should be the biggest point of contention for me.
Instead, I feel next to nothing as I scroll through the latest round of messages. Clay is now threatening legal action over being forced to move out of my apartment. My father is complaining that my trip is going to mess with his plans for my future career, whatever that means. And my mother is sending me snarky pictures of my friends laughing and having fun at the latest gala.
This could be you if you made better decisions, she texts.
I roll my eyes and shut my phone off, feeling a little of the weight lift off of my shoulders. Venturing out of my cabin for the last hot lunch I’m going to have for a while, I sit in the mess hall with a plate of roasted chicken and sweet potatoes before me.
I barely notice when two women my age sit down at the table with me. They are already engaged in conversation so I don't bother them. One of them sighs and looks across the mess hall toward the door.
The other one doesn’t even look up from her plate. “You should just go over to him. He’s leaving tomorrow. Just offer him a little company for the night.”
The blonde turns red as a beet. “I doubt that Grayson is lacking for company. I mean… look at him. He’s so… ughhhh.”
I almost choke on the piece of sweet potato in my mouth. For a second, my mind is boggled. They are talking about Grayson? My Grayson?
Well, not mine. Just the Grayson that I know.
The other two women don’t seem to notice my distress. The redheaded one clucks her tongue.
“If you don't ask him, I might. Or maybe you can ask him and I’ll cozy up to that new guy, Aiden. I’ve heard anyone pretty can spend a night in his bed. They are both just waiting for the right girls to ask them out.” She gives the blonde a devilish look. “We could be those girls.”
The blonde glances behind herself. “Shhh, here they come.”
Grayson and Aiden walk by our table, paying less than zero attention to us. I eye them both, seeing what is obvious to all: Grayson and Aiden are hot as sin.
I can admit it to myself. As I look at them, my heartbeat starts hammering loudly in my head. A part of me wonders: is Grayson still an amazing kisser?
Would he cup my jaw, bend me back, and ravish me with that perfect mouth of his?
I clear my throat and straighten my posture. It’s just too bad that both of their personalities suck.
Disgruntled, I pick up my tray and dump half my food out. I have had quite enough of the mess hall today.
Tomorrow, a new adventure begins.
Chapter Thirteen
Rachel
Ten years earlier
I hurt myself.
It’s hot outside, the sun rising high above us, baking the entire state of New York into a solid brick of heat. I am walking off the tennis court at my father’s country club, holding a tennis racket. White reigns here; I’m wearing a white polo, a short white skirt, white tennis shoes. The tape on my grip is white. Everyone I see is white.
I’m pondering the whiteness of everything, how bleached it all is, as the tennis pro picks up towels and balls. This is the country club lifestyle. Everything is curated and manicured, carefully selected to avoid upsetting anyone.
God, I want more than anything to just dro
p my racket, set off in a run, and never look back. I want it so badly I’m nearly shaking with it.
I crave excitement and adventure, risk taking and being out on my own. I need something more than bottle blondes talking about where they get their nails done or ladies in their tennis whites dishing about who is up for the boards of the charities that they run.
But that’s not who I am. My family runs this city; the Blacks don’t run from their problems.
So caught up in these thoughts, I’m not watching where I am going.
Earlier, I flung a towel onto the court. Now I trip over it and tumble to the ground, landing awkwardly on my racket. My knees burn and my cheeks flame red.
“Are you alright?” asks Jared, the tennis pro.
God, please don’t let Jared come over to help.
I have a little crush on him, enough though I play dumb in his lessons and don’t try very hard. I don’t want him to see my gangly fifteen-year-old body all sweaty, so I just put as little effort into it as possible.
“I’m fine!” I call. Jared raises a brow but after a second he goes back to picking up balls.
Sighing, I pick myself up. Blood wells up from my right knee, the scarlet of it making me feel weak. It drips onto my perfectly white tennis shoe as I close my eyes.
Mother is going to have a fit when she sees me. I don’t know if she will be more upset because I cut myself, because I bled on my outfit, or because I might scar.
“Hey, you should go to the pro shop,” Jared says. I open my eyes, careful not to look. I can still feel the trickle of blood, though. My knee is on fire and throbbing. He nods to my knee. “Get someone there to clean you up. I would, but I have a lesson in five.”
I swallow and nod. “Okay.”
He vanishes toward the back of the courts with his arms full of towels and balls. I grab my racket off the ground and head toward the pro shop. I can still feel the slow bleed from my knee but I try not to worry about it. The pro shop is a little one-room white brick building right down the carefully curated path, like everything is at this place. I push the door open, looking at the bright display of brand-new tennis gear that dominates the walls.
I shiver as the air conditioning hits me. I can feel goosebumps rise on both of my arms.
Looking around, I’m unimpressed by the pro shop. To my left there is a water cooler and a couple of folding chairs. To my right, there is a plush massage table with a young man sitting on it. He’s looking at a book, but he quickly puts it aside and pushes off the table when I come in.
Then I see that it’s not just any young man.
It’s Grayson.
I’ve admired him from afar and my friends have giggled about him, but I’ve never been so close to him. With no one else around, it feels a little bit naughty to be here, even though my purpose is legitimate.
Grayson is a few years older than me and drop dead gorgeous to boot. Too-long dark hair, the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, and he’s so damn tall that I feel like a child gazing up at him. He looks me up and down, zeroing in on my knee.
“Hey.” His expression turns concerned, those brows furrowing in a way that I find just devastatingly handsome. “Seems like you’re looking for some first aid.”
“Hey.” I turn scarlet. Talking to Grayson is even more embarrassing than I could have thought. “I hurt myself after a lesson with Jared. He said I should come over here.”
One corner of his mouth kicks up in a grin. My heart skitters to a halt, on the edge of a high cliff. “I see. Well…” He motions to the table he just slid off of. “Come sit. I’ll grab the first aid kit.”
Remembering to exhale, I lean my tennis racket up against the wall. Then I walk over to the padded massage table and hop up. My eyes go to Grayson. He’s bending over, getting the first aid kit out of a low cabinet. I can’t help but look at his butt, which makes my face heat again.
Almost everything makes me embarrassed nowadays but I’m triply embarrassed to be ogling this guy I don’t even know. Even if his white polo shows off his biceps and he wears dark shorts that show his toned, athletic thighs.
I don’t remember my grandmother well, but one thing she used to say stuck with me. Staring is impolite.
I jerk my eyes away as he comes back toward the table, a white first aid kit in tow. He cracks it open beside me, glancing at me. As he does, his hand brushes my thigh, burning me like he is pure molten steel. My cheeks go red and I honestly worry about my body bursting into flames.
He glances at me as he sorts through the supplies. “I’m Grayson, by the way.”
My face burns all the redder. His gaze makes me feel alert, as if every single hair on my body is turned toward him. An overreaction on the part of my body, sure. But that doesn’t make me feel it any less.
“I’m Rachel.”
He picks up a wad of cotton and looks at my wound. “I know who you are.”
His words make me short of breath. “You do?”
He doesn’t answer, at least not right away. Instead, he kneels down and indicates my leg. “May I?”
I can only manage to nod. There is a big lump of twisted emotion and nerves balled up in my throat. Grayson begins to sop up the lazy trail of blood, starting with my shoe.
“My boss pointed your family out on the first day I started here. He said that the Blacks run this club.”
He grabs my ankle, turning it deftly as he wipes the blood off. His fingers are warm and strong, leaving impressions that I can’t possibly forget. Thinking that makes me blush, though I’m not sure why.
“I see,” is all I can think to say.
He stops cleaning and looks up into my eyes. I’m lost for a second in the color of his eyes, a brilliant blue. My family took a trip to Hawaii earlier this year, and the blue of his eyes reminds me of the restless blue ocean I saw there.
“My boss told me to do whatever I can do to make sure your family is comfortable at all times,” he says slowly. His gaze is steady on my face. “He said that you people can buy and sell guys like me a million times over.”
Lost in those swirls of blue, I am superheating. What was he saying to me?
Something about comfort, I think. Or how my family has too much money. I lift my hand to my scalding hot cheek.
“My dad, maybe. Not me,” I answer lamely.
He smiles again. My heart feels like it’s swelling, like it’s a balloon ready to pop. What is he doing to me, exactly?
His touch is gentle but it makes me feel… restless. And looking into his eyes is like diving into a deep blue pool. I could splash around in them, do a backstroke, stay pinned right here forever.
Luckily, he breaks his gaze to look back down. He resumes cleaning my leg, swiping the cotton up my shin. “That’s good to know, I guess.”
I can’t look at him and not burst into flames. And I can’t look at my injury, so I look up instead. “How long have you worked here, Grayson?”
“I started about a month ago.” He touches my knee experimentally. It burns. I wince. “I’m afraid this is going to hurt a bit.”
“Just… keep talking to me.”
He dabs at the wound on my knee, making me flinch. Still, his hands are steady. That calms me a bit. I distract myself from the pain he’s causing by focusing instead on his hands, especially how they interact with my skin.
They are hot, their placement firm and knowledgeable. Every time he moves them, he always seems to already know where he plans to touch me next.
There is something about that, something about how he knows, that makes me yearn, even though I don’t know what I’m wishing for.
“Alright. How old are you?” he asks. His voice has a low timbre that makes me shake when I think about it.
He dabs at my knee again. It stings and I wince again. “Fifteen. Well, almost fifteen. How old are you?”
A smile curves his lips. “I’m about to turn eighteen. I’m spending my summer working here, waiting until my eighteenth birthday.”
“
So we are…” I do the math. “Three years apart. What are you waiting for?”
I feel his eyes on me and shiver a little. He smiles.
“I’m enlisting on my eighteenth birthday. Joining the Navy. I want to be a Navy SEAL.”
“Oh.” I can’t think what else to say. I just absorb the information.
He clears his throat. “Have you always been a member of this club?”
I shrug, my head still tilted up. “Since I can remember.” I pause, the gears turning in my head. He is awfully cute. It’s almost painful to look at him, honestly. “Tell me about the book you are reading.”
He puts the cotton down and picks up a brown bottle. “It’s called Catcher in the Rye. Have you heard of that?”
I nod, glancing at him. “Yeah. It’s actually on my to-read list for this summer.”
His lips curl up. “You’ll have to let me know if you like it. I mean, assuming that you are allowed to talk to me.” He puts the clear liquid from the bottle on a fresh wad of cotton, then puts that wad over my kneecap. I suck in a breath and he winces. “Sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s my own, for being so clumsy.” I grit my teeth. “Wait, why wouldn’t I be allowed to talk to you?”
He gives me a funny look. “Because I’m the hired help.”
I wrinkle my nose. “So?”
He shrugs. “I just figured your parents are really careful about who you’re friends with.”
“I’m friends with anyone I want to be friends with.” I frown. The second it’s out of my mouth, I can see my mother reacting to the news that I’ve befriended a tennis pro. Her look of distaste, used so casually, drives me insane. “We are friends.”
Grayson doesn’t say anything. He just grips my knee and holds the wad of cotton down against my cut. I look at down him, at his messy hair and his perfect jawline. His lips are so expressive, more than I’m used to anyway.
I want to kiss those lips, I realize. My heart starts beating faster. All the girls I know are stealing kisses this summer.
Why not me?
He glances up at me and sees me looking at him. That makes him smile. “What?”
