Luck of the Draw

by Kate Clayborn

  His head snaps up when he hears voices, and he takes the box from my lap, his fingertips briefly touching my thigh, before shoving it under the seat between us. “You’re ready?” he asks, looking out to where an older couple approaches us, waving and smiling broadly.

  “Absolutely,” I say, because it seems like offering the exact opposite answer from how I feel is the right way to go here. Warm and polite, I tell myself, again, as I get out of the car. Aiden comes around to my side, and there’s a tense moment where I wonder if he’s going to do something weird, like put an arm around me or try to hold my hand, but he only comes to stand by me, surely closer than he would otherwise, but definitely not in a Hi, old friends, this is my fiancée type way. “These are the Dillards,” he says, low into my ear, so I guess he’s warning me that it’s really showtime.

  “Oh, it’s you! It’s you!” says the woman, clasping her hands together as she approaches. She’s short, compact, her dark, curly hair cropped close to her scalp, her boots and khakis and green thermal all about function. Beside her, in an almost identical outfit, is a tall, lanky man, his pale skin a contrast to hers, his eyes kind behind wire-rimmed glasses.

  The woman stretches out her arms for a hug, first from Aiden, and then, surprisingly, from me. “I can’t believe he waited so long to tell us he’d be bringing you,” she says, pulling back and holding me at arm’s length, smiling widely.

  “Lorraine,” the man says, setting a hand on her back. “Let’s give her a minute to get introduced.”

  Beside me, Aiden shifts, maybe moves a fraction closer. “Paul, Lorraine—this is Zoe. Zoe, this is Paul and Lorraine Dillard, who—uh. Who I’ve told you about.”

  Barely, I think, but I keep my smile pasted on, reaching out a hand to Paul, and then to Lorraine, who merely gives me another hug. “Can you believe he left us a message saying he’d gotten engaged?”

  “Oh. Um, sure. I can believe that,” I say. “Sort of a—strong and silent type, this one.”

  She laughs, steps back to pat his arm. “You sure are right!” I like the drawl in her voice, more pronounced than what I usually hear in the city. “He’s always been a little like that. Wait until I show you the pictures I have of him, from every year he came. You’ll love that—”

  “Did you have a cabin picked out for us?” Aiden says, interrupting her, and I stiffen with the awkwardness of it, with the taken-aback expression on Lorraine’s face. He’s being rude to this woman who is so obviously happy to see him, and who is one-half of the couple he needs to impress to buy his precious campground.

  “Oh, goodness,” I say, playfully slapping his arm, a gesture I hope I pull off. “That’s my fault, Mrs. Dillard. The whole way up here all I could talk about was seeing one of these cabins! I’ve never been to a camp like this—I’m so excited!” That right there is more exclamations than I’ve ever used in polite company.

  She smiles, points a finger at me. “No Mrs. Dillard stuff. I’m Lorraine to everyone who comes here, even the kids, and I’ll be Lorraine to you too.”

  “Yes, of course,” I say, happy that I seem to have defused the situation. Paul tells us we must be tired from the trip up, that most of the other guests won’t be here for another hour or so, and so we might as well go on up to our cabin, settle in a bit before lunch at 12:30.

  “We can catch up then, and you can account for being so out of touch, young man.” Lorraine pats Aiden’s arm again. She takes a lanyard from around her neck and disentangles a key, passing it to him. “Now I set you up in your old cabin, and I hope that’s all right. I realize it might be a little strange for you, but you’ll have lovely Zoe here to keep you company. And we’ve prayed on this, Aiden, Paul and me, and we think it’s right for you to stay in that cabin.”

  I look up to catch Aiden’s throat move with a tense swallow as he takes the key, offering a brief nod. “It’ll be all right,” he says quietly. A fiancée, I think, would know what that pained look in his eyes is. A fiancée would reach out, take his hand, or maybe lean into him in comfort.

  I do neither. Next to him, I am so acutely aware of the stance I’ve taken, all business: back straight, shoulders square, my hands clasped loosely in front of me. I’m blowing it, I think, even as Lorraine turns to me, smiling widely.

  “If you’ve never been to a camp like this one, I should warn you that the accommodations are spartan. But that’s as it should be. Keeps our campers in the great outdoors as much as possible. And I think you’ll find you’ve got everything you need, though it can take a bit to get used to at first.”

  Lorraine is so welcoming, such a contrast to the last two hours in the truck that I kind of want to ask her if she’ll take me in, let me stay in that nice lodge with her and Paul. But Aiden and this spartan cabin are part of my penance, I guess, so I return her smile and say, “I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’m pretty mentally tough.”

  Beside me, Aiden makes an unfamiliar noise.

  I think it might’ve been a laugh.

  It was cool when we’d set off this morning, but as we make our way to our cabin—a not-insignificant hike through narrow, wooded trails, it heats up quick—the sun peeks through the cracks in the trees, starting to turn for the autumn season. By the time we reach a clearing, my back is damp with sweat where my pack has pressed against it, my shoulders are sore from its weight. No surprise that before last week I’d never owned a backpack of this size, and I suspect the woman at the outdoor sports store was trolling me when she sold me this one.

  “Right up ahead,” Aiden says as we trudge on, and a small cul-de-sac of four cabins comes into view, a wooden sign announcing them as the Good News 1 cabins.

  “Good News?” I ask, trying to make my stride look natural as I rush to keep up with him. I’m tall, but Aiden’s legs eat up this ground like tractor wheels.

  “Gospels. There’s four cabin sites like this, each with four cabins.”

  “You’re sure it’s okay with Lorraine and Paul that we’re staying together in here? With us not being married and all?”

  He shrugs. “They don’t tend to fuss over things that don’t matter.” I pause a half step, thinking of that. Things that don’t matter? Maybe I was way off base and unfair, but Aiden’s talk of the Dillards being “traditional”—not to mention cabins named after Gospels—had me expecting something a lot different here, something a little less…flexible? I want to ask him about that, but he’s forged ahead, head down, making his way up to the second cabin on our right.

  When I catch up, he’s paused in front of the door, his body still. Then he turns back toward me, snags a water from the side pocket of his bag, and holds it out. “You look hot,” he says, pushing the bottle at my hand. There’s no kindness in the gesture; it’s like I’ve insulted him by being too warm.

  “Mr. O’Leary, how you flatter me,” I snipe back, taking the bottle and twisting the cap off with a satisfying crack. He watches as I take a few sips, and I lower the bottle. “Are we going to stand here all day, or…?”

  If I weren’t watching him so closely, I’d miss the way his shoulders raise slightly from the deep breath he’s taking in through his nose. He turns his back to me again, fumbles the key in the door, a quick flick of his wrist to open it.

  As soon as I cross the threshold, I drop my pack on the floor, taking another long drink of water to keep myself from letting out the groan of relief I feel at having it off. I’d like to sit down right where I stand, start unlacing the boots that feel too new, too tight, but I’m too curious to check out the cabin and see what manner of domestic lunacy I’m supposed to endure while I’m here.

  And it is, in fact, domestic lunacy. I’m standing in a long room, cheap tile floors underneath my feet, two sinks bolted to the wall on my left. Past them, two putty-colored stalls, same as you’d find in a public restroom. And past that? A pale blue, very thin curtain hanging from a square of steel rods, a utilitarian showerhead visible above.

  “Nope,” I say, and turn back toward the door
.

  I hear Aiden’s derisive snort behind me. “This is that mental toughness you mentioned?”

  I stop, turn back to face him. He’s leaning in the doorway that leads to the part of the cabin I haven’t yet seen, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze assessing. But there’s this quirk at the edge of his mouth, not a smile, but the beginnings of one. I’d like to make him smile for real, I think, surprising myself. It’s the way he holds it back, that’s the thing. It makes me want to chase a smile right onto his face.

  I take a deep breath, look again at the sinks, the stalls, the shower. “Here’s the deal. You leave this cabin when I have to—when I use the facilities, or shower. You can wait outside on the front stoop, and I’ll knock when I’m done.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine,” I repeat back, brushing past him to see the rest of the cabin.

  It’s clear that everything here is designed for functionality, for summers of kids and teenagers. Commercial-grade carpet, a seen-better-days pine dresser with a drawer missing, and two sets of bunk beds, the kind of plastic mattresses I had in my college dorm room, each with a set of sheets and a thick navy blanket folded on top. There’s a desk pushed underneath the cabin’s one window, a compact wood chair to match, and no way is Aiden ever going to be able to sit in that thing, let alone get his legs underneath the desk. Come to think of it, he’s not going to fit easily in one of the bunk beds, either, so at least I’m not the only one who doesn’t quite belong here.

  “Top or bottom?” he says, hefting my pack from where I dropped it and bringing it over to me.

  “Uh. Bottom?” I say, pointing to the bunk that’s closest to the far wall. He sets his own pack on the bottom bunk that sits a few feet away, and I don’t like this, the thought of us sleeping next to each other, even with a few feet of floor between us. “Top,” I correct.

  “Harder to make the bed up there.”

  “That’s okay. I’ve never slept in a bunk bed. Might as well get the full experience.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  For a while we unpack in silence, Aiden making up his bed first, me pulling out my few items of clothing and placing them in a single drawer. It’s a strange sort of quiet, none of the faint mechanical noise I’m used to hearing in my condo—the HVAC kicking on or shutting off, the hum of my appliances, the tinny noise of the television even when it’s switched off. On the drive, at least we had the noise from the car engine, and, when the music had given way to static, the sonorous tones of the NPR station Aiden had found to get us through the rest of the way. So maybe it’s this particular quiet that makes me extra aware of the way he moves, sharp and forceful as he tucks the sheets, as he arranges his bag at the foot of his bed. When even those noises have faded, I turn toward him, and find him standing there beside his pack, one hand clenched around the metal bed frame, his eyes focused on the top bunk.

  “I need to go out,” he says suddenly, releasing the bed and heading for the entryway.

  “Wait—what?”

  He takes a quick look at his watch. “I’ll be back in an hour so we can walk over to the lodge for lunch.”

  “Wait—” I repeat, more forcefully this time, but he talks right over me.

  “I’ll be on the west trail,” he says, which means absolutely nothing to me. I have no idea why he’d even say it.

  “Aiden.” He pauses, turning his profile toward me. He really is handsome, carved planes for cheekbones, his nose bold—on a smaller man, it would be prominent, the first thing you’d notice. But on Aiden it’s perfectly fitted. “You can’t leave me here.”

  But he can leave me here. He’s got no reason not to. There are no witnesses to this; there’s no one here to fake it for. I’m not an idiot—based on what Lorraine said down at the lodge, and based on that hollow look in Aiden’s eyes, this cabin is full of painful memories for him. If we were friends—if he were even willing to try to be friends, I could ask him, maybe, if he’s okay. If he’d like to go for a walk. Or, hell, help me make my top bunk, which I can see now is clearly going to be complicated. At the very least that ought to give him the pleasure of mocking me further.

  “One hour,” he says, and then he’s gone.

  Chapter 4

  Aiden

  She’s on the front stoop when I get back, her elbows propped on her knees, chin resting on her upturned hands, looking almost—amused? When I approach, hands stuffed in my pockets, she looks up at me. Her eyes are fall colors, the burnished gold of an early sugar maple turning for the season, so well suited to this place that it’s startling.

  “This is going real well so far, am I right?” she says.

  “It’ll get easier,” I say, telling her what I’ve spent the last hour telling myself, walking through the woods, burning off all the frantic, angry energy that had been building up all morning, almost bursting forth after a few minutes in that cabin. Damn if I didn’t see my brother everywhere in there, the way I’d wake up in the morning to half his arm, hanging down from the top bunk. The way the bones of his spine would show through his green camp t-shirt; he was always too thin. This little cough he’d get when he’d lie in bed at night, a bad ragweed allergy I never got. His insistence on flushing both toilets every time I took a shower, how he’d shake his skinny arms over his head in victory while I shouted my frustration. The time I got food poisoning from eating a bad hot dog and he sat up with me all night, helping me change my clothes twice, as gentle and quiet as he always was.

  It’s fucking hard. It’s harder than I imagined.

  “I’m going to guess that was about your brother.”

  Oh, she has a lot of fucking nerve, reading my mind like that. “We don’t talk about my brother,” I say, forcefully. “You need to understand that. You and me, we don’t ever talk about my brother.”

  She stands, uses her hands to brush at the backside of her jeans. “If that’s how you want it.”

  “That’s how I want it.”

  She shrugs, then heads back down the path, like she’s not bothered at all, and this is so annoying to me that I have to grind my teeth together. It’s been this way since she got in my car this morning, her strange blend of sarcasm and sweet that sets me right on edge. She’s got this way about her, this woman. She comes to apologize and I’m the one feeling sorry. She crosses a line and I’m the one who comes off looking like a hothead. I give her a ring and she looks like I’ve slapped her.

  “Probably I am going to need help making that bed,” she says, still walking ahead of me. “I think I pulled a muscle attempting the fitted sheet.”

  “Fine.”

  She stops on the trail. I stop too, right behind her. A strand of her hair blows back toward me, and I breathe through my mouth.

  “Listen,” she says, not turning to look at me. “I get it that you hate me—”

  “I don’t,” I say, but she holds up a hand before I get it all the way out.

  “But I’m nervous too. I’m doing the best I can with zero information, and I just saw a bug in that cabin big enough to lift free weights, and I’m pretty sure this lunch is going to have things that make me uncomfortable, like out-loud prayers or singing or food served from a Crock-Pot, and you are really terrible at small talk so I’m assuming I’ll be doing the heavy lifting down there. So it would be great if you could—you know. Cut me some fucking slack.”

  Then she’s off again, head held high, and it’s a beat before I can get my feet moving again after her.

  When we come to trailhead that leads us out to the lodge, I have to pause again, take a deep breath. What I know about the next six weeks is more than what Zoe knows, but it’s limited too. I know there’s three other potential buyers. I know we’re each going to give a presentation at some point over the next six weekends, but I don’t know when. Mostly I don’t know how I’m going to handle being here, doing things I’ve done dozens of times before but without my brother by my side. I turn to look at Zoe, who’s stopped to wait beside me, her eyes downc
ast toward her boots. They look new, stiff, the kind you’ve got to break in. I’ll bet her feet are feeling it.

  “It won’t be food out of a Crock-Pot,” I say. “Camp’s always had better food than you’d expect. Lorraine’s a good cook, and I’m guessing she’ll have done the meal for a group as small as ours.”

  “Okay.”

  “Can’t say for sure about the praying or the singing. And I’ll kill that bug later, if it’s still there.”

  “Thanks.” It’s almost funny how we both inhale at the same time—the same steeling, deep breath to get ready for this.

  But neither of us laugh.

  When we step onto the lodge’s porch a few minutes later, I can hear the clamor inside, the excited voices of reunion. Beside me, Zoe smooths her hair, straightens her shoulders, and when I open the door for her, she—I don’t know. She arranges her face, I guess, a slight cock of her head and a wide smile, her eyes bright and searching, as if she’s genuinely excited to meet a roomful of people she’ll be lying to for the next six weeks.

  In-fucking-credible, I think, simultaneously disgusted and impressed.

  The main floor of the lodge looks exactly the same—a large, wide-open space with long tables and benches set around the thick, dark-stained wooden posts that we all used to dream of climbing to reach the high, timbered ceilings. All the walls are painted cream, except for the one facing east, which is made up of floor-to-ceiling windows, giving a full view of the lodge’s heavily treed backyard. During predawn breakfasts, you’d see the best, most kaleidoscopic sunrises of your life through those trees. Upstairs, in Lorraine and Paul’s apartment, it’s the same wall of windows, like living in a treehouse. I’d like a few minutes to take it in, to adjust to the wave of nostalgia and pain that had hit me in the cabin too, but there’s nowhere for me to run here. It’s only seconds before we’re enveloped into the group, a flurry of introductions.