Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
KEANE
The camping aisle smells of rubber and cedar chips and my fumbling inexperience. Rows upon rows of sleeping bags in neon and jewel-tone colors. Tents tall enough to house a small army. Backpacks with more straps than an S&M convention.
A salesman materializes out of nowhere, wearing a bright vest and an even brighter grin. “So! What kind of trip are we outfitting for today? Fishing? Hiking? Rock climbing? Caving? Kayaking?”
I scratch the back of my head. “Uh… campfires. Crafts. Maybe a relay race?”
He blinks at me, then tilts his head similar to a confused Labrador. “Crafts?”
“Yeah. You know, glitter glue, popsicle sticks, that kind of thing?” I regret opening my mouth the second I say it.
He wisely decides not to ask questions, just points me toward an amateur equipment section. Suddenly I’m drowning in collapsible chairs, cookstoves, bug nets, and a cooler the size of my first apartment’s kitchen. I grab one of everything like a nervous groom at Bed Bath & Beyond.
By the time I hit checkout, my cart looks as though I’m prepping for a televised survival show. And then I see it—hanging by the register, a little flashlight shaped like a cartoon bear. It glows soft yellow when you click the button. It’s clearly designed for children.
I pick it up anyway.
I can already picture his hands curling around it, the way his face will light up when I give it to him. Maybe he’ll laugh. Maybe he’ll blush. Either way, it feels right.
The weight of the overstuffed trunk doesn’t bother me half as much as the weight in my chest. Excitement. Nerves. A voice in my head saying Don’t screw this up.
I’m ruthless in court, the guy who shreds airtight cases until there’s nothing left but scraps. But with Oren? I don’t want sharp edges. I want soft landings. Even ground. A place he can fall without getting hurt.
And that’s the part that rattles me most.
Because somewhere between striped socks and late-night texts, this cutie slipped under my skin.
And now all I can think about is how badly I want to be the man who doesn’t let him down.
I shut the trunk with a solid thunk, take a step back, and wince.
Yeah… I might’ve gone a little overboard.
Three sleeping bags of different thicknesses—because who knows the damn temperature in the woods—a folding chair, two lanterns, bug spray, a cooler that could fit a small bear, and way too many snacks I’m not supposed to admit I bought.
I snap a picture and send it to Oren.
Think we might have to strap your stuff to the roof, kiddo.
The typing bubble pops up right away. My stomach knots as though I’m waiting on a jury verdict.
Oren: Oh my God. What is all that?
I grin, leaning against the car.
Supplies. Preparedness. The whole wilderness could collapse around us and we’d still be comfortable.
A beat passes before another bubble pops up.
Oren: You bought three sleeping bags.
Options.
Oren: You’re ridiculous.
But you’re smiling.
I can almost imagine the little scrunch of his nose, his eyes lighting up as if he’s exasperated but not actually annoyed. In the pictures he shared, there was a hint of something playful tugging at the corner of his soft mouth, the smile waiting just out of frame.
His hair looked soft in the photo, a little unruly, like it might fall into his eyes if he moved too fast. I picture him pushing it back absently, fingers lingering there while he tries to make a point he’s half embarrassed to say out loud.
Maybe his shoulders tense when he’s nervous. Maybe he crosses his arms when he’s trying to look stubborn. Maybe that serious expression in the picture would crack the second someone teased him.
Or maybe I’m inventing half of this.
It was just a few photographs. A handful of still moments. But even in that frozen frame there was something about him that felt… open. Like the boy in the picture wanted very badly to trust someone.
The thought tightens something in my chest.
He sends another message, sweeter this time.
Oren: You’re really doing this. For me.
His words make me forget about the overstuffed trunk and the ridiculous kid’s flashlight wedged between the lanterns. Because what he doesn’t get—what I can’t tell him yet—is that it’s not just for him.
It’s for me, too.
I stare at the message until my throat goes dry. Before I can figure out what to say, another bubble appears.
Oren: You’re basically the perfect camp counselor Daddy.
The words wrap around my heart and squeeze. My ears go hot, my pulse doing a sprint while I stand in the middle of an outdoor gear store parking lot, surrounded by SUVs and shopping carts. Camp Counselor Daddy. Jesus.
I huff a laugh and scrub a hand over my jaw, shaking my head. Thirty-six years old and blushing at my phone because of a slip of a boy I haven’t even met in person yet.
Careful, kiddo. That title might go to my head.
His reply is instant.
Oren: Maybe that’s the point.
I laugh out loud this time, earning a look from a couple loading supplies into their car two spaces over. My chest feels too tight and too light all at once, as if someone cut the ropes I’ve been holding myself down with.
You still nervous?
The bubble hangs longer this time.
Oren: A little.
Oren: Okay, a lot.
Good. Means you care. Means this matters.
A minute passes before his next message appears.
Oren: What if I’m not what you expect?
I lean back against the car and let my smile shine through.
Kiddo, you already are.