Chapter 7 Liam
Chapter seven
Liam
The SUV was packed to the roof. Every available inch of space was crammed with coolers, camping gear, duffel bags, and enough alcohol to be considered wildly irresponsible, depending on who you asked.
The back seat rattled with the occasional clink of bottles shifting inside a cooler, and a bag of snacks sat open between Sam and me, already half-eaten.
Outside the window, the Indiana countryside stretched wide and endless, a blur of rolling fields, thick green forests, and winding roads that led somewhere better, somewhere free.
Sunlight spilled golden through the windshield, warming the dashboard, casting warm light across Sam’s arm where it rested against the console.
Ezra, Max, Avery, and Tess, lovingly referred to as the Four Amigos, had piled into a giant SUV with what looked like enough luggage and pool floaties to last a month, let alone a week.
Renzo and Harper took Renzo’s truck, music blasting and windows down as they followed along behind.
And up ahead, Elliott and Evan were sharing Elliott’s small SUV, crammed with camping chairs, a Bluetooth speaker, and, presumably, at least one very over-prepared first aid kit.
It was, without question, the gayest caravan rolling down country roads like a queer pilgrimage to the promised land of s’mores and naked volleyball.
The speakers hummed with one of my famous road trip playlists, a mix of throwback pop, indie rock, and a few campy queer anthems that no one can resist singing along to. The songs were stacked just right so my brain wouldn’t wander.
The playlist was on fire, and I’d just hit the part of the drive where the trees opened up to that endless stretch of two-lane road cutting through the hills. Rays of light spilled through branches, windows down, my arm hanging out the side.
The current song blasting through the speakers?
"Good as Hell" by Lizzo.
The energy in the car was electric like she was singing just for me.
Hair toss? Check. Feelings? Already checked.
The bass vibrated through my seat, my foot tapped against the floorboard in time with the beat, every part of me locking onto the song like it was holding me together, and I caught myself belting out the chorus like I was on stage at a Pride karaoke night with a vodka soda in hand.
It was impossible not to feel good as hell.
I was on my way to Cedar Hollow, the gayest campground this side of the Mississippi, and this was exactly the soundtrack I needed to set the tone: equal parts fabulous, feral, and free.
That familiar restless energy buzzed under my skin, the kind that never lets me sit still when there’s something to look forward to. The kind that made my chest feel lighter and my thoughts a little looser.
Beside me, Sam adjusted his sunglasses, and let his head tilt back against the seat. “I needed this,” he said, voice low and content.
“Right?” I smiled, glancing at him before turning my focus back to the road. “No work or responsibilities. Just a whole week of doing whatever the hell we want, whenever we want to.”
Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “And by that, you mean flirting with every hot guy who looks your way while soaking up the sun naked.”
I shrugged, completely unapologetic. “I mean, yeah. What else is a vacation for?”
Sam rolled his eyes, smiling.
A new song kicked in over the speakers, and Sam reached forward, nudging the volume knob up just a little.
"Dog Days Are Over" by Florence + the Machine burst into the car like a joyful stampede with drums pounding, vocals soaring, and sunlight catching the edges of the windshield like spilled sequins.
He let the moment sit between us for a beat before asking, “So, have you been to this campground before?”
I nodded. “Once. A couple years ago.”
Sam’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “By yourself?”
“Yeah.” I smiled, side-eyeing him. “You sound surprised.”
“I guess I am.” He shrugged. “I just… I don’t know. I feel like some people would be weird about going alone.”
I let out a short laugh. “I’m not most people.”
That was true enough. I knew no stranger.
Never had. I could strike up a conversation with a guy at a bar, a couple on a cruise, a group at a campfire, and leave with plans to meet up again next year.
I’d always been that way. No hesitation or nerves.
Just the belief that good things happen when you throw yourself into new places, new people.
“I mean, I don’t know if I could do it. This is your element, huh?” Sam mused, seeing the blur of green trees whip past the window.
“Damn right,” I said, smiling wider. “The second we hit that campground, I’m dropping every ounce of stress I’ve been carrying. It’s not just a trip, man. It’s sacred.”
Sam shot me a skeptical glance. “Sacred?”
“That trip,” I said, shifting my grip on the wheel, “was actually why I wanted to do this. The place was magical. It was different from anywhere I’d been before.”
“Different how?”
“A week at a gay campground, where being queer isn’t just accepted, it’s the default.” I let the words settle between us, warm and solid. “No one staring or second-guessing. No editing yourself or masking. You just… exist. Fully. Loudly. Quietly. However the hell you want to.”
He didn’t say anything right away. So I kept going.
“Every guy I’ve talked to who’s been there says the same thing. There’s just something about it. You unplug. Not just from your phone, but from all the noise. The pressure. The grind of performing your whole damn personality for everyone else’s comfort.”
I glanced at him, then back at the road. “You wake up when your body says it’s time. You nap when you want to. You eat when you’re hungry. You sit in the sun, naked, the way God intended. And you feel… restored.”
Sam gave me a sidelong look, amused. “God intended, huh?”
“Listen, I’m not saying Moses brought down a tablet that said ‘thou shalt tan thy whole ass,’ but I’m also not saying he didn’t.”
That got a quiet laugh out of him, but I wasn’t done.
“You fall asleep at night when you’re actually tired,” I said, my voice softening. “No screens and city noise. Just the forest around you. The wind rustling the trees. Crickets, frogs, the crackle of someone else’s fire a few sites over. It just… slows you down. In the best way.”
Sam was quiet again.
I let the silence stretch, surprised when my brain didn’t immediately try to fill it. Let the weight of it settle the way the road beneath us did.
“And yeah,” I added, “I know how that sounds. But when you’re lying there, held by the dark, and you can actually hear the woods breathe around you? It just feels right.”
He didn’t respond, but his fingers stopped tapping on the armrest. He nodded once, slow and sure.
Like maybe he really did understand.
And I think he did.
Sam
The drive to Cedar Hollow was equal parts breathtaking and bowel-clenching.
The narrow country roads wound like lazy ribbons through fields and farmland, past weathered barns and homes that looked like they’d been plucked from a Pinterest board labeled Farmcore. Charming? Sure. But also, terrifying.
The roads barely felt wide enough for one car, let alone two.
Each blind curve came with a spike of anxiety.
When a car did appear in the opposite lane, usually barreling toward you with absolutely no concern for spatial physics, every asshole in the car clenched in perfect unison, a silent prayer that neither vehicle would go skidding off into a ditch or down an embankment.
Still, there was something magical about it. A feeling of leaving real life behind, one bumpy curve at a time.
And then, just as you start to question whether you missed a turn or drove into a horror movie setup, there it was: the unassuming, modest entrance to the campground.
No flashy signs. Just a wooden archway carved with the name and flanked by hand-painted signs about firewood, quiet hours, and community rules.
It was easy to miss if you weren’t looking.
The dirt road into the campground curved between tall trees, thick branches stretching overhead, filtering the light into something softer, more golden. Speed limit signs were posted every so often to remind you that if dust was being kicked up, you needed to slow the fuck down.
Clusters of tents popped up under the canopy of leaves, colorful, mismatched, a patchwork of camping gear and rainbow flags fluttering lazily in the breeze.
The weather was perfect. That rare, sweet spot between spring and summer where the air felt warm against your skin but not heavy, where the nights would be just cool enough to bundle up in layers of blankets inside your tent.
The balm of damp earth and fresh-cut grass filled my lungs, carried on the breeze alongside the faint, inviting trace of a campfire burning somewhere nearby.
We pulled through the campground to the main office to check in, tires crunching over gravel as the SUV came to a stop.
Behind us, the rest of our queer caravan trickled in, piling out of their vehicles as car doors slammed, voices rose, and laughter rang out. Everyone spilled onto the gravel lot, stretching, yawning, craning their necks to take it all in.
The building itself was nothing fancy, weathered siding, a rainbow flag waving proudly from the porch, and a hand-painted sign above the door that read Welcome Homo: Now Relax Your Shoulders and Take Off Your Pants. But the real welcome was outside.
As Liam hopped out and stretched his legs, I followed, blinking at the scene unfolding around us.
A completely naked man, save for a toolbelt and sun visor, was crouched on the steps of his camper, casually hammering in a replacement board.
Across the gravel loop, another guy was mowing his tiny patch of grass around his camper wearing only a jockstrap, work boots, and sunglasses.
He waved cheerfully at someone walking their dog as they passed by.