Chapter 13 #2
There’s no need for verbal confirmation. Her expression tells me I’m right.
“I can’t believe this.”
“I like the way they look, okay? They’re fashion frames. I have perfect vision.”
A gasp escapes me. “You’re not even near-sighted?”
She drops her gaze. “I’m sorry. I have perfect vision.”
“You talk about authenticity, yet here you are walking around like you’re half blind.”
“I never said I couldn’t see without them.”
“It’s implied by the wearing of them on a daily basis.”
“So what does that mean? That I’ve entered into some sort of contract with the public to be visually impaired?”
“There’s a certain expectation, yes.” I give her a rueful shake of my head. “You’re a fraud, Cricket, if that’s even your real name.”
“You already know it isn’t.”
Laughter bubbles up to the surface and I don’t bother to resist. I let it pour out of me.
Her hand rests on her hip. “I’m glad you’re enjoying this moment. You should really savor it. Care to take a video for posterity?”
“Would you object?” I hold up my phone and she swats it away.
“Of course I would object.” Something catches her eye, and she shushes me.
“You’re the one talking,” I point out.
She motions behind me. I turn around and squint in the gloaming. It takes me a second to spot her. Buffy is atop a branch curled against the trunk of an oak tree. She’s shivering. She’s too high to reach without climbing, which doesn’t feel particularly safe at the moment.
“Aim the light at her,” I tell Cricket.
The second the light hits Buffy, she glides toward me in search of safety. I guide her into the pocket of my hoodie, which is soaking wet by now, but the sugar glider doesn’t seem to mind.
Cricket switches off the light. “We found her.”
As much as I want to celebrate this victory, I can feel Buffy’s vibrations through the wet cotton. “We should get her dry.”
Cricket takes off in the direction of Gloria’s cabin and I follow at a slower pace, exercising caution. One slippery step and I could crush the very creature I’m trying to save. I try not to think about that.
My heart is thumping like an erratic drumbeat by the time Gloria’s door swings open. Cricket ushers me inside first so that I can deliver the precious parcel. Gloria’s face is streaked with tears when I tug open my pocket to reveal Buffy.
Gloria throws her arms around me and breaks down, choking out relieved sobs.
I don’t care about anyone as much as Gloria cares about this tiny animal.
I feel in awe of her emotions, but mostly, I feel deprived.
Why have I not grown that attached to another living creature?
Where’s my Buffy or my Chewy? My Olivia?
My anyone.
She scoops Buffy from my wet pocket and carries her to a blanket where she wraps her delicate body in warmth.
“Thank you both,” Gloria says.
“It’s no problem,” I say. “I’m glad we found her.”
“She took refuge under a tree,” Cricket adds. “I bet she would’ve stayed there until the rain passed.”
Gloria seems to really see us for the first time. “Look at the state of you. You’re both saturated.”
Gloria spends fifty weeks a year helping someone else without support. I have no desire for her to feel guilty about asking for help now. “Nothing a couple towels can’t handle,” I say. I feel Cricket’s eyes on me, but I resist the urge to meet her gaze.
“Maybe you should wait here until the storm is over,” Gloria suggests, but neither of us seems keen to stay.
“We’re already a wet mess,” Cricket says. “And we’re making puddles on your floor.”
“Thank you again,” Gloria tells us. She looks ready to cry all over again.
“Have a good night,” I say. We leave before the fresh batch of tears begin to flow.
As we reenter Cricket’s cabin, I realize why I didn’t want to see the gratitude in her eyes. It’s the same reason I felt uncomfortable with Gloria’s praise.
Because I don’t deserve it.
And not only because I registered for camp under false pretenses. It’s more than that. Deeper.
I shove the feelings into a mental trunk and slam the lid shut. I can’t think too hard right now. I am drenched and exhausted, and I want to sleep, which will prove difficult in a confined space with Cricket.
She waits until we’re both showered, dried and dressed for bed to speak.
“I appreciate you braving the weather with me. You didn’t have to do that.
” She’s wearing cotton shorts and a Geek Chic T-shirt yet somehow manages to look sexy as hell.
It’s a gift, one that I wouldn’t mind unwrapping under different circumstances.
“I didn’t do anything special,” I object. “Anybody here would’ve done the same.”
“I know, but you haven’t been ‘anybody here’ until recently.” She waves a hand at the desk. “Feel free to take your stuff out of your bag and let it dry. I’m sure some of your things are wet.”
“Thanks.” I place my laptop on the desk and spot a pack of scratch-off lottery cards wrapped in a rubber band on the corner of the desk. “If you’re saving those for a rainy day, I have good news. The time has come.”
She musters a smile. “I’m in the process of relocating them.”
“You don’t plan to scratch them off?” Cricket clearly needs the boost to her bank account.
“I found these in my dad’s secret stash after he died,” she says. “I’ve held on to them because … Well, I’m not sure why, honestly.”
I dig through my pockets for a coin. “You can use a little luck.”
Cricket barks a laugh. “My dad was many things, Charlie, but lucky isn’t one of them.”
I realize in that moment that Cricket has spoken more about her grandparents than her parents and perhaps there’s a reason for it—that life at Lake Willa wasn’t as idyllic as it seems. The lawyer in me should be salivating at this small revelation, knowing that a chink in Abernathy armor could be useful to LandStar, but the human in me feels only empathy for Cricket.
Those lottery cards obviously hold some emotional weight.
“Why not give them up at swag swap?”
“I considered it, but I wanted to get rid of the T-shirt more.” She climbs into bed and inches over until she’s against the wall. “There’s room for you. It isn’t much, but it’s better than the floor.”
Heat rises in my gut and spreads to all my appendages, and I do mean all of them. “I don’t mind the floor.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It isn’t the floor of the Ritz. It’s a hard wooden floor that’s going to be cold and damp right now.” She pats the side of the bed. “I promise not to try anything.”
It isn’t her I’m worried about.
I debate my options, which are basically the floor or the bed. There isn’t even a bathtub to consider.
“I’m six-four,” I tell her. “I’ll take up way more space than you.”
“I’ll manage. Come on. I’m sure we’re both dead tired. It’ll be fine.”
Reluctantly, I join her in the twin bed.
It’s instantly like a game of Twister, where we each struggle to find agreeable spots for our limbs that don’t encroach on the other person.
As she attempts to relocate her arm, her hand grazes my side, and I jerk back.
Unfortunately, that swift reaction fails to take into account the lack of bed space and I land on the floor with a thud.
Cricket’s head appears over the side of the bed. “Omigod, are you okay? I’m so sorry. I forgot you were ticklish.”
I climb back into bed, my pride more bruised than my tailbone. “It’s not your fault.” I hear the sourness in my tone and wish I could snatch it back.
Cricket notices, too, but instead of sweeping it under the bed, she asks, “Lots of people are ticklish. Why does it embarrass you?”
Not for the first time, her directness catches me off guard. I find myself matching her candor. “My dad thinks men need to be tough under any and all circumstances.”
“And that includes the ancient art of tickling?”
I nod. “Laughter is a weakness. A loss of control.”
She whistles. “Your dad must be a good time in the sack. I don’t envy your mom.”
I feel myself cringe. “Thanks for that mental image right before I fall asleep.”
“No wonder you find it so hard to let your hair down. I suppose your dad thinks that fun isn’t manly either.”
“If I play something, the primary goal is to win. If it isn’t a competition, then there’s no point.”
Pain seeps into her features. “That explains a lot.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Your response to my comment about your dad yesterday.” She props herself up by an elbow. “You must feel conflicted about him. On the one hand, he’s your dad and you love him. On the other hand, he’s an asshole. Trust me, I understand more than you know.”
Her comment triggers my lawyer brain, which quickly makes the connection between the lottery cards and the paper I found.
I’m tempted to present the document to her right here and now, except that I left it tucked under my mattress for safekeeping.
I also don’t want to upset her. It’s clear she had unresolved issues with her father, and I have no desire to show her exactly how much he sucked.
“What happened when you didn’t win?” she asks.
“A variety of punishments. My favorite was the silent treatment because at least I didn’t have to listen to him critique my performance in excruciating detail.”
“Good grief, Charlie. That’s monstrous. You were a kid. You didn’t deserve to be treated like that.”
I stare into the darkness, remembering how trapped and helpless I felt when being subjected to one of my father’s ‘helpful’ critiques. I’d leave a game walking tall, only to be reduced to the size of an ant by the time the car rolled into the driveway.
“The messed-up part of it is that I thought the whole thing was normal. That all parents were as tough as mine.”
“Your mom too?”
“They tend to operate as a team when it comes to parenting, so it’s hard to know when they actually disagree.” Either way, she was complicit in his behavior.
Cricket strokes my arm. “You deserve to feel joy, Charlie.”
“Why?”
“Do you need a reason?”
“I’m not the sugar glider-saving man you think I am.”