Chapter 17
Lawson
Oakley has a bug up his ass all day.
He denies it, but I can see him keeping a close eye on Koda, just waiting for the kid to step out of line.
Shortly before dinner, he asks for my truck keys, saying he’s grabbing more tampons for Wendy. I don’t think to question it until the man comes strolling into the mess hall with four grocery bags full of feminine hygiene products in his hands and a smirk lifting his lips.
Oh boy.
“Liv,” Oakley says, coming right up to the chaperones’ table and stopping before the camp leader. “Permission to give the camp attendees an educational demonstration on tampon use?”
I nearly choke on my spit.
Liv appraises Oakley, the rest of the adults wearing amused expressions. “Can I trust you to be purely factual?”
“You absolutely can,” Oakley answers.
Liv shrugs. “Permission granted.”
I watch in shock as Oakley proceeds to dump the contents of the bags onto a nearby table, the boxes of different kinds of tampons scattering. The kids are starting to look over at him now, no one seeming like they quite know what to think.
“May I have your attention?” Oakley calls, the hall quieting at once.
“It recently came to light that not everyone of your age may be familiar with this product. And since menstruation is absolutely nothing to be ashamed of, I’ll be giving y’all a tutorial.
This”—he cracks a box open and holds up a single-use package—“is a tampon.”
“Gross,” one of the boys mutters. “We’re trying to eat here.”
Oakley tosses the tampon over to the kid’s table, ignoring his squawk and grabbing another out of the box in front of him. “By all means, keep on eating. No one’s stopping you.”
A few of the girls snicker, the boys looking decidedly uncomfortable.
Flashing a grin, Oakley faces the room at large.
“Now, a typical period can last up to seven days. That’s seven days every month.
Women or other individuals with uteruses spend approximately one quarter of their menstruating lives bleeding.
That’s twenty-five percent of the time, folks.
One out of every four days, they are actively. Shedding. Blood.”
Several of the kids groan, but nearly every girl is smiling now. The chaperones, too. I shake my head, feeling a fierce sort of pride swell in my chest.
“Now, I’m not even gonna touch on other accompanying symptoms one might experience during a period,” Oakley says, “because there’s simply no way to understand it if you don’t go through it.
What I am going to do is talk about this arguably brilliant, convenient, and empowering invention: the tampon. ”
Oakley peels the wrapper of the tampon open to a silent, rapt audience. The gleam in his eye is all the forewarning I get before Oakley’s gaze zeroes in on Koda.
Ah, Christ.
“I’m gonna need a volunteer for this,” Oakley declares gleefully. He doesn’t give anyone a chance to shoot their hand in the air. His eyes never leave Koda. “You. Yep. Come on up here and hold this tampon for me.”
Koda, having absolutely no choice unless he wants to look chickenshit in front of his friends, gets out of his seat and approaches the table Oakley is standing in front of. The teen gingerly takes the tampon between his thumb and forefinger, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Oakley pats Koda’s shoulder before clapping his hands together. “All right. First, we’re gonna use a water bottle to learn how to insert a tampon, as well as discuss the benefits and risks involved. And guys? Take notes. You never know if this will apply to your future partner or child one day.”
Wendy catches my eye from across the room, the expression on her face one I recognize well. Overwhelming love.
Oakley spends a half hour in front of the room of teens, lecturing them on proper tampon use and disposal, talking about other feminine hygiene products, and even discussing what people used to do before many of these modern conveniences were invented.
Maybe it’s not world-changing. But to a select group of seventeen-year-olds, Oakley is normalizing a conversation often avoided or treated as downright taboo, all because a young girl he loves was teased by a boy who’s never had to deal with the stigma surrounding periods.
I’ve always known Oakley to be a good person. A kind one. Strong in spirit and possessing a moral compass that’s never once failed.
But I didn’t realize until right this moment the magnitude of what that means to me.
Seeing the man stand up for my daughter as if she’s his own? Seeing him take away a bully’s power without so much as hurting an ounce of the boy’s pride?
I can’t even express the gratitude I feel for that. For him.
The kids attend a survival course after dinner, one of the camp employees having been booked for the group. He shows them how to start a fire, how to ensure drinking water is sanitized if you’re out in the wild, how to make a temporary shelter, even, and what to do if you find yourself lost.
By the time eleven o’clock rolls around, not a single soul complains about heading to bed.
The campsite is quiet, the wind the loudest thing around as it ruffles the bushes and trees.
Oakley and I head to the bathroom together, his phone lighting our way.
Our noises echo in the barebones building, the sounds almost eerie.
When Oakley joins me in front of the sinks to brush his teeth, my eyes run over him. How many times have we stood like this throughout our lifetime? How is it possible to know someone so deeply, to know their ins and outs, and still be amazed by them?
Oakley’s eyes catch mine in the mirror, although it’s too dim to see the unique coloration in here. He spits out his toothpaste. “What?”
I shake my head a little. “That was really smart, what you did.”
“You think so?” he asks, sounding almost sheepish. “I thought there was a good chance you’d chew me out considering you all but told me to back off.”
“No,” I say softly, my throat tight. “That was perfect. I feel like…like I don’t have to worry quite so much when you’re around, Oak. You always make me feel safe. And you do the same for Wendy.”
Oakley turns to face me, meeting me eye to eye instead of through the glass. He’s quiet for a long beat. “I’d do anything for the two of you. You know that.”
“I do. Still surprises me sometimes to see the depth of your love.”
“Jesus,” he mutters, letting out a heavy breath. “The things that come out of your mouth sometimes.”
“Good things, I hope?”
“Honest things.” He looks as if he wants to add something else, but in the end, he only shakes his head. “C’mon. Let’s get to our tent before these mosquitos eat us alive.”
Not about to argue, I nod, and we head out of the bathroom, the wind warm yet wild as we walk the short way back to our campsite.
Oakley’s phone lights our path again, but he shuts it off once we’re zipped inside our canvas shelter.
There’s not much moonlight tonight, so it’s hard to see, but I can hear Oakley shuffling around like he’s getting comfortable.
There’s a tightness in my chest as I lie down beside him, an emotion that feels a lot like fear rattling around in a hectic, fizzy sort of way.
“Oak,” I bring myself to say.
“Yeah?”
I pull in a small, steadying breath. “Could we… I mean, would you mind if I lie down with you tonight?”
There’s a pause, short but weighted, before Oakley speaks. “Not at all.”
Expelling the air in my lungs, I edge closer to feel out Oakley’s position. He’s lying on his back, chest bare, his skin hot to the touch as I settle against him, my head at the crook of his shoulder.
My tension abates almost instantly, muscles going lax.
Oakley’s voice is quiet. “I probably don’t smell the best.”
“You smell fine.”
After a moment, his hand comes up to run lightly through my hair, the rhythmic glide of his blunt fingernails soothing. My eyes slip shut, my own hand over Oakley’s heart, that pressure in my chest gone like dandelion fluff on the wind.
I’m nearly asleep when I hear Oakley murmur, “I feel safe with you, too, Law.”
I should maybe wonder at the way my heart skips with that. At the warmth that blankets me. But I’m too tired to hold on to the thought, slipping instead into a dream-filled sleep that reminds me of sailing through the skies as a child.
When I wake, it’s dark. Rain is pattering softly onto the top of the tent, the air muggy but cool. It takes me a second of foggy thought to figure out what roused me.
Oakley is plastered half over my body, his face pressed to my neck and soft words leaving his mouth that are too quiet for me to discern. He’s clearly still fast asleep.
He’s also hard. His cock is nestled against my hip, the feel of it ratcheting my pulse between one beat and the next.
For a long moment, I don’t move a muscle. If I were to wake Oakley, he’d shift away from me, ever respectful. But I don’t want him to. Not in the least.
Slowly, I slide my hand down between our bodies, the fit tight.
Oakley’s breath stutters when my fingers curl loosely over his cock through the material of his shorts.
I wait, my pulse feathering, Oakley’s soft groan and the unconscious flex of his hips causing my desire to bloom, like a reactionary storm, quiet as it is.
Oakley comes to consciousness quickly, his indrawn breath preceding his voice, rough like gravel. “Is that your hand on my dick?”
“It is.”
“Did I put it there?”
“No, you did not.”
He lets out a garbled sort of moan as he ruts once against my palm.
I take it as permission, slipping my hand into his shorts, the heat of him, the feel of him filling my grip making my gut clench in the best of ways.
Oakley’s breathless sigh speaks of deep satisfaction, his stubble like electricity as he brushes his lips up and down the side of my neck.
I arch my head further, wanting Oakley’s lips everywhere they can reach. Wanting him to cover me in sparks.