Chapter 3
THIS SUITCASE IS GOING TO GET ME A MANSLAUGHTER CHARGE
DEAN
I’ve been humbled plenty of times in my life. But trying to figure out how to escape the SeaTac airport? That was a particularly demeaning experience.
“No, no, no,” the man told me. “I’m not going into the park. Do you have any clue how expensive those day passes are?”
So he dropped me off at the park’s entrance instead—about two and half miles away from the set. At least the ranger at the gate felt bad for me and gave me a map.
I’m man enough to admit my weaknesses. My cardiovascular system, to name one. A two-mile hike is tough enough on its own, but a two-mile hike while wearing a backpack, in seventy-degree heat, up an incline, on the side of a road, all while toting the world’s ugliest, heaviest, neon-orange suitcase?
Admittedly tougher.
Sweat drips down my hair and soaks the collar of my hoodie.
An hour later, and I’m sure my arms are going to fall off.
Not even the crisp mountain air makes me feel better, and I’m too exhausted to appreciate what I’m sure is a beautiful view around me.
Time loses meaning by the time I finally make it on the trail to Camp Clearwater and begin up a particularly steep hill.
I’m starting to consider believing in God just so I have someone to blame for my misery when I hear it: dozens of voices. They babble over each other, distant but there.
Camp.
The realization is so euphoric that I loosen my hold on the greasy handle of my suitcase.
Well. The euphoria is mostly responsible. My weak grip strength is probably partially to blame as well.
I watch in horror as my suitcase rockets down the hill.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter, hurrying after it.
A vision of it sliding all the way down the mountainside flashes through my mind. But even worse, somebody turns around the bend in the path at the exact wrong moment, and my neon weapon of destruction knocks them over with a heavy THUNK. My heart sinks.
I’m a murderer. I’ll live the rest of my life behind bars.
I run the rest of the way and scramble to my knees next to the person. It’s a girl my age lying flat on her back. I shove the suitcase off her. “Shit. Please don’t be dead?”
After a moment, she cracks her eyes open to my relief. “I’m alive,” she groans. “I refuse to die an embarrassing death.”
The girl gingerly sits up. I examine her face for signs of a concussion.
Her irises are dark, nearly black, which makes it difficult to tell if her pupils are dilated or not, plus her thick, straight eyelashes hide them.
There aren’t any cuts or bruises on her face, which is good.
My eyes trace over her soft, round cheeks, catching on the mole below her lips, and the long strands of black hair falling elegantly over her face.
My mouth dries. I swallow.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. Help me up, though.”
I stand and offer her a hand, which she takes with a wince. Once on her feet, the girl looks at me, then at the incriminating suitcase, then back to me. She raises a brow.
The idea of being yelled at by a pretty stranger is terrifying enough that I blurt out an unconvincing, “I have no idea where that came from.”
“No?”
What is wrong with you, Dean? “I meant—I have no idea how I dropped that. But, uh, yeah, that’s mine. I’m so sorry, it was an accident. I was on my way to the set when—”
“Set? The Forest Feud set?” she interrupts, lighting up. “You must be a contestant, too. That, or a really overpacked hiker.”
“I am. To the first thing. Technically both.”
She grins. “Don’t tell me you rolled that fugly ten-ton suitcase into me on purpose. ‘Knock your opponent off their feet, then their game’ kind of thing?”
I balk, not sure if she’s serious, until she laughs.
“I’m joking!” Then she thinks about it a second longer, and her brows pinch. “It was just an accident… right?”
“Of course,” I squeak.
That satisfies her. She slings her duffel bag that got knocked to the ground over her shoulder. Her tanned bicep flexes with the motion. I forcefully avert my gaze. “Okay, good. Well, since you weren’t intentionally trying to take my kneecaps out, let’s walk the rest of the way together.”
She begins her ascent up the hill, a spring in her step despite getting the wind knocked out of her. I pick my suitcase up off the ground and hurry to wheel it over the rocks and uneven dips in the ground.
“I really am sorry,” I say, catching up. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
Apparently unruffled by my maybe-sabotage attempt, she goes on.
“No harm done. Accidents happen. It’s playing dirty I don’t like.
” She clenches her fist in front of her, as if strangling some imaginary cheater.
Or me, had she not believed I was telling the truth.
She drops her hand. “So, are you excited to be on the show?”
Making conversation with new people has never been my biggest strength.
I usually find myself floundering. Or sticking my foot in my mouth.
See exhibit A: that time I blurted “My mom's dead” in the middle of Applebee’s.
The intensity of this girl’s eyes on me as she waits for an answer only makes my throat tighten. “Kinda?” I say.
God. That was pretty bad. Meredith would kick me if she were here.
My dry response and ensuing silence make her furrow her brows. “Oh?”
Except now I’m thinking about Meredith. And Dad. And how, once we get to the top of this hill, I’m going to be surrounded by a million cameras. I’m going to be on TV. For some reason, my brain is finding it a good time to spiral over that fact now.
She waves her hand in front of my face. “Hey, you okay?”
I’ve been unintentionally ignoring her for nearly a minute. Feeling like a jerk, I mutter, “Yeah. Sorry.”
Silence settles in the space between us, but I don’t know what to say.
She glances over a few more times, opening her mouth as if to try and start a conversation again, but then shuts it, seeming disappointed.
Another minute passes. I should say something so she doesn’t think I’m a complete asshole.
“I’m Dean,” I say.
Wow. Creative.
“Seyoon,” she replies with a small smile. “I’m glad we ran into each other. I was hoping to meet some people before the show got started. Although, it’s kinda hard to get buddy-buddy when you’re in competition. I’ve been there before. Not fun.”
Then, as casually as if she were commenting on the weather, Seyoon says, “Even though I’m going to win, I hope we can still become friends.”
The gears in my head whir to a confused stop.
Is she… taunting me?
Nothing about her tone or expression indicates she’s anything but serious. Her smile is too sweet to be hiding viciousness. But who says that kind of thing out loud? Who assumes they’re going to win without even a single doubt?
I glance down at myself, feeling suddenly bare despite my jeans and hoodie. What does she see that makes her so sure she’s going to beat me? How does she already know that I’m weak?
A mixture of embarrassment and irritation rubs against my side, but I don’t have time to figure out what to do with it before she calls out, “Hey look, we’re here!”
She jogs the rest of the way. I shake my head. I’m sure I was just overthinking things again.
I hurry my steps, crest the hill, and there it is, painted onto a wooden entrance arch: Camp Clearwater.
The grassy clearing is about the size of a little league field, with five log cabins encircling a bonfire pit, and surrounded by towering evergreens on every side.
Down a short knoll from camp is an enormous lake—Summit Lake—spreading for miles in every direction.
For the first time, I’m actually taken aback by the beauty of my surroundings.
It’s so awe-inspiring, it makes me aware of my five senses in a way I’ve never been before.
The birds chirping over each other in the trees; the hot, muggy air clinging to my skin; the subtle taste of sweet pine on my tongue with every inhale.
And the colors. I’ve never seen shades of green this vibrant or water so blue before.
The term crystal clear finally makes sense as I gaze upon the reflection of Mount Rainier’s snowy peak in the rippling lake.
“This is the exact view my mom had twenty years ago,” Seyoon mumbles, apparently equally blown away.
The sound of chatter returns to my ears, and my attention turns to the crowd of people all around. There are so many of them. My stomach dips.
I turn to see what else is around—and run face-first into a video camera.
“Hurgh,” escapes from my lips like a fork in the garbage disposal.
“Please try not to look directly into the camera,” the operator says.
The camera and the man behind it step back enough for an older white woman to step in the space between us. Despite the out-of-place prim shirt and crisp jeans, I recognize her instantly.
Blake Perry: the former host of Forest Feud.
My eyes pop open. Oh my God, it’s the Blake Perry.
In the flesh. The only person who’d share my excitement about meeting her is Dad, so I stifle the embarrassing urge to ask for her autograph.
Despite two decades having passed since she was on TV, her age doesn’t show except in the silver of her slicked-back bun and the crow’s feet next to her gray eyes.
“Seyoon Shin and Dean Parker arriving at the same time? What a happy coincidence,” Blake says, all smiles. Her every word is enunciated with the crispness of a TV anchor.
She tucks her clipboard under her arm and shakes each of our hands. “Blake Perry. I’m not offended if you don’t recognize me without the camp counselor getup I used to wear. I’m the executive producer and director now. It’s good to have you here.”