Chapter 22 #2
They are not mine to protect, to care for, to love.
But I can’t stop feeling as if they are.
After lunch, we pack up and begin the journey back to our campsite. The trail slopes downward now, making the hike easier. Penny skips ahead, no longer complaining.
“She’s like a different child on the way down,” Lily observes, matching my stride.
“The magic of a full belly,” I reply. “Plus, downhill is no sweat.”
“Until you get older and your knees protest,” she says with a laugh. “Then it becomes its own special torture.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m in my prime.” I flex, making her roll her eyes.
“Your prime, huh? Let’s see how you feel after a night on those thin camping pads.”
“I’ll have you know I’m an expert camper. I’ll wake up refreshed and ready to climb a mountain.”
She snorts. “Sure you will.”
We reach the campsite by mid-afternoon. It’s a nice spot with a cleared area for fire pits, picnic tables, and enough flat ground for tents. It sits on the edge of the lake, the water glittering. A few other groups are spread out. We search for a spot not too close to anyone to set up camp.
“Can I help build the tents?” Penny asks, bouncing on her toes with excitement.
“You got it, kid,” I tell her, unloading the gear from my truck. “Every good camper needs to know how to shelter.”
For the next hour, Penny and I work on the tents while Lily organizes our food and cooking supplies.
I show Penny how to connect the flexible poles, how to thread them through the fabric loops, and how to secure the corners with stakes.
She follows my instructions with her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth, serious and concentrated like whenever we go on repair jobs around our complex.
“Is this right?” she asks, holding a section of pole.
“Perfect,” I confirm. “Now let’s attach it to this corner.”
I’m so focused on our lesson I don’t notice the approach of a neighbor kid until he’s standing right beside us.
“Cool tent,” the boy says, eyeing our half-constructed dome. “Ours is bigger, but we haven’t built it. We’re not staying the night.”
Penny straightens up. “Ours is waterproof.”
“All tents are waterproof,” the boy counters. “Otherwise they’d be useless.”
Before Penny escalates the tent-superiority debate, a woman approaches—presumably the boy’s mother.
“Ethan, don’t bother the nice family,” she says, then turns to me with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, he gets excited around other kids.”
“No problem,” I reply, about to explain that we’re not a family, but Penny jumps in first.
“Want to see the lake?” she asks Ethan. “My mom says we can spot the fish from the dock.”
The boy nods eagerly, and both kids look to us for permission.
“Stay where we can see you,” the woman says, then glances at me. “I’m Kate, by the way.”
“Josh,” I reply, shaking her offered hand. “And that’s Penny. Her mom, Lily, is over there.” I nod toward the picnic table where Lily is arranging our food supplies.
Kate’s eyes dart between Lily and me, confusion crossing her features. “Oh, I’m sorry, I assumed—”
“I’m a family friend,” I explain, heat creeping up my neck. “We’re not… I mean, Lily and I aren’t…”
“Got it,” Kate says with a frown that suggests she doesn’t “get it” at all. I don’t either. “Well, nice to meet you. I’m sure the kids will be fast friends.”
As she walks away, I catch Lily watching us, expression as enigmatic as ever. She must’ve overheard the exchange. What is she thinking? Does it make her uncomfortable that strangers look at us and see a family rather than whatever unconventional thing we are? I have no way to know.
I finish securing the tent, then move on to building a fire for later. By the time I’ve gathered enough wood and arranged it into the pit, the sun is lowering over the horizon, casting long shadows across our campsite. Lily joins me, kneeling beside the fire pit to help arrange the kindling.
“Thanks for doing this. For planning everything. Penny’s having the time of her life.”
“What about you?” I tilt my head to look at her. “Are you having a good time?”
“Yes. I am.” She hesitates, then adds, “I forgot how much I love being out in nature. I haven’t been going since Daniel…” She trails off. “It isn’t as fun alone.”
She gives a small shrug. Mentions of Daniel no longer create an automatic awkward pause. It’s becoming normal for her to share these glimpses of the life she had before—before the fire, before the grief, before me.
“Well, you’re not alone now,” I tell her, meaning it in every way.
Her expression shifts—a softening around the eyes, a slight parting of lips—and for a breathless instant, I think she might say something more. But then Penny calls, announcing that Ethan and his family are leaving, and the moment breaks.
We say goodbye to our temporary neighbors, then turn our attention to dinner. The sun hangs low now, painting the sky in streaks of purple and pink. I get the fire going while Lily helps Penny unpack the sticks for roasting hot dogs and marshmallows.
The meal is simple: hot dogs cooked over the open flame, a bag of chips passed between us, cold sodas from the cooler. Penny regales us with tales of the fish she and Ethan spotted in the lake, each story more elaborate than the last, until she’s invented an entire underwater civilization.
As night falls, the temperature drops, and we huddle closer to the fire. The stars emerge, more brilliant here than they ever are in the city. Penny, bundled in a sweatshirt, stares up at them with wonder.
“Can we make s’mores now?” she asks, her eyes reflecting the firelight.
“Of course.” Lily grabs the marshmallows. “It’s not camping without s’mores.”
I demonstrate how to toast a marshmallow to golden perfection, but Penny ignores my technique and sets hers in the flames until it’s a charred, flaming mess. Lily laughs as Penny blows out her fiery creation, then helps her sandwich it between graham crackers and chocolate.
“Perfect,” Penny declares, chocolate and marshmallow smeared all over her chin.
I take a bite myself, eyeing Lily across the fire.
She’s even more beautiful bathed in the firelight, her hair loose over her shoulders, her face relaxed, happy.
I want to freeze this moment, to live in it forever—the three of us around a campfire, laughing and sticky with s’mores, the night spreading above us.
This is what I want. Not just Lily, though heaven knows I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anyone.
But this family, this life. Penny, with her wild stories and dramatic complaints.
Lily, with her understated strength and reluctant smiles.
Us together, building something from the ashes of what she lost.
But as Penny yawns and Lily calls bedtime, the two separate tents we built become a stark reminder this isn’t my family.
Not really. I’m the friend, the neighbor, the guy who knows how to build a fire and set up a tent.
The man who promised to keep his distance, to respect Lily’s boundaries, to be whatever she needs without asking for more.
Even if, with every passing day, keeping that promise chips away at my soul.