Chapter 23
chapter
twenty-three
I need to enjoy this weekend. This is the Be Yourself (Again) List at its finest. A weekend of shared memories, inside jokes, and bonds forged by campfire.
I try to join in Deep and Emma’s conversation.
They’re debating the all-time best brunch spot in the city.
It’s less intimidating jumping in here and there with my two cents than it was a few months ago.
Probably because of the practice I’ve had making conversation with strangers.
It’s unfortunate that—even though he thinks he misrepresented himself—Eitan’s coaching remains genuinely helpful.
As the tents get set up, everyone gravitates toward the fire pit.
Skip bounds around like a Bernese Mountain Dog, helping set up tents, making bad jokes (“How do trees access the internet? They log in!”), and hyping up campfire spaghetti.
By the time he kneels down to start the fire, I’m expecting a Michelin-star-worthy pasta to come out of this charred dirt pit in the Michigan wilderness.
Calliope is setting sticks on fire and using the charred ends to scribble on the wooden benches. She’s drawn, so far, a caricature of what appears to be Penelope, with devil horns. And a tail.
“Subtle,” I say, hoping to return us to equilibrium.
“I didn’t even want to come on this stupid trip,” she mutters. “So the least she can do is let me make my art. Maybe I’ll add this to my flash sheet.” Our eyes meet, and the tension of our last conversation melts.
Penelope and Clara take turns filming each other on the other side of the pit.
“I’m also not quite sure why I’m on this trip,” I say.
“Glad to see you two arrived with an open mind!” Skip straight up skips in front of us and plants his hands on his hips.
I rub my temples. “No offense, Skip, but I don’t really believe in the ‘kumbaya in the woods’ thing.”
Skip chuckles. “Kumbaya in the woods?”
“You know.” I gesticulate. “Like those cult weekends people used to go to in high school where you go to the woods for two days, and it inspires everyone to share their feelings and bond and cure whatever mental ailments they’re suffering from.”
Calliope snaps her fingers. “Yes, I remember those too. Creepy.”
“You figured out our master plan!” Skip pretends to rip out his hair and curse at the sky.
“Don’t take it personally. Hard to get anything past me.” I am mostly not smiling at Skip’s antics.
Skip wobbles his head. “I can’t promise you won’t talk about your feelings, but I won’t compel you. Lots of people find they can be freer out here, in the wilderness, than back home.”
“Sounds like the tagline of an outdoor rehab.”
Skip laughs, ever good-natured. “You’re a comedian!” he informs me, shaking his head like I’m a little tyke, before moving on to some other Crocodile Dundee activity.
Campfire spaghetti, it turns out, is jarred red sauce with barely cooked TVP.
The trip’s collective disappointment can’t get the mighty Skip down, because after dinner, there’s ghost stories. (And liquor, provided by the best man.)
The official Outventures agenda includes passing around the metaphorical sharing stick (if it was a real sharing stick, I would have hiked back to Chicago) and telling the scariest stories we know.
The unofficial agenda includes getting sloshed in the woods with a mix of functioning alcoholics and Instagram models.
I’ll let you guess which camp Steve has nominated himself to be captain of.
A quiet groomsman, whom I have never seen open his mouth, tells a twenty-minute-long cinematic ghost story.
Clara nudges me, mouthing Ant. So this must be the engineer Pen wants to set me up with.
A safe choice, all around. And yet, all my concentration is focused on a staring contest with Eitan as we suck back seltzers like it’s our job.
“And then, they creeped forward.” Ant looks around the circle, suspense electrifying his features. His hair sticks in all directions and the fire crackles in his eyes. “When they looked in the crib…It was empty.” Ant’s voice drips with terror. “Nothing but a bloody S painted on its sheets.”
“Jesus Christ,” Andres mutters. “I’m not drunk enough to listen to a story this scary.”
There’s a lull as people regroup from that horror story. As good a time as ever to sneak in a bathroom trip.
My eyes glaze over Eitan before I stand up and head into the woods to find a private spot.
My bladder is full to bursting. I stumble through the trees, away from the light of the fire and the lamps, before any notion of poison ivy or bears crosses my mind.
Are there bears up here? Shit. I should have spent more time reading about Northern Michigan fauna.
I spin around and realize I may have wandered too far from the camp, because I’m not seeing even a twinkle of light. Double shit.
I ball my flannel up in my fists. My palms are slicking with more sweat by the minute. What about serial killers? Those hang out in the woods, too, don’t they?
A twig snaps. I startle—a full body flinch.
“Ruby?”
Even in the dark, I recognize that fluffy mop of hair. “Eitan?” I hiss, pretending he didn’t just bring me close to peeing myself.
“Yes?” he says back. “Who else would it be?”
“I don’t know, an axe murderer?”
“I think strangulation would be much more likely out here.” He tilts his head, and my eyes are adjusting enough to catch the movement in the moonlight. “Quieter.”
“Great, thanks for that.” I shiver. “Well. Didn’t realize I needed a buddy to nature pee.”
“I saw you wandering off.” The tension is clear in his words; the obligation Eitan feels to take care of Ruby Hirsch, career Unstable Woman.
“I can take care of myself.”
“I know. I—” His brows pinch together. “I just wanted to make sure you were safe.” He sighs. “Sorry, I don’t know how to—what is and isn’t okay, after…Well, you know. I’ll just head—” He hitches a thumb over his shoulder and begins to turn.
A couple steps rustle on the forest floor before I stutter out a syllable. “Wait.” I scratch my neck, look up at the sky, check to make sure this temporary insanity isn’t due to a full moon. “Can you—” I clear my throat. “Stay with me? Stay here, I mean.”
“Scared?” he asks, turning back to face me, his voice light. Teasing.
“Practical,” I correct.
“You’re nothing if not practical,” he says this with the utmost sarcasm.
I twirl my finger in the air. “Turn around, please.”
He snorts and slowly turns, kicking some leaves back and forth. I pull down my pants, feeling safe enough to nature pee with him standing there—I order myself not to read into that—and squat.
“You come here often?” he calls back, though he stays dutifully turned around.
I can’t help the laugh. “I can’t pee if you’re talking to me.” If you’re making me laugh.
“I’m surprised a city girl like you can pee at all in the great outdoors.”
“You don’t know everything about me, Eitan Moreno. I spent many a summer at camp in Wisconsin, peeing in the woods, canoeing, cleaning up goat crap.”
“Ruby ‘Goat Crap Cleaner’ Hirsch. I like it. We should put it on a t-shirt.” There’s a tiny, traitorous flutter in my heart with that ‘we.’
“Indeed,” I say, barely keeping a lid on my feelings. “Now, shush.”
Finally I manage to get a stream going, orienting myself on a slight downgrade because I’m a woman of many smarts.
Eitan leads the way back. The group has gotten rowdier by the minute, everyone greased with booze, and the ghost stories have devolved into sexually charged drinking games.
I wring my hands together. “I’m actually pretty tired. I might just go straight to bed.”
He checks his phone. “It’s not even 9 p.m.”
“I’ll just read, or count sheep, or check a star wheel.”
Deep spots Eitan and waves him toward her. “I might as well go to bed too.” He sighs.
For a second, my brain fails to do the math and imagines Eitan and I going to bed in the same place. In a six-foot by six-foot tent, mere inches between us. I shiver. Talk about a scary story.
“Good night, Moreno.”
Eitan’s eyes catch mine in the moonlight. I like you. “Night, Ruby.”
Calliope snores like an old man. It’s like sleeping next to the ocean, and not in a good way. I poke my head out of the tent not long after dawn, any hope of sleeping in evaporated. The air outside is crisp, a thin layer of fog sitting on the woodchipped ground.
Skip spots me immediately. “First up!” he declares. “Which means you, lucky duck, get to help me with coffee and campfire eggs. Best eggs on God’s green Earth.”
I’m starting to think he indiscriminately adds ‘campfire’ to the beginning of very plain and normal dishes. Though coffee does sound divine.
“What can I do?” I ask.
Skip sets me up with the largest aluminum percolator I’ve ever seen and a set of industrial oven mitts.
He’s already got the fire going, so I just need to sit beside it, listening for a hiss.
Act quickly or you’ll burn the coffee, and I can’t be held responsible for the mob that will create, Skip said in an uncharacteristically somber tone.
The rest of Camp Goldberg rouses slowly, coming out of their tents with pillow seam marks branded on their cheeks and bruise-like bags beneath their eyes.
“Morning.” Calliope sits down next to me, holding her head in her tattooed hands.
“Rough night?” I laugh.
“Actually, don’t speak,” she whispers. “Your voice is too loud.”
An angry hiss bubbles from the belly of the percolator. I don my mitts and remove it from the fire. Skip jogs back toward us. “Just in time!” he pronounces. We pour out portions of the gritty, bitter coffee into small stackable tin cups.