Chapter 24
Adam
It’s Friday afternoon. My secret girlfriend is going on a date with another man in less than two hours, and I have enough pent-up energy to light the coast of Maine on fire. I let my restless legs wander back into the preserve even though I wrapped up work an hour ago. I’m comfortable here.
I am not going to spy on Stevie on her date.
And since Stevie is safely occupied in town, this is the perfect time to check on my rabbits in my ghillie suit.
Avoiding my cameras, I wander to the cleared area and settle in while the sun sinks in the afternoon sky.
It’s steamy in this getup, and I’m itching to strip my top off.
I had forgotten how smothering this suit can feel.
This is good. The old routine will help me get my head on straight. There are no screwball committees, bets, or suspicious friends in the woods. It’s just me blending in with the shrubbery and trees. I might be overheating, but this is the peace I crave.
I’m not thinking about Stevie on a date.
I’m not thinking about it—what Stevie looks like, what they’re talking about, and how the guy might be treating her—for nearly an hour when something cracks behind me.
I slowly pivot my head toward the sound.
My teeth clench. L.L. Bean is at the edge of the woods, scanning the trees.
His gaze skips right past me without a second look.
The guys said they were going to stay in town for a day or two to check things out.
I guess this is something sasquatch hunters do.
I don’t care what he does, but I hope he does it quickly and without making a lot of noise.
No such luck.
The guy holds up a clunky phone-camera–microphone contraption, pointing it right in my direction.
I freeze.
His voice carries through the trees, “Okay, vlog. This is the location of Stevie Sullivan’s supposed sighting.” He makes air quotes with his manicured fingers.
I sigh. So much for tracking rabbits tonight. It looks like I’m playing the role of Distant Shrub on this guy’s YouTube channel.
“Let’s see if we pick up anything.” He extends the legs of a tripod, and attaches the cumbersome device to the top.
Then he talks . . . and talks and talks and talks into his camera until I’m sure he’s scared off every living creature within three miles.
I’m not sure this guy has hunted anything a day in his life.
It seems like he only wants to hear his own voice.
I tune him out to the point that I’ve almost fallen asleep sitting up, when he says something that makes my shoulders tense.
“If you’ve watched my channel for long, you’ve seen this before: an inexperienced hiker goes into the woods thinking they’ll find something.” He snorts. “No idea what they’re doing—”
The irony, I think. It’s not his words, but his arrogant tone that makes me want to smash a mud pie on his pretty-boy face.
He’s still talking, though. “As you can see, there’s nothing happening in the Biddeford Forest Preserve.
No evidence of anything. My expert opinion is that Stevie Sullivan saw a bear, a turkey, or even another hiker, and she’s trying to make a quick buck.
The end. Another supposed sasquatch sighting debunked.
If you like what you’ve seen today, like and subscribe . . .”
He might be partially right, but I’m not listening anymore.
I’m planning. I wait for him to disassemble the recording contraption before I emerge from the shrubs.
When everything appears to be safely stowed, I stand, taking my time to stretch muscles that are stiff from sitting in one place while L.L. Bean yammered.
I shouldn’t be surprised, but he doesn’t notice me right away. When he does, it’s worth the wait.
“Aaaah!” His absurdly high-pitched yelp surrounds us. He curses, and I can’t make out what he says next, but it ends with “—the dumb little redhead was right.”
Geez, I only wanted to prove to the guy that he isn’t Steve Irwin. I didn’t foresee him thinking I’m Bigfoot. And I really don’t like the way he’s talking about Stevie. An intrusive thought crosses my mind that makes me grin.
It’s stupid, but I’m doing it.
With a guttural roar, I hold up my arms and take a few steps forward.
Is it juvenile? Yes. But I have pent–up frustration to burn off, and L.L. Bean’s condescending dismissal of Stevie makes him an easy target. And somewhere out there Stevie’s on a date with another man. I just want to mess with the guy a little. Burn off some steam.
Crispin scrambles backward, reaching clumsily for something at his waist—best case scenario is it’s a phone. The worst case scenario is that I’m about to get shot.
I’m done here. I dart into the trees as fast as I can in this bulky suit. I’m not winning any races, but I don’t want a bullet in my behind or to accidentally end up on the internet again.
It doesn’t take long for me to find cover. I hunker down, catching my breath and listening for sounds of pursuit. When the woods fall quiet, the crunch of footsteps retreating helps me breathe easier. I’m sweating buckets in this ghillie suit, waiting for the coast to clear.
How did I get here?
I’ve been mistaken for Bigfoot twice in as many weeks. I’ve been chased into the trees by a sasquatch hunter. Before that I was plastered on T-shirts. Maybe Ruth’s right. It’s time for me to get out of the woods.
A while later, I’m in my truck, driving into town while my phone rings. I took the long way back to the parking area, so it’s dusk now. Stevie is probably still on her date. For some reason, my truck moves in the direction of the diner.
“Hey, Adam,” Ruth chirps.
“I’m not in the woods,” I announce triumphantly, like I finally broke off a toxic relationship.
“Woooo!” She laughs. “That’s step one. Step two is joining civilization.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“What brought this on?” As usual, my sister sounds like she’s up to her elbows in toddler stuff.
“I got mistaken for Bigfoot again, and—”
Her cackling laughter cuts me off. “Stop it. You did not.”
“I did it to myself this time.” I comb my hand through my hair, recounting the whole absurd evening. I can hardly get through the story, Ruth is laughing so hard. “Anyway, the guy is a major pain in the—”
“Innocent ears, Uncle Adam,” Ruth reminds me, out of breath.
“Sorry.” I signal onto the road that will take me to the diner.
Ruth’s laughter finally winds down. “Where is Stevie tonight while you’re out playing Bigfoot?”
“She’s on a date,” I grind out.
When my sister gasps, I realize I haven’t filled her in on anything—the covert relationship with Stevie, the town meeting, or my committee appointment. So I do. And as expected, Ruth laughs at me the entire time.
“Oh, man, I needed this. Whew.” She pauses to catch her breath. “It’s like you’re living in one of those old sitcoms where things get more and more out of hand until everything falls apart.” She’s cackling again. “What is your life right now?”
I throw my truck into park in front of the diner and run a hand down my face. “I don’t know, Ruth. Things are getting away from me.”
“I don’t think so.” She sighs. “I think things are finally coming together.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “There’s a sweaty ghillie suit in the back of my truck that suggests otherwise.”
She laughs. “But look at the big picture. You’re seeing a girl you like—on the down-low, but still. That’s major progress. You’re out of your routine—”
Something with red hair and a familiar laugh streaks past the hood of my truck.
“Stevie?” I mutter to myself, fighting a smile. “What is she doing?”
“Adam?” Ruth sounds worried. “Everything okay?”
“I gotta go, Sis.” I unbuckle my seatbelt. “Stevie just rolled past my truck on a Segway.”