Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 33324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Sorry, I have to go. Drink your water.
Your Big Brother
I re-read the note as I secure my bralette and the plaid shirt from last night onto my torso, working the buttons closed, leaving the tails to hang down instead of retying the inappropriate boob-enhancing knot Dolly insisted on last night, and let it fall to cover my belly.
I stuff my feet into socks and my new hiking boots with embroidered flowers on the leather and I know I look ridiculous but there’s no time for primping.
I stuff any of my remaining belongings into my pink Vera Bradley suitcase and tug the zipper around the edge, pulling the handle out until it clicks in place.
My heart is aching more than my head. It’s ridiculous to imagine that I have some sort of connection to the surly, well-endowed man from last night, right? Still, I trace the curling lines of his handwriting with a fingertip.
Tequila really does make you crazy.
I drink down the water, hopping on one foot as I work my socks and boots on, thankful for the cool water washing away the remnants of my hangover mouth.
I’m heading toward the door with one quick look back at the flower garden of a room where I gave my first blow job, taking one last side step, picking up the chipped green aluminum clip thing from the nightstand, and securing it on the belt loop of my shorts with a melancholy ache in my chest as I head out the door.
It’s an unusual gift I suppose, especially for a girl that has no idea really what a carabiner is or does, but somehow it feels personal. Almost intimate, like he left me the most valuable thing he had. A part of him.
Shit. I’m so late…get it together, girl.
My hair is frizzed and half stuck to my face. I stink of booze. And I have no time to do anything about it.
Perfect first impressions.
I find my phone in my bag, which stinks of the spilled beer and whiskey, the screen filled with texts and calls from Dolly.
I read as I fly down the hallway toward the stairs.
Dolly: If I don’t hear from you, or you don’t get here by the time orientation is over, I’m calling the ranger to come look for you. Okay, gotta go, the new director of the camp is coming in to do orientation…please be okay. Just hungover and deflowered…
I shoot her a quick, I’m okay, on my way, cover for me until I get there text, so she’s not losing her mind. Then I hit the staircase, my boots clunking along with my suitcase behind me.
On the bottom step, one of the wheels from my bag snaps. It stays half connected, thank God, but it’s making a weird sound and my bag is rolling unevenly behind me as I move through the doorway toward the front desk.
There’s an elderly couple checking in with Mrs. Kelsey and they turn my way. As does Mrs. Kelsey herself.
And her glare of disapproval could shame the Pope.
“Um, hi, just checking out,” I say, ignoring their judgmental looks. Back straight, eyes open. No walk of shame here, folks. I hold out my key and Mrs. Kelsey takes it gingerly between two pinched fingers as though she’s holding a rat by its tail.
“Rough night?”
“Great night, actually.” I turn to the man beside me and give him my best smile as his eyes lock onto my chest, then quickly dart away when his wife delivers a hard elbow to his ribs.
Come on…
“I hope you enjoyed your stay,” Mrs. Kelsey says pointedly, then adds, “I’ll be in touch if there are any damages to the room.”
I offer an A-okay sign and turn toward the door, dragging my sad, wobbly suitcase behind.
Out in the early morning fresh air and sunshine, I fast walk to my VW Bug, a graduation gift from my parents, pop the trunk tossing my suitcase inside with a thunk, then throw myself behind the wheel and start her up.
With a quick look in the rearview, I see Earl’s bar in the distance. My heart clenches as my mouth waters, remembering the other gift the tall, brotherly stranger left me last night.
There’s no one in sight as I walk from the small dirt parking lot near the camp entry, following the sound of a man’s voice coming from a log cabin type structure about the size of a small grocery store at the end of a winding gravel path.
“Shit, shit, shit.” I hate being late. I’m never late.
It must be the main hall, made of logs with a rough cut stone base, standing out against the backdrop of wood chalets and old-fashioned canvas tents in the distance.
My last reckless summer, which took off like a rocket last night, smells like pine trees and looks like a scene out of Grizzly Adams.