Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
“Anything that’s not sleeping?”
“That’s right. When I was younger, we’d do family camping in the outdoors. When I was older, too, but less often with family and more with friends, at least after I was sixteen and got my license. We still did family stuff, but I saved the tenting for friends. My parents were bigger fans of cabins and resorts anyway.”
“Honestly, who isn’t if it’s an option?” There’s no city-slicker accusation in her tone. I’m still staring at the pile of sleeping gear, even though I’m going way back to the deep cuts of my childhood here.
“I used to get up when I couldn’t sleep, and I’d beg my mom to set up the tent in the backyard. I wanted to see the stars. She’d have to remind me that stars can’t be seen through nylon, but she’d set it up for me anyway. Inevitably, I’d watch the stars for a few minutes, sit in the tent for the next few, and then get scared and want to come inside. Eventually, it progressed to the point where my mom would set up the tent in the basement. She didn’t keep it up all the time, just when I asked for it.”
“She didn’t want the experience to get old.”
“That’s right. She got a few star projectors, and we’d lay there on top of sleeping bags and watch them. Other times, I’d just want to read a book in the tent with the lights off and my flashlight on, like real camping in the dark. We still did the backyard thing on and off. If my mom thought there was a chance in hell of getting me to sleep, she’d be right out there with me, spending the night with me so I didn’t get scared. Also, no matter how safe the neighborhood or how fenced the backyard, she was out there for safety, and when she wasn’t, I know now that she was glued to the windows, watching.”
Evilla walks over to the mountain of stuff and starts to sort things out all on her own. Sleeping bags, the tent, the blow-up air mattresses, the huge old rug I have rolled up to keep the floor from getting scratched… I’m protective of my old hardwood. Her fingers graze a closed-up small cardboard box and then stop. It’s a question I’ll answer soon.
“That’s love,” she whispers. “I wouldn’t know what to do in that position. You always love your kids, but no offense, you sound like you were a real hair ripper.”
I give her one of those you’re a hundred percent right shrugs. “Periodically, I might have been.”
“Do you take medication now for sleeping?”
“I tried a few things in college, but by then, I was used to having to function during the day even when I was exhausted. My parents didn’t want to medicate me when I was just a kid. They left the decision up to me after I turned fourteen. I was scared of taking something regularly because I thought it would make me less me. And when I got to college, it got bad. Probably, the stress was a trigger. I tried the meds that work for other people, but I never liked any of them. I didn’t feel less like me. I just felt like I couldn’t wake up in the morning, and then it took me half the day to be able to function. I take the natural stuff now. I found a brand that works. And I’ve developed a routine where I work out and have mechanisms to deal with stress. I also meditate regularly. But enough about me. Do you want a drink?”
“Do you have wine?”
Shit. Here I am, admitting that her surprise is indoor camping in my living room, and she’s into it, but I forgot the wine and snacks. “I may have…uh…overlooked the adult drinks thing. But I have water. Sparkling water, flavored water, flavors I can add to water, water I can make sparkling…”
“Mmm, sounds good. I have a secret love for water.” That’s only ninety-eight percent sarcastic.
“Do you really?” I know she doesn’t.
“No, but surprise me,” she says.
“Strawberry or watermelon?”
“Watermelon all the way, baby.”
A fist pump in the air gives me enough confidence to go fab up some water into sparkling gold. No, not really. It’s still water. Just really good, tingly, pop in your mouth, fizz on your tongue, and coat all your tastebuds with fruity greatness water.
When I give it to Evilla, she sips it like it’s the best thing she’s ever tasted. Her eyes close, and a look of pure pleasure passes over her face. In an instant, I’m hard enough to hammer those tent pegs we’re not going to use right through the hardwood floor. Thank you very much, watermelon water.
“T—tent,” I rasp. “Should we set it up?”