Fall With Me

“Sweetheart,” he says. “I really need to lie down.”



“Come with me,” I say, wanting to get him out of sight before Karen sees. “But stop calling me sweetheart.”



“Sure, okay. What’s your name, then?”



“Jill.”



“I’m Griffin. Thanks for saving me.”



“I haven’t done anything yet.”



He staggers next to me, one leg or the other giving out periodically but he doesn’t fall. He collapses into the tent and just lays there as I pull a water bottle from the little cooler I brought with me. I twist the cap off and hand it to him, and he sits up long enough to gulp a few mouthfuls before lying back down.



“Don’t drink so quickly,” I say. I try to scrutinize his face in the darkness. I twist the knob on my LED lantern and a whitish glow fills the tent. He is no one I have ever seen before. “Seriously. Where are you from?”



“I would tell you,” he says, “but sweetheart, you wouldn’t believe me.”



“Try me,” I say.



He lets his eyes fall closed for a second, before reopening them. He’s got those enviable, long, thick lashes that only guys ever seem to have, and his eyes as blue and bright as pools of tropical water. “I was kidnapped. It started off really lovely and all; I was having the total Eat, Pray, Love experience, traveling the world, except in my case it was more like Drugs, Rave, Fuck, and I was partying in Thailand and I was kidnapped and woke up to find myself on some yacht in the middle of the ocean. And then a fucking whale sank the boat. Like Moby Dick or some shit. So I started swimming.”



He takes another sip of water. I narrow my eyes. “You’re full of shit,” I tell him. I know his type, which isn’t all too different from Sean, actually, just maybe a little more adventurous. The privileged rich boy who happens to be so ruggedly handsome, people are constantly falling over themselves just to get in their good graces. And these boys know this, relish this, and just like to mess around with people because they know they can get away with it.



“Sweetheart, you’re the one who asked what happened.”



“I asked because I thought you’d tell me the truth. And you really need to stop calling me sweetheart. My name is Jill.”



“Okay, okay. Jill. I’m not exactly sure what I need to do to convince you that I’m telling you the truth, but that’s what happened.”



“If that’s what happened, we should call the police. If you were the victim of a kidnapping, you need to report that. It’s a crime.” I cringe inwardly, thinking I sound exactly like Uncle Nate.



“The police aren’t going to be able to do anything. This wasn’t about me at all.”



“You were kidnapped but it wasn’t about you?”



“No. It’s something to do with my father. They wanted him to pay a ransom. Which shows how little they know my father. Going to the cops is only going to piss my father off and I’ll probably end up having to see him, which I try to do as infrequently as possible.”



I feel a twinge as he says this, the same quick, sharp feeling I always get whenever I hear someone saying these sorts of things about their parents. Sometimes I couldn’t help but wonder why people who had parents they hated, or whose parents didn’t give two shits about them, why they still got to be alive and my dad, who was a friend as much as a parental figure, was dead. I know it’s an immature way to feel, but the reaction was involuntary; all I could do was acknowledge it and then try to let it go.



“So you were kidnapped, you swim who knows how many miles and wash up on a beach, and you’re just going to do nothing.”



“I never said that.”



“Well . . . what am I supposed to do with you? This is a camp for teens. Random guys washing up on the beach in the middle of the night isn’t going to go over too well with the owners. The campers’ parents expect them to be safe.”



“I’m safe. I like kids. Kids like me. I was a big brother in another lifetime.” He stretches, his broad expanse of torso expanding and contracting. “Christ. Can I get out of these clothes? Do you mind? I’m sorry; I’m getting your sleeping bag soaked.”



“What? I . . .” I don’t have anything with me for him to put on, but he’s already pulling his shirt off, and he’s got this incredibly smooth skin wrapped over long, toned muscles. I look away.



“What I’d really like, though, is to be able to get a little rest. And then we can figure things out in the morning?” He yawns, and I suddenly imagine him as a little boy, getting tucked into bed for the night.



He is someone’s son, I tell myself. He used to be a little boy.



“Fine,” I say, suddenly too tired to do anything but agree. I nod to my sleeping bag. “It’s all yours. I’ll put your clothes out here to dry off. Put them back on when you wake up in the morning.”



“Thank you, sweetheart,” he mumbles, already half asleep.



Chapter 7: Griffin



I’m not sure how long I slept for, but when I open my eyes, the tent is filled with a muted light and from somewhere in the distance, I hear what sounds like a shitload of kids talking, laughing.



I lie there in the tangle of the sleeping bag, head pounding, muscles feeling like they’re about to either explode or liquefy, or maybe both. I sit up slowly, my equilibrium shifting, swaying like I’m still out on the boat even though I’m not. I am here, on dry land. I am on a beach and I am alive and I’ve got the nastiest fucking headache to prove it.



I reach for the water bottle and take a sip, then another. My lips feel like little more than parchment paper, like they could flake off at any second. What I wouldn’t give for a hot shower. Jesus Christ.



I’m trying to summon the energy to get myself up when the flaps on the tent are suddenly yanked back.



“Jill, you overslept!” a voice says, and then stops abruptly. A girl is peering in at me. She’s young, maybe sixteen or seventeen, and clearly not expecting to find me in here. “Oh,” she says. She’s got big greenish-blue eyes and long brown hair she’s piled up on the top of her head in one of those messy bun things that are so much fun to pull out. She smiles. “Hi. You are certainly not who I was expecting to find in here. Where . . . where is Jill?”



“I don’t know.” I start to crawl forward, and then I realize I’m naked. “Hey, could you toss me those clothes that are out there?” The girl backs up, letting the flap of the tent fall. I can’t tell if she’s horrified or in shock, but a second later, she sticks her arm back into the tent and hands me my clothes, which are still damp and encrusted with sand, but I put them on anyway. I crawl out of the tent, the flap brushing my back as I make my way out. The sun is reflecting off the water in such a way that it’s painful to look at it. I squint and wish I had my Ray-Bans.



“I’m Allison,” the girl says. “Are you and Jill . . .?” She lets the sentence trail off.



“I know Jill,” I say, though I refrain from adding whether it’s biblically or not. I have a feeling Jill wouldn’t appreciate that one too much.



“My parents own this place.”



I glance down at her. “Your parents own the beach?”



“Well . . . sort of. They own the ranch. I’m a counselor here. But you aren’t one of our campers.”



I feel as though I look like the shit someone just scraped off the bottom of their shoe, but from the way Allison is smiling at me, my outward appearance must not reflect that. Or, she’s really hard up, but she’s a cutie, so I doubt that’s the case.



“You didn’t tell me your name,” she says, tilting her head and giving me a coy look.



“Griffin.”



“Are you going to be around for a while?”



“Uh—”



“Because I wouldn’t mind seeing more of you. You should stay. You can be my guest. My parents won’t mind at all.”



It makes my face feel like it’s about to crack, but I give her my most winning smile. “Sweetheart, that’s the first good news I’ve heard in a while.”



Chapter 8: Jill



After Karen and I herd the fifteen bleary-eyed teenagers back down the footpath to the ranch for breakfast, I double back to go find Griffin. He can eat something and then be on his way, wherever that might be.



But he’s not there when I return. I look down the beach, but there are only some gulls, and, in the very far distance, a person walking a dog. The waves slide up the beach and back, and I wonder if Griffin disappeared just like how he had arrived.



I break down my tent and check the area for any debris that the campers might not have picked up before they had left and only find one empty beer can and a lollypop wrapper. They’re a decent bunch of kids, I think, as I carry my stuff back to the ranch.



I’m heading over to the barn, debating whether or not to mention anything to Bill and Lorrie about Griffin. A small part of me wonders about him, but if he’s truly gone, then what’s the point in bringing him up? Oh, guess what, last night some guy washed ashore and I let him sleep in my tent and then when I went back this morning he was gone. Uh-huh.



But then I hear Bill calling my name. He’s standing on the porch of their house, a little Craftsman bungalow, built atop a gently sloping hill that overlooks the barn.



“Jill!” he says, waving. “Can I steal you for a moment?”



“Sure,” I call back. I dump my gear and turn and walk toward the house. He waits for me on the porch, and as I approach, I try to read his expression. He seems as affable as always.



“Sounds like last night was a success,” he says. “Everyone seems happy. Let’s go into my office for a minute.”



We walk inside and down a short hallway to his office. And there, sitting on the faded blue couch, is Allison. Next to her is Griffin. He looks a little more put together than he did last night, though that isn’t saying much. His hair is messy and black and flecked with sand. He’s got probably a week-old beard going. But underneath all that dark hair you can see he’s got this perfectly square cut jaw and his eyes are large and bright blue, framed by those thick black lashes.



Bill goes and sits behind his desk, leans back in the chair. “Allison came to me with an interesting proposition this morning, but I thought we should talk to you about it. It seems her friend—Griffin, is it?”



Griffin nods. “Yes, sir.”



“Bill, please. None of this ‘sir’ business. Griffin is interested in joining our team for the summer.”



“One of Allison’s friends,” I say slowly. I can see Allison out of the corner of my eye, arms crossed, foot tapping. I can practically feel her glare boring a hole into my side. “Actually, I don’t think that would be the best—”



“It would be good if there’s another guy around,” Allison cut in. “Especially since Brandon’s not here this year. It would be good for the guy campers.” She gives me a level stare and in that moment there is nothing more I’d rather do than reach over and slap her across the face.



“I do have some outdoor experience,” Griffin says. “I actually used to go to a camp like this myself, when I was younger. In the Catskills. I’d love the opportunity to have some new outdoor experiences. This seems like a great place.”



Bill looks from me to Griffin to Allison, then back to me again. “Jill,” he says. “If this young man would like to stay on with us, I don’t see a problem with that. A friend of Allison’s, after all, is a friend of ours.”



My mouth falls open and I shoot a look at Allison, who is now staring straight at her father, a tiny smirk on her face.



“That’s not—” I start to say.



“Of course, if any problems arise,” Bill is saying to Griffin, “we’re going to have to ask you to leave immediately, but we like to be inclusive here at Sea Horse Ranch. We don’t like to turn people away. Especially if you’re eager for some new outdoor experiences, as you say you are.” Bill smiles broadly at the three of us, like he wants to gather us all in a big group hug. “Why don’t you get back out there and help Lorrie and Karen get everyone ready for the trail ride. It’s the perfect day for it.”



Allison is elated, and can barely keep herself from jumping up and down.



“This might work out,” I hear Bill say to himself as we file out. “Not that Karen isn’t working out, but it’d be nice to have another male around, since Brandon’s not here.”



Griffin gives me an apologetic smile but then Allison pulls on his hand and he turns and follows her. I watch them walk off. A scrub jay screeches from the branch of one of the live oak trees. The grating noise seems an appropriate soundtrack for how I imagine the rest of this day—the rest of this summer—is going to go.