13
VICTORIA
September 2
Would it be entirely horrible to say I enjoyed a small slice of sweet revenge when Joel admitted he didn’t know how to hook up the electricity? I mean, it’s a simple plug from the RV to the outlet in the post we parked next to, but it took him a good ten minutes to make sense of it.
And, no, I didn’t help him at first. Nor did I give him any hints about how to connect the water and sewer drains. I hated doing that crap anyway. While glamping as kids, it was always me and my dad handling the drains, and it was the worst kind of hell.
I have to hand it to Joel—he asked for help after he said sorry for being a jerk. But while I accepted his apology, I haven’t let my anger go yet. A part of me felt betrayed by his unexplained cold demeanor, and despite the moment when we were looking at the level and I was weak enough to do a double take, I have lost a little bit of the trust I had for him.
So when it came time to determine who was going to sleep in the rig, I took it upon myself to make the bed with my sleeping bag, and I brought his duffel outside.
He made his tent up with the rest of the crew two rows down.
Now, while stoking the fire for our breakfast, I yawn-snicker at the memory of Joel and his doe-eyed stare when he realized he wasn’t going to be sleeping in the rig. An early bird, I rose at the crack of dawn this morning to start a fire, heat up the cast-iron pan on top of a grate—both I brought with me—and cover the bottom with strips of bacon. To the right of the pan, a percolator begins to steam.
While I’m not a huge barbecue fan, camp breakfasts are my favorite to make—high-protein meals of bacon and eggs or carb-loaded pancakes and pan-fried potatoes, with enough calories to fuel the rest of the day, prepared in the cool air of the morning to the sounds of birds and the slow waking of campers. There’s no stress when making a camp breakfast. Unlike making food in a kitchen, where there’s pressure to rush and cook a main course and side dishes over multiple burners and an oven, when it comes to cooking over a fire, there’s only one dish to focus on. When we were kids and my mom used to cook camp breakfasts, my sister and I passed time the old-fashioned way: playing, reading, or staring off into space.
As the memory of my mother cooking over an open flame engulfs me, I settle into my camp chair, elbows propped on my knees. She always said that being out in the woods, even with the amenities the RV gave us, helped her reprioritize. And right now, with the early morning sunlight streaking through the dim shadows, and the sounds of nature, one thing rises to the surface of my conscience.
My journal. My neglected journal.
As the bacon begins to sizzle, I fix my hair into a bun, speared through with a pencil. I hike my hoodie over my head to save my chilly ears and, mostly, to keep my hair from soaking up the smoke. Once my hair’s tucked away, I step inside the RV and dig out my journal from my backpack.
Stepping back out into the cold, I take my journal, which is encased in a faux-leather folder, and unwrap the straps. The pages are wrinkled from the pressure of pen upon paper, of ink bleeding through the pages where I dotted my i’s and crossed my t’s. Thumbing to the last entry, I slide my finger across the date, which was over a month ago, the longest I’ve gone without a line or two to sum up my thoughts on the day.
Since then, not an entry, not a blog post.
I turn to a new page, run my hand down it. This used to excite me, a page so full of possibility, but now I don’t know what to do with it. At the moment, I feel my life is going its own way, and I’m simply an observer, a passenger along for the ride. That’s what I’ve done agreeing to this job. It doesn’t mean I lied to Joel; I’m going to do my damnedest as with every endeavor I’ve undertaken. But the reins don’t feel fully in my control, and right now, I’m fine with it.
Chewing on my pen cap, I make a decision: I’m going to do whatever I want to on one page every day. Fake it till I make it, which is exactly what I’m doing now.
I write the date on the top line:
September 2
I tap the end of the pen on the journal.
I write Expectations in the middle of the page.
Then I do the sacrilegious. I tear the page sloppily below the date, crumpling my expectations and throwing the paper into the fire to burn.
The stomp of boots and the snap of a twig behind me halt my thoughts. Joel steps out from behind the RV in sweats and a hoodie. Wisps of fog escape from his mouth as he breathes. He nods to me. “Can I help?” He points to the eggs sitting on the picnic table.
“Go for it.” I shut my journal. “Scramble them, please.”
“How’d you sleep?” His back is to me, though his face is turned slightly in my direction. His profile is painfully handsome—he looks like he did the morning we woke up together. Lids heavy, face slack of his usual stress and tension. He oozes protection, like he could cocoon me in his arms, in his clothes. If I shut my eyes, I’m sure I could conjure the way he smells, of laundry detergent, clean skin, and mint.
My thoughts are cut short with the tap of the egg against the picnic table. “Good enough.”
It’s a lie. I didn’t sleep—how could I? Today is the first day of my television debut. I’d skimmed through my books last night to come up with choice phrases for the camera like:
This sauce is incomparable.
What a perfect blend of vinegar and tomato sauce.
Is that a hint of chili powder I taste?
This informal fight I’m having with Joel has affected me at all levels. I came between him and his dream. And I worry that, because of this, we won’t ever be able to pick up where we left off that night.
Because that’s definitely tempting.
“How about you? Did you sleep well?” I ask back.
“Honestly? No.”
My eyebrows lift. Meanwhile, the percolator whistles, so I get up and grab a hot pad from my duffel bag and lift it from the grate. “Why not?” I test our fragile bond with a peace offering. “Coffee?”
“Yeah, definitely.” Using tongs, he flips the bacon in the cast-iron pan, and it’s perfectly crisped on one side. “Was thinking a lot.”
I pour coffee into two tin cups and remember from his time at Paraiso that he likes sugar in his coffee. After tearing open two sugar packets, dumping them into the cup, and mixing them up with a plastic knife, I hand the cup to him.
“Thanks.” He dips his nose into his cup, just as I do. We both laugh at this, and instantly, I’m awake. We have to make up for whatever we’re both mad about. I could be pissed at him forever but it won’t help our work situation.
“Listen—” he starts, although I’ve already said, “Look—”
He lifts a palm up to me. “Me first.”
I nod. “Okay.”
He grabs a paper plate and picks up all the bacon, leaving the pan sizzling with bacon grease. He hands me the plate, then dumps the scrambled eggs into the pan. “We got off on the wrong foot.”
“You apologized already,” I remind him.
“It wasn’t good enough. I want to set things straight before we go on air and do something stupid, something rash and irreversible.” He pulls up another camp chair and sits down. I follow suit and sit next to him. “You were right. I wanted this job. Your . . . job. I mean, I didn’t consider the possibility of you also auditioning for it, and I was blindsided a little. But it doesn’t change the fact that I got the cameraman position and that I’m a professional, too. I’ve been doing this job for five years, all word-of-mouth gigs, and I’m not going to start acting like a fool now. You can trust me to do my best to help you succeed. And if that means imparting my knowledge about barbecue—”
My eyebrows lift. I smile out of disbelief. “You’d do that?”
He shakes his head as if he can’t believe it himself. “Yeah. If you look good out there, then we all look good. So, stick by me, okay? We can taste the food together, and we can discuss how you can describe it. Those books you’re using are virtually useless. Barbecue is all about the experience, from the smell to the taste to how the meat falls from the bone.”
Not sure how to respond, I say, “Okay, yeah. That sounds good.” Still in shock, though compelled to say more, I continue with, “Thank you . . . for taking over the cooking, and for offering your help.”
He grins, as if satisfied with our conversation. He whistles a tune—an earworm that nags at me as he cooks up the rest of the scrambled eggs. I hold out a plate for them, and when he plops them on, so hot that the plate scalds my fingertips underneath, the last scene of a movie flashes in my head: Reese Witherspoon driving in a top-down convertible after committing the last act of sweet revenge.
I blurt it out, unable to help it. “Cruel Intentions.”
Joel stops whistling. “That’s right. ‘Bitter Sweet Symphony.’ ”
“The Verve,” I supply. “Great song. Too bad it was wasted on such a horrible movie.”
“I have to agree with you. Though I can’t help watching it when I find it on.”
“You probably had a crush on Reese as I did with Ryan Phillippe, despite him being an ass in that movie and in real life.”
“I’m not one for celeb gossip.” He smirks, then his face breaks into a disarming smile. “Okay, yes. So I might have been thrilled when she left the guy.”
I toss him a couple of cans of potatoes from the duffel and a can opener, happy about our easy conversation. As he empties the cans of potatoes into the pan, we fall into a quick banter about what to expect at the festival. I work around him, cleaning up, at times brushing against him. I stare at him when I think he won’t notice. Twice, I catch him looking at me.
But soon, Tara and Adrian arrive and help themselves to coffee. Once breakfast is ready, we eat together and hash out the plan for the day. Tara heads up our first icebreaker: taking the first letter of our names and turning it into an adjective describing ourselves. When Adrian calls himself an ass, we erupt into laughter that ends the game but also rightly brings us closer.
What Joel and I don’t get to discuss, however, is our unforgettable night of dancing and sex, and how we move on from here. Despite this morning’s cordiality, there’s no denying I’m still attracted to him, and I’m not sure how I’m going to keep my hands to myself.