Mom’s Brownie Song. A few times each week, Mom and Dad burst into my room around nine o’clock and dance around chanting, “Brownies! Brownies! Brownies!”
Nine p.m. is munchies hour.
Although Mom’s the one writing the never-ending cookbook, it’s me everyone comes to when wanting something edible. Soup was my first foray in the kitchen, then pasta, stews, cookies. I couldn’t wait to get home from school, thinking about what new dish I’d create. I’ve barely cooked while traveling. Sam’s always too quick to melt cheese on whatever receptacle he can find. Hearing “Sweet Home Alabama” reminds me how much I miss it, though. It’s Mom’s go-to song when I’m baking, and I belted it out while making my last batch of brownies: dark chocolate with lavender and pink salt. They disappeared in seconds.
I spend the rest of my time at the stove reprimanding myself for lusting after some girl’s boyfriend and reminding myself this is what guys do. They flirt. It’s harmless. It’s like scratching an itch. I’m reading into things with Sam because it’s what I do: fantasize. I’ve for sure imagined this connection between us. Although Leigh said she sensed it, too.
Mom didn’t help, either. I finally got a text from her before we left, and her confession shocked me. She said when she met Dad, he was in a relationship. An unhealthy relationship. Still, a relationship. She said she let things unfold naturally. Since there’s a serious time delay, I didn’t bother with the million questions that surfaced. Like how long did it take? Did they talk about their feelings before he ended things? Did they hook up before he ended things? Then I started thinking about my parents and hookups and a whole lot of grossness, so I imposed a blackout. But her words encouraged my ridiculous notion that Sam might, maybe, possibly like me.
Later, I sit with him and eat and chat with the nice Italian couple at the table. The whole while I’m transfixed by the way his jaw works when he swallows. The way his elbow grazes mine. The way his curls bounce when he laughs. There’s a lot of transfixing going on. My porno soundtrack is on low, a constant steady hum I can feel everywhere. It doesn’t help that his honeyed eyes linger on me. Or maybe I’m imagining that, too.
By the time we head to our tent, I’m dizzy from the day we’ve had and the night ahead. We crawl into our sleeping bags, me in a long underwear top and bottom, him in loose flannel pants and a tight, long-sleeve shirt. It grips his muscles in all the right places. He turns on his headlamp, puts it to the side, and the tent glows dark blue.
We both pull our sleeping bags up to our chins, the warmth from the hut fading fast as a deep chill takes hold. Sam rolls his head toward me. “That was a great day. Thanks for making it so much fun.” His voice is quiet as the rain patters on the tent.
I kick my legs in the bag to prevent hypothermia. “Don’t thank me. You’re the reason we came here. You made me run through those puddles. Which, by the way, I’m regretting. It’s likely we’ll freeze by morning.” I exhale and a puff of vapor escapes my lips. I kick my feet more.
Soon, he’s wiggling in his bag, too, both of us trying to keep warm. Before I know what’s happening, he unzips his bag and reaches for mine. The zipper slides down at breakneck speed, my heart pumping faster. “Hey, wait, Sam. What…what are you doing?” I can’t move. I can only watch his fingers as they finish undoing my sleeping bag. Strong fingers. Long fingers. Fingers that could…
“I’m hooking our bags together. It’s too damn cold.” He doesn’t even look at me.
Holy God. Our bags. Together? “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“What? Sharing our body heat because we’re in the mountains? In a tent? On a cold, rainy night? I’m pretty sure it’s a perfect idea.” Ignoring my hesitation, he shoves me out of the way to zip our bags together.
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I don’t follow, Nina. Use your words.”
Either he’s clueless or he’s messing with me. The sexual tension between us has me ready to snap, tension I’ve been conjuring if he thinks this is a good idea. “Sam…you have a girlfriend.” I whisper the word like I’m cursing.
“And?”
God, he’s infuriating. “And…” He settles into the bag and drags