Page 12 of Bedtime Stories
Chapter
Six
KEANE
The camping aisle smells of rubber and cedar chips and my fumbling inexperience. Rows upon rows of sleeping bags in neon and jewel-tone colors. Tents tall enough to house a small army. Backpacks with more straps than an S&M convention.
A salesman materializes out of nowhere, wearing a bright vest and an even brighter grin. “So! What kind of trip are we outfitting for today? Fishing? Hiking? Rock climbing? Caving? Kayaking?”
I scratch the back of my head. “Uh… campfires. Crafts. Maybe a relay race?”
He blinks at me, then tilts his head similar to a confused Labrador. “Crafts?”
“Yeah. You know, glitter glue, popsicle sticks, that kind of thing?” I regret opening my mouth the second I say it.
He wisely decides not to ask questions, just points me toward an amateur equipment section. Suddenly I’m drowning in collapsible chairs, cookstoves, bug nets, and a cooler the size of my first apartment’s kitchen. I grab one of everything like a nervous groom at Bed Bath & Beyond.
By the time I hit checkout, my cart looks as though I’m prepping for a televised survival show. And then I see it—hanging by the register, a little flashlight shaped like a cartoon bear. It glows soft yellow when you click the button. It’s clearly designed for children.
I pick it up anyway.
I can already picture his hands curling around it, the way his face will light up when I give it to him. Maybe he’ll laugh. Maybe he’ll blush. Either way, it feels right.
The weight of the overstuffed trunk doesn’t bother me half as much as the weight in my chest. Excitement. Nerves. A voice in my head sayingDon’t screw this up.
I’m ruthless in court, the guy who shreds airtight cases until there’s nothing left but scraps. But with Oren? I don’t want sharp edges. I want soft landings. Even ground. A place he can fall without getting hurt.
And that’s the part that rattles me most.
Because somewhere between striped socks and late-night texts, this cutie slipped under my skin.
And now all I can think about is how badly I want to be the man who doesn’t let him down.
I shut the trunk with a solid thunk, take a step back, and wince. Yeah… I might’ve gone a little overboard. Three sleeping bags of different thicknesses—because who knows the damn temperature in the woods—a folding chair, two lanterns, bug spray, a cooler that could fit a small bear, and way too many snacks I’m not supposed to admit I bought.
I snap a picture and send it to Oren.
Think we might have to strap your stuff to the roof, kiddo.
The typing bubble pops up right away. My stomach knots as though I’m waiting on a jury verdict.
Oren: Oh my God. What is all that?
I grin, leaning against the car.
Supplies. Preparedness. The whole wilderness could collapse around us and we’d still be comfortable.
A beat passes before another bubble pops up.
Oren: You bought three sleeping bags.
Options.
Oren: You’re ridiculous.
But you’re smiling.
I can almost imagine the little scrunch of his nose, his eyes lighting up as if he’s exasperated but not actually annoyed. In the pictures he shared, there was a hint of something playful tugging at the corner of his soft mouth, the smile waiting just out of frame.
