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Then one more text to Candice and Lindsay. Made it. Cabin's one cobweb away from a horror movie set. Send wine.
Hitting send, I watched the screen until the tiny word “Delivered” appeared, and then my connection to civilization blinked out. With a sigh, I shoved the traitorous device into my pocket and turned to the trunk of my car, dragging out the rest of my supplies.
“Rustic charm, my ass,” I grumbled as I hefted a box labeled “Miscellaneous.” If this was Candice's idea of charming, I'd hate to see what she considered roughing it.
Boxes inside, my bladder sent up an urgent flare, reminding me of more pressing matters. I scanned the small interior for the bathroom door. Fuck, just a shower stall and a sink with a lonely bar of soap. No toilet.
“Seriously, Candice?! How did you think this would be fun?” I yelled into the empty cabin.
Okay, think. Where would the toilet be hiding? A flash of memory hit me—outhouses. Candice mentioned there'd be amenities a short walk away.
No fucking way.
I peeked outside; the sprinkles had dwindled to a mist that clung to the air, veiling the trees in an eerie sort of beauty. The outhouse was a wooden blip in the distance, and I made a mental note to curse Candice's name for every step I took in that direction.
I grabbed some newspaper from atop the box, trying not to dwell on the fact that I was about to use the obituaries to clean my most intimate parts.
“Rest in peace, sir, even in death you’re performing good deeds.”
I marched to the outhouse, my sneakers slipping on the slick muddy path. Reaching the structure, I braced myself, swung open the door, and came face-to-face with a spider the size of a damn quarter.
“Ah,” I swatted the eight-legged voyeur into the darkness before doing my business as quickly as humanly possible. Next time, I refuse to go anywhere unless there’s indoor plumbing.
I barged back into the cabin, shaking off the last remnants of mist, mortification clinging to me like a bad first date. My sneakers squelched dismally on the wooden floorboards as I made my way back to one of the boxes Candice had packed for me. With a flick of my wrist, I tossed the lid aside, rummaging through it with a rising sense of urgency.
I yanked out a roll of toilet paper with more frustration than triumph. “Of course, you're here. Hiding. Like some fluffy white ninja waiting to kick me right in the—"
My words trailed off into a disgruntled murmur as I glared at the innocent roll. The newspaper had been rough. God, my hoo-haw better not have a papercut. Sore and irked, I tossed the toilet paper onto the bed. If Candice packed toilet paper? What the hell was the newspaper for?
“Ok,” I muttered to myself, rolling up my sleeves. “Time to light this fire and toast your buns the old-fashioned way.”
I approached the vintage woodburning stove with a blend of determination and dread. It stood before me, a cast-iron behemoth that seemed to smirk at my impending failure. Kneeling down, I arranged the wood with more hope than skill, striking match after match with trembling fingers that refused to cooperate. Each flame fizzled out.
“Come on, you stubborn son of a—burn for me, will you?” I pleaded, tossing the last match into the abyss of unlit timber. But the stove remained cold, aloof, unmoved by my fiery passion or my string of creative expletives.
“Fine. Be that way,” I said, admitting defeat. I turned to the bed, where a pile of blankets lay in wait, their soft folds offering a silent promise of warmth. With a weary sigh, I layered them over myself, building a fabric fortress against the chill of the night. The blankets embraced me, a poly-cotton blend of solace that was a poor substitute for the roaring fire I'd envisioned—or the strong arms of a certain park ranger whose image taunted my mind's eye.
“Sleep,” I whispered to the empty room, my body sinking into the mattress. “Tomorrow is another day…and I'm going to need every ounce of energy to not murder someone with a s'mores stick.”
Terrified of bugs burrowing into my brain from my ears, I found my precious earplugs and mashed them in. Then placed the sleep mask—it wasn't just for beauty sleep. It was a bug barrier, a blackout curtain for my eyeballs, shielding me from any sight that might spike my anxiety.
Exhaustion pulled me under as I nestled deeper beneath the protective blanket burrito.
Eventually the cold crept in like a silent predator, its icy fingers prying into my makeshift fortress of blankets.
My teeth chattered in the pitch-black cabin as I jolted awake. “Shit, shit, shit,” I cursed under my breath, my body trembling from more than just the cold. A little voice in my head mocked me for thinking this getaway would be relaxing.
Fumbling in the dark, I found the stash of socks—my saviors. Six pairs. Three pairs I yanked onto my feet, the rest onto my hands because mittens were a luxury not included in Candice's “Survive the Wilderness” care package. My fingers instantly sighed with relief.
“Who needs a man when you've got triple-sock insulation?” I muttered to myself,
Safe and secure, I nestled down once again, ready to conquer the second half of the night.
But then it happened. Someone shook my shoulder hard.
“Wha—” The muffled protest barely left my lips before instinct took over. With the ferocity of a cornered wildcat, I swung out in the darkness, my right hook connecting with something solid. A grunt echoed throughout the cabin, followed by a deep, gruff voice that rumbled like thunder.
“Jesus, Becca! What the hell?” The voice was surprisingly clear over the earplugs.
