“Sorry, sorry. But what if, instead of camping in a spot where you’re alone, you camp on my property?” Something in my face must’ve told him he would have to sell me on this. “You’ll still be out in the open. Beautiful backdrop. My mom is there, so you won’t be alone, and…” His eyes are deadly serious now. “We have bathroomswith showers.”
We barely know each other and the man already knows my weakness for hot showers, but, “Wouldn’t that be… uncouth? An employee camping at your house?”
“Yeah, I wanted to clarify that, too. Since we’re exchanging short-term help for use of the facilities, you’re not technically an employee. In fact, I think Sunny tossed the forms you filled out in the trash. So… Friends can camp in their vans on other friend’s property.” He finishes with a roguish eyebrow raise. Problem solved.
My heart flutters at the prospect of having a safer place to park The Hulk, and also that Joe doesn’t think of me as an employee. This opens up a world of exciting possibilities. I feel like Ariel when she got her legs. I just have to convince Joe that he’s Prince Eric. Come to think of it, he sort of looks like Prince Eric. I also have red hair, but my singing is trash. Who cares? Prince Eric invited me to live on his property. I’m no dummy. Not today, anyway. “That would be kind of perfect, actually.”
“Yeah?” He sounds more hopeful than I would’ve expected.
“Yeah. You don’t even know how long I’m going to be here, though. What if I turn into a squatter and never leave and you have to get the law involved?”
“I wouldn’t hate it.”
Oh, that crooked smile is going to kill me.“Yes, you would. You’ve seen The Hulk.”
“Okay, how long are you here for?”
My heart drops. I don’t like that this arrangement has an end date. “Three weeks. Is that too long?”
“Not long enough.”
Chapter 7
I’ve been camping on Joe’s property for three days, and it has been a terrible mistake for two reasons:
One, I had to watch Joe mow his lawn shirtless, with all of his glorious, ridiculous muscles rippling in the sunshine. This might sound like a perk, but it is actually torture, seeing as how he has lodged me firmly in the friend zone. He did wave at me when he caught me staring through the window of The Hulk, so that was nice.
Reason one point five: When I was creeping through the house to take a shower and charge my phone yesterday morning, I ran into Joe, shirtless again. The man does not wear clothing above the belt when he’s at home. I was so startled at the sight of him that I squeaked and darted into the bathroom like a deranged person. I thought I heard him chuckling and I definitely heard Sarah telling him to wear more clothing when a young lady is present. Total honesty: I would be thrilled to live on the same property as Shirtless Joe if it included dating privileges, but it does not. I am a starving person staring into a bakery case full of chocolate cake that I can’t have. I need more layers between me and the chocolate cake, for both of our safety.
Two, Joe thinks it’s peak comedy to pound on my van window when he's on his way to work and I’m still asleep, cozy and curled up in my sleeping bag. For the record, the man leaves for work before the sun rises so this isn’t a friendly hello. It's a total punk move. The first morning he did it, I screamed loud enough that he apologized every time he saw me that day. But it didn’t stop him from doing it again the next morning with a cheery, “Up and at ‘em, Sunshine!” I mean, Ihateit. But I also love it.
Now it’s Saturday morning and I’m awaiting my Joe wake up call and putting off sneaking into the house to use the bathroom for as long as possible. (Not that I have to sneak. Sarah made it clear that I am a welcome guest, even going so far as to offer me a room in the actual house with a bed and everything, but I don’t want to interfere with their routine.) If I know Joe, he should be smacking my window with his big, heavy fist any minute now. And I’m waiting.
Last night I stopped at the grocery store for more apples and chocolate and couldn’t resist when something caught my eye in that little area full of odds and ends by the register. There were bags and bags of colored powder—the kind they throw on you in color runs and at gender reveal parties—and on clearance!Score. The gap-toothed cashier told me that they over-ordered for a company 5k and were trying to get rid of it. Obviously, I bought multiple bags.
And now I am crouched behind the curtains of the van, the door barely cracked, with an open bag of color powder in each hand, waiting. Joe has pounded on my window between 6:20 and 6:25 each morning—I told you it was bad—so I figure he should be here any minute. I check my phone for the time and see a text from Eric.
ERIC: Ready for the best pancakes of your life? 8:00?
He included a GPS link. He had texted me a reminder or subtle hint about our date every day, and somewhere along the line hikinghad turned into breakfast. Yesterday all he sent was a pancake emoji and a heart emoji. But I have no time to respond. It’s 6:24. Go time. My thighs are starting to burn from crouching like this. Maybe I can count this as my workout for the day. 6:26.Where is Joe?
I hear someone crunching through the gravel toward my van. Closer. Closer. He’s right outside. Here we go! My heart is pounding. Then there’s his loud knock and, “Up and—”
I jump out of the van like I’ve been training for a SWAT team and dump-throw both bags of lime green and hot pink powder in his general direction with a cackling, “Up and at ‘em, Obbs! Hahaha!”
The problem was the wind. I didn’t account for wind. I barely get the words out before my face is in a cloud of pink and green and I’m coughing up huge, hacking lungfuls of fluorescent powder. My eyelashes are coated and I can’t open my eyes without the colorful dust storm stinging them.
Hack, hack, hack.I will be coughing up green and pink powder for the rest of my life.
Meanwhile, Joe is suspiciously not coughing. I crack one eye open, hoping that the dust has blown away, and see him, leaning against my van, arms folded, and an amused expression on his face. There’s barely a hint of green or pink on his stupid, snug white t-shirt. Well, props to him for wearing a shirt today.
I open both eyes and look down at the baby blue shorts and tank top I’d slept in last night. They were blue before, anyway. Now they are green and pink, with hints of muddy brown where the colors have blended.
“No!” I shriek, spinning around to look in the sideview mirror of the van. My face, hair, everything, is green and pink. Everything I can see of myself is covered—legs, feet, arms—in colorful powder. I am a living Claude Monet painting.
“I'm guessing you thought that would go differently?”
He doesn’t have to be so smug about it. “Yes.” I cough up some powder, “And next time” —cough, cough— “itwillgo differently.” My hacking lungs totally undermine the menacing tone I’m trying to project.
