“Thanks. It smells like tortilla chips on the inside,” I add with an eyebrow wag. Something tells me she’s the type of person who will appreciate this feature.
I’m right. She cackles, “Lucky! I’ve always wanted one of those.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, they’re great for camping. Load all of your friends in there. So fun.” She sounds serious, so I try to look at The Hulk through different eyes—the eyes of someone who spends her evening taking middle aged ladies on hikes in the desert. I guess it could be fun. I try to picture my acquaintances in California ridingin this van, let alone camping in it. The mental image brings a devious grin to my face.
“This is a great place to camp, huh?” This is my excuse for sleeping in my van in the middle of the day: Camping. In formal wear.
“For sure. There’s nothing like the desert this time of year. Everything is coming back to life.” She eyeballs me from the side. “What’s with the fancy-schmancy dress?”
“I ran away from home right in the middle of a party last night.”
That makes Mercer laugh so loud that several of the hikers turn around as they load into their huge, white van. “You’re in the right place if you need to get away. No one will find you here.”
I can’t stop my smile. “That’s the plan.”
An hour later, armed with my debit card and a fierce desire to be wearing anything but formalwear, I heave a pile of clothing onto the conveyor belt at the Target check out, along with the most critical camping supplies: A bag of Reese’s peanut butter cups, tennis shoes, socks, a sleeping bag, pillow, cheap flip flops, phone charger, hairbrush, assorted toiletries, coconut-scented air fresheners, a mini faux succulent that I saw in the dollar section, some granola bars, and a 24-pack of bottled water. This is the way of things at this store.
I throw my purchases into the back of The Hulk and make my way back to my campsite, where I settle into my temporary home. I give the tiny succulent a new home on the dashboard and hang a coconut pine tree from the turn signal. Nice. Now it smells less like a dusty, tortilla chip van and more like a dusty, coconut-flavored tortilla chip van.
I close the curtains and wrangle out of my dress, pulling on a pair of leggings and an oversized, pink tie dyed shirt that I was thrilled to find, as well as a pair of cheap flip flops that would make mymother’s eye twitch. Then, after several attempts and a smashed index finger I lay down the bench seat in the back and turn it into a bed. I unroll my blue sleeping bag and camping pillow and make a cozy spot under the long side window where I hope I’ll be able to see some stars.
I’m on vacation and I’mcamping,I think with a giddy sigh. I drift to sleep with thoughts of mysterious, dark-haired men and sugar cookies floating through my head.
Chapter 4
No hikers wake me up the next morning, so I sleep long and late, until the stuffiness of the van drags me out of my dreams. I use a bottle of water to brush my teeth, and pop a few ibuprofen because my ankle feels like I stuck it in a blender. Pulling away from my secluded campsite, I search the old-fashioned way for a place to shower and a power outlet to charge my phone which had died sometime in the night.
Without the GPS to help me, I drive in circles around the small town in search of a hotel. Everything is booked up solid, which baffles me. What is happening in this tiny town that every rental is taken? Don’t they know I need a shower?
I keep driving until I come upon a row of buildings nestled at the base of more rocky, orange cliffs. The sign at the entrance reads “Nizhóní,” which I attempt to pronounce a few times as I circle around looking for parking, The Hulk’s sputtering tailpipe heralding my every turn. “Niz-OH-nee.” This looks like a place that would have a full bathroom. It looks like a small resort. “NIZ-oh-NIGH. Niz…HO-nee?” I park, crossing my fingers for a shower and some stolen electricity. I spot a row of big, white vans—the same that I had noticed when I met Mercer and her group of hikers yesterday morning at my campsite.
At the reception desk, a girl wearing all white with a name tag that says “Sunny” greets me. “Welcome to Nizhóní, how can I help you?”
She pronounces it “Nee-ZHON-uh”—I waswayoff—and ends her question with a blinding smile that matches her name. There's a stack of brochures on the counter in front of me that gives me an idea.
“Hi, I’m looking for a place to shower. I’ll pay for a massage or something if I need to.” Twist my arm. “But I only need a shower.” And please don’t call security.
“Well, we’re actually a destination wellness retreat and spa. Our packages are all-inclusive—accommodations, meals, hiking, fitness classes, spa, and wellness program. We don’t offer our services a la carte, and we’re completely booked for the week. I’m sorry.” Her smile is apologetic, but she shuffles some papers around on her desk in clear dismissal of me and my sweaty, tie-dyed self.
I notice pairs of women wrapped in fluffy white robes, white slippers on their feet, hair dripping on their shoulders, mingling at the end of the huge corridor. They look so clean. I long for how it felt to be clean like I was back in the good, old days. It is so close, but so far out of reach. I have an idea.
“Okay. Thanks for your help.” I smile and turn confidently toward the spa. I know what I will find there: Quiet hallways, lots of private rooms with baths and showers, and massage therapists who don't care who you are unless you are their client. This isn’t my first destination spa rodeo. My mother had dragged me to several that we visited and reviewed over the years, each one more faux earth-bound than the last, and all with luxurious showers.
The hallways smell of lavender and eucalyptus, and gentle music and the sound of trickling water follow me around every turn. I pass several employees wearing white everything with gold name tags, none of whom stop me. I try a few doors until I find an empty roomwith a shower and lock myself inside. I will be so fast no one will know I was here. No harm done.
I exit the shower room with my wet hair braided over my shoulder and a fresh loose-fitting t-shirt in place over a fresh pair of yoga pants. This is becoming my vacation uniform of choice. Tiptoeing past the reception desk in my cheap flip flops, I feel 100% again in both the hygiene and phone battery departments.
“Hey!”
A sharp female voice shoots through the empty corridor and I drop my bag on the tile floor in surprise. I swing in the direction of the sound.
“Did you sneak into the spa and take a shower?” It’s Sunny again, this time with an appalled look on her face instead of the sweet smile from before. Her face isn’t angry, more shocked that I tried and succeeded.
“I just… really needed it. I’m so sorry. I can pay you.” I speak quickly, with a confidence I am not feeling.
“Are you the reason I didn’t get my lavender bath before my hot stone massage?”
