It’s a tent.
A very large tent, I’ll grant it. Canvas, on a raised wooden platform, with a small porch and what appears to be a wood burning stove visible through the open flap. String lights. A soaking tub on the side.
“This is wonderful,” Lila breathes beside me. “I’ve never done the luxurious camping thing before. Glamping? Is that what this is? It’s so nice.”
I look at the tent.
“If it was nice,” I say, “it would have four walls and a roof.”
She laughs and takes my hand and pulls me forward. I let her, because I would follow this woman into considerably worse situations than a very expensive tent in the Montana wilderness.
The experience guide gives us the full tour of the tent with an enthusiasm I find frankly insulting.
It’s a fucking tent.
At least there’s indoor plumbing, thank God. If I’d brought my new wife to an outhouse on our honeymoon, we’d be right back on a helicopter right about now. I’d be booking flights to Tahiti en route.
Which is probably what I should have done in the first place, if only I wasn’t too terrified of my inability to resist the sight of Lila in a bikini for two weeks straight.
Although this tent comes with a wood outdoor soaking tub, which does not bode well for me. Never did I think the “something blue” my bride would have would be my balls.
My mind flashes to me unzipping her wedding dress. Her smooth bare back beneath my fingertips. Those fucking panties that were designed to be ripped off on sight.
I close myeyes against the rush of blood to my dick. Not the time, not the place.
With some difficulty, I focus my attention on what’s inside the tent. There’s a basket of local provisions on the camp table, stocked with pears and champagne and jars of honey and fancy crackers. There’s also a card with the wifi password, which defeats the entire purpose of wilderness as far as I can tell.
Last but not least, there are two brand-new wool felt cowboy hats: a larger one in dark brown, and a smaller one in ivory. The dark brown one has two small letters burned like a brand into the side: SR. The smaller hat has two different letters burned into it: LR.
Slade Rhodes and Lila Rhodes.
Lila is delighted by all of it. She touches everything. The wool blankets draped across matching leather armchairs. The lanterns. The record player atop a sideboard.
She pokes her head outside, finds the the soaking tub and saysoh my godunder her breath.
I watch her and think about taking off her dress and hearing her sayoh my godfor an entirely different reason.
Then Brett gestures to the bed. The one, singular bed.
It’s a good bed, I’ll acknowledge. King sized, piled with fluffy white linens, clearly the centerpiece of the tent’s interior.Onebed, though.
“There’s been a mistake,” I say.
Brett’s smile doesn’t waver. “I’m sorry?”
“We requested two beds.”
Brett checks his tablet. “I’m showing a king suite here. Our canvas accommodations are single bed only. It’s part of the intimate wilderness experience.”
“Can we be moved to a different tent?”
His smile turns stiff and nervous. “We’re fully bookedthrough the weekend, I’m afraid. I can have additional blankets and pillows brought?—”
“This is perfect,” Lila says. “Thank you so much, Brett.”
Brett retreats with visible relief.
And then I’m alone with my wife in our honeymoon suite. The one with one bed.
