I thought of how big the sky was here. How tall the trees were. How dark it was. But then I thought of that single G note I’d played when I first turned on the keyboard in my cabin. The first note of “Lemon Tree,” and how it had reverberated through my chest. “Or maybe both at once.”
“Maybe.”
“You sure I can’t lure you out here for a visit?”
“You cannot.”
6
FOOTSIE
Gretchen
I was in Target when I saw him, and good Lord, was there any escaping this guy? He was in the remote North Woods; he was in a multinational chain store a forty-five-minute drive from the remote North Woods.
He was also, unfortunately, in my brain. I would like to say the reason I’d had trouble falling asleep last night was that I was thinking about my artist-in-residence duties. AboutLittle Women, but with dancing.
But no, I couldn’t sleep because I’d fallen down a Karlie Carroll rabbit hole. Yes, I’d creeped Teddy’s ex-girlfriend’s social media. She was everything you’d think a rock star’s girlfriend would be: skinny, generically pretty with big eyes and long balayaged blond hair styled in perfect beachy waves. She did sponsored posts on protein powder and retinol. But as much as I wanted her to be only that—macros and skin care—she was also into refinishing vintage furniture. Her pieces looked amazing.
If you scrolled far enough back, Teddy made the odd appearance in her posts. There were the usual “Happy birthday to this goofball” pictures with him in the background photobombingher and “Celebrating two years with the most amazing person in the world” posts with her on his arm on the red carpet at the Grammys. But there was also the odd domestic post. A picture of two sets of legs tangled together on a sofa, one barefoot and the other in a pair of Doc Martens I recognized. Or a flute of champagne and a glass of beer on a table on a balcony with an amazing city view.
I was embarrassed by how much I had told him last night. I’d had a lovely evening eating with Maiv on the beach. And drinking with Maiv on the beach—she had a literal box of wine in her cabin, and we’d filled water bottles from its spigot and, after our swim, toasted the end of week one at Wild Arts. And then toasted some more.
I hadn’t beendrunk-drunk. But I had been happy enough, and vehement enough—I got overly invested in everything when I was tipsy—that I’d opened my mouth and vomited all my thoughts and feelings on Teddy Knight. Teddy Knight! Who didn’t even like me!
I’d been so relieved when he wasn’t in the van today. This morning Lena announced she was “going into town”—which apparently meant not into the tiny town fifteen minutes from camp that had a bar, a variety store, and a boat mechanic, but to a bigger place farther away that had a wider range of shopping—and had invited any of the adults to come. Danny and I had taken her up on the offer.
It wasn’t as if I’d said anything supermortifying last night, just that in the sober light of day, I felt I’d exposed myself too much. Or to the wrong person. Mistaken the level of emotional intimacy that was appropriate. So while I didn’t have anything to apologize for, or even any cause, really, to be more than slightly chagrined, I’d been happy to keep out of Teddy’sway. To let time soothe my self-consciousness. Monday would come, with its work and its routines, and things would feel more normal.
But no. There he was. Standing at an endcap in the men’s shoes section at Target examining a pair of orange Crocs knockoffs.
I gave some thought to ducking down an aisle, hiding among the shower curtains and toothbrush holders, and pretending I hadn’t seen him. But was I the kind of woman who hid from uncomfortable situations? I thought about the last time I’d seen Talon—speaking of last night’s oversharing—which had not been on our final, disastrous date, but in a situation much like this, where I’d seen him at a restaurant and then immediately departed said restaurant before he saw me. So maybe the answer was yes, Iwasthe kind of woman who hid from uncomfortable situations. At least lately, if not historically.
But not anymore. I was here for the reset, right? I’d come to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately—to quote Teddy quoting Thoreau—right?
So I sidled up to him. “I’m not sure those are really your style.”
He seemed profoundly unsurprised to find me standing next to him at Target. “The problem is this is the only pair of remotely sandal-like shoes in my size, and I can’t do the rest of the summer in these.” He lifted a Docs-clad foot. The last time I had seen that foot had been on my phone screen, and it had been playing footsie with Karlie Carroll. “It’s too fucking hot for these. But yeah”—he shook the not-Crocs—“these are atrocious.”
“So you’re standing here contemplating the trade-off between self-respect and comfort.”
He barked a laugh. “I guess I am.” He set down the shoes and examined me. “What would you do?”
“This summer? I’d choose self-respect.” I made a face, and he intensified his study of me. “But also, they’re just shoes, not a moral statement on your self-worth, so probably you should choose comfort.”
“Hmm.” He put the shoes down.
“I for one would love to see you in orange fake Crocs at camp,” I added, feeling bad about projecting my issues onto his footwear choices, “and I’m sure the kids would, too.”
“Ha ha. It was probably dumb to think I could find decent shoes here. I only came in search of better bug spray”—he held up an industrial-looking aerosol can—“and I got distracted on my way to meet Jack.”
Ah, the cool kids drove on their own instead of taking the Lena bus. “What do you mean ‘better’?”
“The stuff Marion gave me doesn’t work. I’m getting eaten alive. Aren’t you?”
“Not really. When they start to get munchy, it’s a reminder to reapply, and then I’m mostly fine. Not so with you?”
“Nope. Doesn’t seem to matter how much I put on, or how often.” He held out his arm, and it was indeed covered with welts.
