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In the low light that’s filtering into the small hall from the bigger windows in the living room, Adam’s burn looks even worse.
“Jesus,” I breathe loudly. “You scared the shit right out of me.”
“I really hope not.”
“Your burn must sting badly. You should get in the shower and get some cold water on that. Don’t burns keep burning after unless you stop them with some kind of cooling agent?”
“I don’t know. I’ve heard you should rub dirt on them.”
“Don’t do that!”
“I was kidding. I think that’s wasp stings.”
I let out another shaky breath. “You should get in the shower. I’ll walk and see if I can find that aloe vera gel. Just leave the car. I can unpack it when I get back.”
“You shouldn’t…this isn’t…I…”
“Just please get in the shower,” I say gently but firmly because I don’t want to have another conversation about inadequacies or the need to prove something.
We’ve talked about it endlessly, and I’m already exhausted. The heaviness weighing me down after spending a cold, wet night in an uncomfortable car hasn’t exactly been offset by the nap I took on the beach, and I have to say my patience is at an all-time low. I’m worried about Adam because his burn is nasty, and I’m aggravated with myself for not doing what I feel is my basic job, looking after him. Why didn’t I watch to make sure he put the sunscreen on? Why didn’t I wake up sooner? Why did I have the extremely bright idea of lying out on the beach under an unmercifully scorching sun in the first place?
“I can walk with you. I feel bad. Let me drive you—”
“Just. Shower. Please. I can’t stand looking at that. I can almost feel it in my own skin. I know it hurts. So, please. Have a shower. We can talk about what we’re going to do after I get back.”
“It’ll fade into a nice, deep tan by this evening.”
“Good luck with that. I really hope so. Or at least, by tomorrow morning. If you turn cherry red, I’m calling an ambulance.”
Adam sticks a hand on the wall and leans against it. He runs the other through his hair. Even in this state—tired, disheveled, slightly sick looking, probably a little bit hungover, and sunburned near to a crisp—he’s absolutely, devastatingly gorgeous. Sunburned Adam is still so beautiful that it makes my ovaries throb. The lady bits want to get in on that action, but I press my lips together and spin around.
Aloe vera gel. I need aloe vera gel or a bottle of whisky. If I can’t find one, I’ll make do with the other. I’ve heard they both take the edge off fine. That’s my mission.
My purse is in the car, so I grab it and head down the road in what I hope is the right direction. I’m slightly hungover, and being so tired doesn’t help with brain function. I need all those cells to get myself oriented, and my gray matter is not cooperating, but luckily, there are huge signs along the road here and there that say things like beach, trailhead, park office, showers, firewood, and whatnot, and those are fairly helpful.
I walk until my shins threaten to disown me from choosing flip-flops for such an arduous task. My purse is heavy, and the strap digs into my shoulder since it’s bare. I was so thoroughly unprepared for this walk that I want to laugh and cry at the same time, but then I think about the hiking boots and the damage they did to my poor feet, and I want to cry for real. Now that I’m thinking about those blisters, I can feel every single one of them with every step I take. How could I have forgotten? Oh right. Tent falling in and soaking us, being slightly drunk, having to sleep in a car, and passing out on a beach. That’s how I forgot.
I’m tough. I can do this.
And I do. Even though I’m grinding my teeth in pain by the time I get to the park office, I make it to the attached tiny store that sells things like milk, bread, canned goods, stomach upset medication, tampons, and condoms (obviously, they have the important things down), bug spray, sunscreen, and thankfully, aloe vera gel.
I pick up the three tubes they have, even though they’re industrial-sized and three times the price of what I’d normally pay for something like that, and head to the register. I don’t feel right paying with Adam’s company card, so I use my own. My eyes water at the fifty dollar price tag, but I accept the paper bag gratefully.
The guy behind the counter eyes me up for a minute, his bu
shy white brows shooting up towards the big, floppy green hat he has on his bald head. He’s fairly stooped, utterly adorable, and looks older than the campground itself. When he grins at me, it’s all dentures, and it melts my heart.
“You look like you could use a ride. I have a golf cart out back. Can I help you back to your campsite?”
My heart melts some more. Or maybe it’s my eyes. It’s hard to tell. When I sniffle, my nose feels wet and blocked, so yup, it’s probably my eyes. My pride tells me to thank him and decline. But my feet tell me a ride is a must, and I want to fall on the ground and dissolve into a puddle of messy, snotty, tear-filled gratefulness.
“Thank you,” I manage to say with some dignity. “We’re staying in the row of cabins that are by the big blue pelican statue.”
“Pelican Lane. Yes. That’s not far. I can lock up the store for a few minutes. Come on.”
“Oh! I can’t let you do that! What if someone comes and needs—”
Now it’s his turn to snort—he does it in a cute, dignified sort of way though, not at all like the gross watery noise I made—as he waves his hand. “Come on. I close the office all the time for a few minutes. That’s why I have the sign on the door. Back in five, it says.”
