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Our walk along the paved path turns into a nature hike as we follow the flashing blue dot on Connor’s GPS device. We finally reach the coordinates and begin looking around. Our search is short when Connor discovers a vintage-looking ceramic chicken, one eye painted closed as if he’s winking and taunting us. We break him open back at the camper and Connor uncurls a handwritten recipe.
“Well, I’ll be damned. Distilled white vinegar. Who the hell would have guessed that?” He makes that grin when he’s amused by something, but it looks different to me this time. Something about his eyes doesn’t quite look the same as when he makes that face at me.
We drop the guitar pick off to an elated Anton, and make our way back to the highway and toward the next leg in our adventure. I can’t believe I’m hungry after eating the gözeleme earlier, but that’s what fresh air and exercise does to me, I suppose. Connor insists he doesn’t want a sandwich when I make one for myself, but he does manage to eat three candy bars, four lollipops and half of a bag of red licorice whips and then chew three pieces of bubblegum over the next two hours.
“You’re going to be sick,” I chide as the sun begins to slip down toward the horizon. The camper gives a little lurch.
“OK, fine, make me a sandwich then,” he says, and moves into the right lane to pass a blue minivan.
“Are you sure? It’s starting to get late now. Aren’t we going to stop for dinner soon?”
“Check the maps app on my phone and see what’s nearby,” he says, sounding disinterested.
“The cell signal out here is kinda sketchy.” I feel the camper make another little hiccup. “Um, should I be worried?”
“Not until a red or yellow light comes on the dash.” Connor says, pointing to a space between the spokes of the steering wheel. No sooner do the words leave his mouth than the entire dashboard lights up like a Christmas tree.
“OK, you can be worried now,” he says. “Look for a place to park this thing, will ya?”
I quickly scan the map and see a couple of small towns, each about ten miles off the interstate. “Nothing close. We’ll have to leave the highway. I’m not sure about that, Connor. It looks pretty desolate around here. And I swear I heard banjos two miles back.”
“It’s not densely populated, that doesn’t make it a crime scene. What are our options?”
“Mayo to the left or Cowpens to the right.”
“You’re serious?” Connor says, casting me a skeptical look. “Mayo and Cowpens? Those are real places?”
“Yep. Looks like there’s some sort of campground near Cowpens, I think. Maybe we could head there?”
“Good idea. Type in the address, we’ll let the nav guide us,” Connor says.
We make a right at the next exit and amble onto a country road. I watch the sun begin to shed her bright yellow hue of the day and slip into her amber evening dress. A hint of gold washes over the landscape making it look gilded and glowing.
There is a noticeable lack of any sort of structure that even remotely looks like a human dwelling and no streetlights. The area looks abandoned. Inner Miss Insecurity is visualizing all of those zombie apocalypse movies where the handsome warrior survives and his mousy sidekick gets eaten in the first five minutes of the film.
I glance out the window over Connor’s shoulder and watch the sun sinking lower into the sky. When the sun finally slips away, it’s going to be very dark. Are road bandits still a thing? Miss Insecurity begins to curl up in her corner. She’s not rocking back and forth yet, but it can’t be far off. She’ll morph into Miss Angry Anxiety. Oh, please, not her.
“Isn’t it beautiful out here?” Connor says, nodding to some hills in the distance. “Can you imagine if you built a house here, the sunset views you’d have every night?”
“Yep, right before the darkness creeps in and you’re murdered in your sleep or eaten by wild animals.” Or zombies.
“Lainey, stop. You’re letting your imagination get the better of you. We’re going to be fine. Look, there’s the campground. It looks nice. And the camper hasn’t stopped yet. It’s probably just a blown fuse or something.”
“You think?” His voice sounds so confident, I find myself believing him even if everything he says sounds like a total lie. Miss Anxiety perishes, and I let out a long breath.
“Absolutely. Don’t worry. We’re together. I’ll take care of everything,” Connor reaches across the wide expanse of console space and gives my hand a quick reassuring squeeze. And just like that, I believe him. I do feel safe with Connor, and Miss Insecurity slinks back into her little room and soundly closes the door behind her.
We maneuver the camper into an area with a large sign declaring: the Cowpens RV Park, City Pool, Recreation Hall and Community Center, and follow the directional arrows to the tiny house serving as the rental office.
“I don’t want to turn the camper off in case we can’t get it to start again. So, you sit tight here, and I’ll be right back.”
I nod, but the look on my face must reveal I have serious reservations about being alone. I offer a smile, but it feels forced. Perhaps I should install a little lock on Miss Insecurity’s door.
“You’re good?” He asks, offering me that bemused little grin of his. My smile widens into something more genuine.
I nod again, a bit more convincing this time, apparently, because Connor slips from the camper and into the little house. I watch the numbers on the digital clock on the dash tick by, slowly counting out the seventeen minutes he’s gone. I let out the breath I didn’t even realize I’ve been holding when he emerges with a folded piece of paper in his hand.
“Good news, we got a space. It’s near the lake, too. Otis, the owner, is going to drive out to help me get everything connected. I also called the RV rental company back in Atlanta and they’re going to have a local mechanic come out and check everything over in the morning. But the guy on the phone agrees, it sounds like a fuse.”
