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Connor expertly maneuvers the camper into our designated space. With only a few minutes of daylight left, and he and Otis move quickly to get the water and electricity connected before it gets too dark to see.
“There’s a bathhouse about half a mile that way,” Otis says, pointing down a dimly lit gravel footpath that meanders through a small cluster of pines. “And there’s a little general store about a quarter of a mile in that direction. Just follow the signs. We’re pretty full up tonight so you probably won’t even need a flashlight. There’ll be plenty of light from the other campers.”
Otis thrusts out his swollen, weather-worn hand to Connor who shakes it gratefully.
“Thanks for all your help,” he says as Otis climbs back into his electric golf cart and heads back to the rental office.
“So, how about we walk to the store and pick up something for dinner?” he asks. “I think you’re right. I need more than Hershey bars and Red Hots.”
“All right.” I’m not sure if it’s the temporary fear and anxiety I was feeling before or the increasingly cooler breeze that’s blowing, but I need a sweater before we start toward the store. As we walk, Connor takes my hand and tucks it in his. He asks me question after question, forcing an endless stream of conversation between us about nothing important. By the time we reach the little camp store, I feel better. It doesn’t escape me he’s been keeping the conversation flowing to keep me out of my head and keep the door to Miss Anxiety shut tight. I give his hand a tight squeeze in appreciation.
The Cowpens RV Park General Store looks like something straight out of an 1870s western. There are huge barrels filled with candy, shelves lined with thick black rubber rain boots and walls of hooks looped with shovels, ropes and garden hoses. A separate section has a campsite setup complete with tent, camp chairs, tables and lanterns. While Connor shops there, I move into the grocery section. I grab some onions, peppers and apples. I can’t resist a few fresh tomatoes piled in a high pyramid under a handwritten sign proclaiming they’re from the world-famous Browns Farm of Cowpens. In the refrigerated section, I snag a package of spicy sausage from a local pork farmer and head toward the register. Connor meets me with a couple of flashlights and two bottles of wine.
“This place is so cute, isn’t it?” I gush. “Could you imagine a restaurant like this? A grocery area filled with locally sourced produce, cheeses and baked goods. And a cafe right behind it using all those same things to make some yummy farm-to-table dishes.” I yammer on and on with ideas for my imaginary restaurant.
Connor smiles and adds in a few ideas and questions that keep me talking while he consumes an apple from my bag on the walk back. By the time we reach our campsite, there are no traces that Miss Anxiety or Miss Insecurity even made an appearance tonight. A shadow of something braver starts to take shape in my heart. Ironically, it’s the shape of a lion.
Our camper comes complete with an outdoor patio, which is where we decide to have dinner tonight. Connor unrolls the awning — not that we needed it in the early evening darkness — unfolds a couple of camp chairs and lights a fire in the little tabletop grill. In minutes, our onions, peppers and sausages are sizzling away, teasing us with the flavored smoke of the delicious meal ahead.
Connor pours wine into two red plastic cups and we sit and toast one another.
“This is my idea of camping,” Connor says, first smelling the wine’s bouquet after swirling it around in his cup. I don’t know what he got, but it must have been expensive because I know my few groceries didn’t cost anywhere near the eighty-five dollars he paid when we checked out with the cashier, but it’s delicious.
“It’s nice,” I admit, slicing a tomato to add to our plates. I’ve also retrieved some brown sugar and cinnamon out of the pantry and cubed the apples, hoping the low coals on the grill will caramelize them enough to be a light dessert.
“Are those for after?” Connor asks, motioning to my apples.
“Yes, is that OK?”
“Perfect. There’s some caramel ice cream in the freezer inside. Remind me to get it out when we’re ready.”
We gorge ourselves on spicy sausages, grilled vegetables, cooked apples and a huge scoop of caramel swirl ice cream. It was no seven-course feast by Anton Arnaud, but it was one of the top five best meals I’ve ever eaten. All five of which, coincidentally, have been since meeting Connor Rose. Inner Foodie pats her stomach in agreement.
From inside the camper, Connor produces a guitar and starts picking out a few songs that we sing together. It’s easy to match a harmony to his voice and the juxtaposition of the harmony being in my higher alto voice gives the chords we create a cool folk song sort of vibe. We sound good together.
Eventually though, our voices tire and Connor turns on some music he has saved to his phone. This man has killer playlists. He drops it into an empty plastic cup and the echo makes it sound like full stereo around us.
“Dance with me,” Connor commands. He offers me his hand and I can’t refuse. We sway close, our bodies pressing together, his left hand at the small of my back and the right clutching my fingers lightly in his. I curl one arm around his shoulders and hold tight to his fingers with the other. Our bodies weren’t this close when we danced at his birthday party just days ago, and I can’t help but think it’s not just our bodies that have gotten a bit more comfortable being closer.
Connor endears himself to me at a pace I can barely keep up with. In so many ways, we are strangers to one another. But in other ways, he knows me better than even Willow. He knows that my annoying habit of incessant talking is a coping mechanism for my anxiety and he doesn’t make me feel bad about any of the insecurities that drive it. He’s patient with me, understanding. I have to admit, I haven’t had as much fun in my life as I’ve had since meeting him. He’s like having my own personal advent calendar. Every time I turn around, he pops open a new door that leads to unexpected and wonderful surprises. Some small, some big, and all magical. In a matter of just a few days, Connor has won my heart.
“I guess everything did turn out all right after all,” I confess. Connor gives me that little smile of his that tells me I’ve amused him somehow. I see the shift in his eyes and watch as the corners of his mouth curl up to meet them.
A low rumble of thunder interrupts the music. I’d noticed dark clouds moving in as we left Greenville, but didn’t think they’d had time to follow us out this far. We ignore the interruption and continue to sway and spin and twirl together until the first fat raindrops start to fall.
I break from Connor’s grip and see him laughing. “Grab the guitar and my phone. I’ll fold up the chairs and get them under the awning.”
It only takes a minute or two to complete the tasks, but when we’re finished, we’re soaked through. The downpour came fast and hard, dropping a curtain of heavy rain. I can hear the slosh of my sneakers and Connor’s boots over our laughter when we finally burst into the camper in a mass of soggy clothes and dripping hair.
Connor looks down at me, my hair lying flat against my face, and curtains it aside. The pads of his thumbs rub gently under my eyes. I have no doubt he’s removing the smears of black mascara I put on earlier that now runs down my cheeks in coal-colored rivers.
“You look like a drowned cat,” he says through fits of laughter.
I look up, slightly affronted, and notice that he is no better. His hair looks darker when it’s wet and hangs in long limp waves plastered to his scalp. The three-day stubble catches random stray strands that cling to his cheek and chin.
“You’re a wet hen,” I tease back and laugh so hard, happy tears start rolling down my cheeks.
“A wet hen? You mean wet cock, don’t you?” Renewed fits of laughter begin and we both start toeing out of our shoes and peeling away wet socks. Connor can actually wring water from his. Which, of course, evokes even more laughter from both of us. I look down to see a puddle spreading around us on the linoleum floor of the camper.
