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He cuts me off. “Lockheart loves me. I told him you’re working with me tomorrow, so problem solved. We can chat about my ideas if that makes you feel better. Make it official business.” Since Blake became a “signature artist” for my company’s guitars, our CEO has been after him to help design a new line of specialty instruments.
I climb into the truck and fasten my seatbelt. “Why are we going camping?”
“Because this Nica thing is doing a number on you. So, it’s time to get away, even if it’s only twenty-four hours.” He pulls onto the highway.
“Was this your idea?” I lean back and close my eyes.
He laughs. “Yeah, right. I’m not that intuitive. Rachel suggested it. Eva seconded, and here we are.”
We rumble up the road to one of our favorite sites on the shore of Crystal Lake. A big tent is already pitched in a primo site—Blake must have had to bribe someone to get the place because at this time of year, the campground is normally full. A black Tesla is parked next to the tent, bright moonlight glinting off its paint. Two men sit beside the gas firepit.
“Dylan and Rob are here?” I unfasten my belt. This feels like some kind of setup. Like a bachelor party. Or an intervention.
“Grab your bag.” Blake jabs a thumb over his shoulder, then jumps down.
I pull my gym bag from the back seat and follow him across the campsite to the fire. Rob waves a lazy hand without pushing his reclining chair upright. Dylan opens a cooler and holds out a bottle. “Beer or cider?”
I take the beer. Tension seems to drip out of my shoulders as the quiet night settles around us. We drink a little and talk less, just hanging out in nature. The fresh air and quiet sounds are a balm to my soul.
I have some good friends.
* * *
The next morning, Dylan cooks eggs, bacon, potatoes, toast, and coffee over the camp stove. There are definite perks to bringing a chef on a camping trip. After we clean up, the Mead brothers head back to town—they both have businesses to run. Blake and I spend some time talking about guitar design and his thoughts on a Blake Stein line. I sketch out a few drawings, but mostly we spend the day just lazing around the lake.
I try not to think about Nica, but thoughts of her intrude constantly. I remember our visit to Blue Lake. I imagine her sitting with us as Blake and I discuss the resonant qualities of spruce and haggle over mahogany versus rosewood backs. I can almost smell her perfume mingling with the scents of pine and water.
As the sun reaches its zenith, Blake pulls some bread and lunch meat from the cooler. “What are you going to do?”
“About what?” I spread some mayo and mustard and load the slice with ham and turkey.
“About her, dork.” He smacks the back of my head lightly. “About the woman we haven’t been talking about.”
“What can I do?”
Blake slaps some turkey on his bread. “Win her back, you idiot. Haven’t you learned anything from all those movies you watch? Pick your favorite and recreate the big dramatic moment.”
“I can’t chase her through an airport if she’s not going anywhere.” I take a bite of my sandwich.
He rolls his eyes. “Pick something different, then. But you aren’t going to win her back by doing nothing.”
“I was hoping the show would help me, but she’s kind of like a robot. I don’t know how she makes it look so good while staying completely impersonal.” I eat a few chips.
“The good news is you’ve got ten days to think of something. She can’t go anywhere until the show closes next weekend. Let me know if you need help with execution.”
* * *
When we finish lunch, I’m ready to head back to town. I pack the remaining food into the ice chest and move it to the back of Blake’s vehicle. Then I disconnect the propane tank from the gas fire ring and load that up.
Blake finally emerges from the tent, but he’s wearing a bathing suit.
“I thought we were heading back?”
He squints at the sun. “We’ve got lots of time, and it’s finally warm enough for a swim. You coming?” He flips his towel over his shoulder and strides toward the lake.
By the time I get changed and down to the shore, he’s halfway across the lake. I swim to a wooden dock floating offshore, then back to the sandy beach. Blake’s head is barely visible in the distance. With a shrug, I swim out to the dock again and watch from there. He shouldn’t go that far alone—if anything happens to him, I’m too far to reach him. But Blake is a very strong swimmer, and Crystal Lake is about as safe as it gets. Still, my older-brother instincts kick into high gear.
When he reaches the other side, Blake climbs out and waves at me. From his gestures, he’s either planning to walk back to the campsite, or trying to land a dirigible. I assume the former and dive in to swim back to shore. Crystal Lake isn’t huge, but the walk around the end will take longer than swimming back.
