I can’t say for sure how she did it, or how much I had to do with it, but by the time she left the beach with me that night, she was starting to become herself again.
Camryn was coming back, and I was living in the clouds with her.
Camryn
19
December 8—my twenty-first birthday
As it started getting colder, Andrew and I started heading farther south. We spent only one night in Virginia Beach, and from there we traveled North Carolina’s coastline, staying a few days in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, where I got my first road-trip job. Housekeeping. Definitely not my first pick, especially after Andrew reminded me that day about the gross things guests tend to leave behind in the rooms. But it was a job, and I didn’t mind it so much, except when they expected me to wash out wastebaskets with disgusting hockers stuck to the bottom. Sorry, but just thinking about that makes me gag. I called Andrew and begged him to come do it for me. Of course, I totally bribed him with promises of mind-altering bl*w j*bs in random places in exchange for his services. Fucking yay. Nah, who am I kidding? I enjoy the hell out of doing it for him. I only pretend to hate it sometimes, but I think he likes it when I pretend because he likes to hear me whine.
Anyway, apparently, housekeeping jobs are like revolving doors, employees come and go so fast you might as well not even officially add them to the payroll. I thought to myself how this could really work in my favor while on the road. So, in exchange for half of the rent of the room we were staying in and because the hotel staff was shorthanded, I asked if I could help out and they hired me on the spot.
But the job was only temporary, as Andrew and I needed to get out of Myrtle Beach and head to our next destination, wherever that might be. We never plan destinations in advance. The only rule we’re going by is staying on the coast. At least until the spring. But it’ll be a few months before spring gets here, and right now, we’re happily set up in a cottage-style hotel right on the beach in beautiful Savannah, Georgia.
And today, I turn twenty-one.
Andrew wakes me from a deep sleep by opening the curtains on our giant room window and letting the sun fill the room.
“Get up, birthday girl,” he announces from somewhere near the foot of the bed. I hear him slap the tabletop by the window with the palm of his hand repeatedly.
I moan and roll over onto my side, putting my back toward the bright sun and then burrow underneath the sheets. A gust of cold air hits me when Andrew snatches the sheets off me.
“Oh come on!” I moan, drawing my knees toward my chest and pulling the pillow over my head. “I should be able to sleep in on my birthday.”
Suddenly my body is being dragged off the bed and my arms come up wildly, trying to hold on to the edge of the mattress. Andrew’s hand is wrapped firmly around my ankle. I kick and flail, trying to get away, but he drags me across the bed so fast and without much effort that I just give up. My butt hits the floor and the sheets tumble down and around me.
“You are such an ass!” I laugh.
“But you love me. Now get up.”
With my hair all tangled around my head, I look up at him and pout. He smiles at me and reaches out his hand. I take it, and he pulls me into a stand.
“Happy birthday, babe,” he says and pecks me on the lips.
I flinch a little, because I know I have morning breath, and I’m already so used to him never passing up the opportunity to tease me about it.
Without looking at me, Andrew reaches inside his coat pocket and pulls out a little black velvet box. Obviously, he’s already been out and about today, but I’m more interested in the box he’s putting in my hand. I look at him warily, ready to chew him out if he went behind my back and spent a lot of money on a piece of jewelry.
“Andrew?” I say suspiciously.
“Just open it,” he says. “I was good. I promise.” He puts up both hands up in surrender.
Still totally wary of his apparent sincerity, I lift the lid on the box to see a diamond pendant necklace inside, and I gasp a little. Then I narrow my eyes at him. “Andrew, I swear.” I glance down at it again, feeling guilty for even holding it. “There’s no way this wasn’t—”
“I promise,” he says with a charming smile. “It wasn’t expensive.”
Chewing on the inside of my lip skeptically, I ask, “Then how much did it cost?”
“Ah, just around one twenty-five. No more than that. Cross my heart.” He makes a crossing motion over his heart with his finger.
Then he reaches out and takes the necklace from the box, letting it dangle on his hand. “Do you like it?” he asks as he moves around behind me.
Instinctively, I reach up and move my disheveled hair away as he slips the necklace around my neck. “It’s perfect, Andrew. I more than like it. I love it.” I look down once he clasps it in place and hold the shiny silver pendant in my fingers.
I turn around to face him and push up on my bare toes to kiss him deeply.
I just can’t see how something like this didn’t cost a boatload, but he’s telling the truth. I think…
“Thank you, baby,” I say, beaming.
Suddenly, he smacks me on the butt and says, “We’ve gotta get out of here today. I’m sick of hiding out in these rooms. Sick of this cold weather. I wish we could hibernate.”
“You and me both. What exactly are we going to do?” I grab a clean outfit from my bag by the TV.
“I don’t know. Anything,” he says. “Just dress warm.”
He didn’t need to tell me that, really. Not even being on the coast and farther south has done a lot to keep us warm the past several days. We both dream of spring and summer, so much so that it has gotten to where it’s all we talk about anymore. I complain a lot about not being able to hang my bare feet out the car window without freezing us out, and he complains that we still have yet to accomplish sleeping in that field under the stars. Of course, I won’t say it out loud because it’ll just make him want to do it even more, but I’m really not looking forward to sleeping under the stars. Ever. Not after what happened the first time we tried. No. I think I’m content with the hotel beds. No snakes in those.
Winter is depressing. I think it’s why the suicide rate is so high in Alaska. Beautiful state, but give me the sweltering heat of a southern desert state any day.
I dress extra warm for my birthday: thick coat, scarf, gloves, you name it I’m wearin’ it. And I’m still frickin’ cold.
* * *
Andrew, he kinda makes winter hot. I’ve always thought guys with beanies are sexy, but the way he looks in his black designer jacket and knit beanie, dark gray sweater, dark jeans, and Doc Marten boots is really all the birthday present that I need. I smile to myself as we walk hand in hand through a small crowd of people, all shuffling into the lighthouse and out of the cold when three girls, probably tourists like us, gape at Andrew as we walk by. That happens a lot, and I should be used to it by now. I gloat privately, but who wouldn’t in my situation? He’s the sexist thing I’ve ever seen. No wonder he was a model at one time. He hates talking about it, so naturally I often bring it up just to see him squirm. He’s been shaving less, too; he’s got that whole sexy stubble thing goin’ on.
We climb the spiral stairs up into the lighthouse overlooking the ocean and we gaze out at the view together. Because it’s something to do. We’ve just been playing it by ear—driving around town and picking something as we see it. Though, in the cold months, even that is a hit or miss. We hang our arms over the railing and move closer to each other to keep warm. The cold wind batters us, being so high off the ground, and I know my nose and cheeks are probably red.
It takes us all of five minutes to say “Screw this,” and we practically run back to the car.
“Maybe we should just go to a movie,” he says in the driver’s seat. “Or… OK, I say we just hibernate.”
We sit here for a long time just trying to figure out something to do.
“Let’s just drive around some more,” I say, coming up short.
“Maybe we should just leave.”
I shrug. “If you want to.” Then I see a sign that reads Fleas & Tiques Flea Market & Antique Store.
“Let’s go shopping,” I suggest.
Andrew doesn’t look enthused. “Shopping?”
I nod and point to the sign. “Not the mall or anything,” I say. “You can find some great stuff in flea markets.”
His expression is still flat, but I guess he realizes it sure as hell beats walking around outside in the cold, or sitting in this car doing nothing at all.
Giving in because, face it, he really doesn’t have much of a choice, he backs out of the parking space, and we follow the signs to the flea market. We find a bit of everything: stupid-looking hats, old-timey dental tools, handmade quilts, VHS tapes, and records. Andrew didn’t care for much until the wooden box of records came into view.
“I haven’t seen an actual Led Zeppelin record in years,” he says, holding one in his hands. The cover is so beat up and faded it looks like it’s been sitting in an attic for thirty years, but he holds it so carefully you’d think it was in mint condition.
“You’re not planning on buying that, are you?”
“Why not?” he asks, not looking at me.
He turns it over in his hands to look at the back side.
“Because it’s a record?”
“Yeah, but it’s a Led Zeppelin record,” he counters, glancing at me briefly.
“Yeah, and?”
He doesn’t answer.
I go on, “Andrew, what would you play it on?”
Finally, he gives me his full attention. “I wouldn’t play it.”
“Then why would you buy it?” I ask, and then answer for him sarcastically, “Oh, it’s a collectible. I get it. You could mount it somewhere in the backseat of the car.” I smirk at him.
“Or, I could put you in the backseat and mount it in the front.”
My mouth falls open slightly.
Andrew grins and slides the record back in the box.
“I’m not going to buy it,” he says, taking my hand.
Minutes later, we come to another booth chock-full of vintage-style clothing. As I’m meticulously combing through everything on the racks, Andrew falls back into the booth next to me where a wall of hundreds of DVDs and Blu-rays are displayed. He stands there in front of it with his arms crossed, practically unmoving as he scans each and every title. I can see the back of his head through the wooden mesh barrier that separates his booth from mine. I go back to the clothes, feeling a sense of urgency and need with just about each piece I touch. I frickin’ love vintage clothing. Not that I actually wear it, or ever really have, but it’s one of those things you can’t help but look at with admiration and imagine yourself in.
I push the thin metal hangers back, one by one, out of the way so I can see everything. Shirts with poet’s sleeves and leather laces, corsets, dresses with long, flowing sleeves and draping ruffles, Victorian-style boots—