Chapter 5
DAY two at Wild Acres started with a bang. Literally. Because one minute I was lost in a psychedelic disco dream, and the next minute I was rocked awake by an explosion.
“What was that?!” I demanded at top volume, struggling to yank my sneaker on as I hopped away from the tent on one foot.
“Oh, that was nothing,” my mother said, way too calm for my liking. “Your father just knocked a can of bug spray into the fire, and it blew up.”
“That’s something,” I said. “A very loud something.”
“Don’t walk over here,” my dad warned, motioning toward the spot where the exploded goo had landed. “I still have to clean this up.”
“Don’t worry. I didn’t plan on it.”
Will was already scarfing down a bowl of soggy Rice Krispies at the picnic table, so I sat down beside him and poured some for myself. And even though I didn’t see it coming, I’m sure what my evil brother did next was completely intentional. He waited until I had a big mouthful of cereal, then let loose with the following:
“So your boyfriend was here looking for you last night.”
Of course, I started choking and gagging. And as hard as I tried to force the cereal back down my throat, some of it just wouldn’t go. The result: I ended up spewing about half a mouthful of the semi-chewed stuff across the table in front of me.
“What?!” I finally managed to say. “What do you mean? Who was here?”
Will just smirked this know-it-all, pain-in-the-ass, gotcha smirk, which caused me to reflexively punch him in the arm.
“Hey! Knock it off!” he complained.
“Why? You deserve it, asshole.”
“Nice language.”
“Oh, and you’re a saint?” I said with an exaggerated eye roll. “Puh-lease.”
“Well, at least I’m not conniving like you. You think Mom and Dad are gonna let you go out with that guy who came over here last night? You think they’re gonna let precious little corruptible Flora get sucked in by the Trailer Park Kid? I don’t think so,” Will said with such finality I almost stopped breathing.
No matter what my parents thought, they had no right to keep me from Mick. No right. It was my life and my decision.
I swallowed my pride. “Did Mom and Dad see him? Did they talk to him?” I asked. I could hardly believe I’d slept through something so pivotal, but at least Mick had come for me. Maybe he didn’t hate me after all—unless, of course, my parents had ruined things, which I was having a hard time getting out of Will.
“Yeah, they saw him.”
“And…”
“And they told him you were sleeping.”
“That’s it? That’s all they said?”
“All they said to him.”
“What do you mean all they said to him? Who else was there to say anything to?” I demanded, losing my cool.
“It’s not what they said to him,” Will continued. “It’s what they said about him. After he left.”
“Cut the shit, Will. What happened?”
My brother broke out in another trademark smirk. “Well, of course Mom and Dad were nice to his face. They were polite, like they would’ve been to anyone. But when he was gone, they got into a discussion about him and his family—you know, because they saw them all camped out at the rest area. I guess that whole scene made quite the impression on Mom and Dad. Anyway, Dad said they looked like a band of gypsies. Then he told Mom a bunch of stories about gypsies being cheats, liars, and thieves. He said they were nothing but trouble. And Mom said he was way too old for you anyway, so the gypsy thing didn’t even matter. There was no way they were letting you anywhere near the guy.”
“But they don’t even know him,” I objected. “He’s nice. He’s beautiful. He’s…”
Okay, so I didn’t even know Mick that well yet. But I was going to. I was going to know every last gory detail. The good. The bad. The ugly. Things he didn’t even know about himself.
Will got up from the table as my father sat down. “Morning, buttercup,” my dad said. “Sleep tight?”
“Fine and dandy,” I replied, wiggling off the bench and making a break for my sleep pod. After all, now that my parents were up to speed on Mick, I couldn’t afford to spend any more time around them than absolutely necessary. The situation was a fight waiting to happen.
Quickly, I shoved a change of clothes and a towel into my beach bag. “I’m taking a shower,” I announced, glancing around to see if anyone was paying attention.
For the umpteenth time, my father’s head was buried in a road atlas, so he was oblivious. But my mother was poised to confront me at the tiki torch. As I braced for an argument over Mick, though, she hit me with a totally unexpected plan of attack instead.
“A shower? That sounds great!” she effused. “Hold on. I’ll go with you.”
“Huh?”
“I’m dying for a hot, steamy one,” she claimed. “Just let me get my…”
Great. This was definitely not going to work. I could not have the Mental Hygienist tagging along like my BFF.
“I’m sick,” I blurted. “I don’t feel good. Everyone should stay away from me.”
“What’s the matter? Do you have a fever?” my mother asked, rushing to my side and clamping her palm over my forehead. “No. No fever,” she decided after a few seconds of monitoring me.
“It’s my stomach. I think I have the flu,” I said, bending halfway over and clutching my guts. “I’ll probably be in the bathroom for like two hours. Can you get me some Pepto?”
I could tell by the skeptical look on my mother’s face that she didn’t believe me. But I also knew she’d never go so far as to deny me medicine.
“Geez, Flora, I don’t think we brought any Pepto. But I might have a roll of Tums in my purse. You could try those.”
“Come on. I need the Pepto, Mom. I’m sick,” I whined. Then I faked the beginning of a dry heave.
“Okay, okay,” she finally relented. “I’ll go to the store. I’ll get some Pepto—if they have it. Do you want your father to walk you to the bathroom? Vic, come here!” she yelled, before I could respond. “Flora’s sick. I’m going for Pepto. Can you walk her to the bathroom?”
“Ab-SO-lutely! I can,” my goofball father shouted.
For a second, I thought about arguing that I didn’t need a bathroom escort. But then I realized getting rid of my dad would be a piece of cake once my mother was gone. Still, without waiting for him to follow, I plowed full steam ahead. And when he finally caught up to me a few campsites away, I pulled out the big guns. I had to.
“I think I forgot my bra. Can you go back and get it for me?” I asked innocently.
Nothing freaked my father out like female undergarments or that time of the month. And yes, I realize this was a cruel move, but I was desperate.
“Uh…um…” he stumbled. “We could turn around.” He glanced longingly back at our tent.
“I can’t,” I whimpered. “My stomach. I’ve gotta hurry.” I picked up my pace even further, forcing him into a quick decision.
“All right,” he crumbled. “Where is it?”
“In my duffel. In the side pocket. But make sure you get the pink one with the yellow polka dots, not the blue one with the green stripes. The blue one’s too tight, and I’m already sick.”
“Pink with yellow polka dots. Check. I’ll meet you at the showers.”
Now I know I probably should have felt guilty about sending my dad on a wild goose chase, since the pink polka-dotted bra was still at home in my underwear drawer. But honestly, I didn’t really feel that bad at all. I mean, sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, right?
In case my father gave up on the elusive bra hunt sooner than anticipated, though, I ditched my beach bag in the bushes and ducked behind the expansive rows of tents. Because if I remembered correctly, the RVs were at the back of the campground. And that’s where I should be able to find the blue and silver pickup th
at belonged to my sweet, sweet Mick.
I’d only passed about five unfamiliar campsites when I recognized his rich, velvet voice. “Flora, hi. Over here,” he called.
When I laid eyes on him again, my heart literally skipped a beat. Because even though he’d been super sexy yesterday in his cargo shorts and muscle-tight tee, today he was drool-worthy. He had on these ragged jeans that were ripped in all the right places—and not because he’d bought them that way at some trendy store. He’d ripped them doing things. Manly things. They were so tattered, in fact, I could see a three-inch patch of bare skin on his upper thigh through a well-placed hole. Delicious.
So what I did next was another testament to my inexperienced flakiness. At full speed, I ran up and tackled my should-be boyfriend to the ground. I swear, it was supposed to be a hug, not a football play. But I lost my balance, and then he lost his and…well, the rest was history.
“Wow,” Mick said, once we’d finally caught our breath. “That was brutal. You should definitely try out for the Steelers.”
“Pittsburgh? I don’t know. I was thinking maybe more like the Dolphins,” I joked. “You know, Miami. Fun in the sun. That kind of thing.”
He pulled me up from the ground with both hands. And while I brushed the dirt and debris off my clothes, he helped pick the stray pine needles out of my hair. How romantic.
“But you’re from Pennsylvania, right?” he asked.
Boy, this guy paid attention. He must have checked out the tags on the Maroon Monstrosity, which just so happened to match my home state.
“Yup, Punxsutawney.”
“Groundhog land, huh? That’s a nice place. A little small, but nice. And friendly.”
“You’ve been to Punxsutawney?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ve been just about everywhere.”
“You have?” I said, surprised. After all, I’d been just about nowhere.
“How about a walk?” Mick suggested. “There’s a small stream behind the campground.” He pointed a coarse finger toward the edge of the woods. “And a nature trail. Walk with me, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
Nature? I reiterate my previous statement: It’s out to get us. But for Mick, I’d take the chance. “Okay, let’s walk,” I agreed. Because honestly, I’d rather die of a poisonous snake bite than miss the opportunity to be alone with my own personal stud-muffin in a secluded make out spot.
I reached for Mick’s hand, and he let me take it—which was a good thing, since I’m quite the klutz. I mean, at least if I was holding onto him, I might not end up face-first in the dirt. And if I did, he’d be down there with me and we’d both be dirty.
“So you were in Punxsutawney?” I asked again, still curious about what had brought him to my hometown (and secretly wondering if I might have run into him somewhere along the way).
“Uh-huh. About three years ago,” he said. “At a Christmas fair at the old armory building. Do you know where that is?”
“I think so. There used to be a dance program in the basement when I was little—if it’s the place I’m thinking of anyway. I took about four or five ballet classes there, but then I quit.”
Mick frowned. “Why?”
“Short attention span,” I said with a chuckle. “I think I have ADD.”
“I bet you were a beautiful ballerina,” he said, gently squeezing my hand. “Maybe you’ll try it again someday?”
“There’s probably a better chance of me landing on the moon,” I joked. “But hey, you never know.” I paused for a moment, just in case he wanted to suggest I’d make a great astronaut too. But I guess he had to draw a line somewhere. “So why were you in Punxsutawney?” I pried further. “I mean, I know you said for a Christmas fair, but why Punxsutawney? And why have you been so many places anyway?”
Mick took a deep breath, like I’d bombarded him with so many questions he’d better stock up on oxygen. “My life’s a bit different, Flora,” he started, then hesitated. “My family’s…unusual.”
“Uh-huh,” I mumbled. Unusual was good.
He continued, “See, we’re a bit like nomads. We’re rambunctious. We have adventure in our blood. My mother calls it wanderlust,” he explained. “And we’re the third generation of our family to live this way. To surrender to wanderlust.”
“Okay…but what does that mean exactly? What do you do?” So far, the idea of rambunctious adventurers surrendering to wanderlust sounded intriguing, but I needed more to go on.
“Well, basically we work for ourselves doing arts and crafts out of our campers. And we travel around to fairs, flea markets, and art expos—all over the country—selling our work. My cousins make Irish stone jewelry. My mother knits. My father runs the business side of things. And I keep all the vehicles on the road. Oh, and I work with leather too. I made this belt.”
He lifted up his shirt so I could get a good look at the rugged, perfectly sculpted creation that caressed his rugged, perfectly sculpted waist, at which point I let out an involuntary sound—sort of a combination of a delighted pig-squeal and a shocked gasp—that made him grin with satisfaction.
“You like my work, I see,” he said with a chuckle. “Good. I’m glad.”
“It’s gorgeous. I love it,” I fawned. “You’re so talented.”
As I glanced down at Mick’s big, rough hand—which almost swallowed mine whole—suddenly the dirt and calluses made sense. He was a mechanic. And an artist. Tough and sensitive. Honestly, I was getting moist just thinking about it.
When I looked back up, Mick was mesmerized by something just off the trail—maybe a plant, or flower, or small animal. Gently, he tugged me along behind him, as we crunched off the path toward the edge of the forest.
Guiding my hand to a strange, oblong pod that looked like a cross between a baby cucumber and an overstuffed pea, he said, “It’s milkweed.” Slowly, he moved my fingers over the prickly looking surface. And I must admit, I was pleasantly surprised. Instead of being sharp and bristly like I’d expected, the thing was soft as velvet.
“This is milkweed?” I asked. Again, I know nothing about nature.
Mick snapped the pod from the plant, causing some gooey white liquid to ooze from the fracture. “Sure is. Isn’t it cool?” he said, awestruck.
I nodded so he wouldn’t be offended, but in reality, I wasn’t totally convinced about the coolness of milkweed—that was, until Mick tore the pod open to reveal something wonderful: silky strands of iridescent stuffing that reminded me of raw cotton. He drew a pinch of the fluffy white stuff and placed it in my hand.
“This is really neat,” I said, legitly impressed.
“Those are the seeds,” he explained. “But what I like most about milkweed is that Monarch butterflies lay their eggs on it. And after they hatch, they travel thousands of miles to the hills of Mexico. That’s where I fell in love with them. In Michoacán. Every year, they fly by the millions to a butterfly sanctuary there. I swear, Flora, I’ve seen trees so full of butterflies you couldn’t even see the branches. It was like the whole tree could just flap its wings and fly away.”
I was floored. On top of all his other attractive qualities, Mick was smart too. He knew things most adults probably didn’t know. He’d seen things I’d never even imagined seeing.
“Did you say Mexico?” I asked. Even though I was still processing the butterfly-milkweed information, something about Mexico rang a bell in the back of my brain.
“Yeah, Michoacán. The Monarchs fly to the hilltops there every year around the Day of the Dead,” Mick said. “The Mexican people believe the butterflies are the souls of their family and friends returning to them.”
“I’ve been to Mexico once,” I said. “When I was like seven or eight. My grandmother lives there.”
Mick’s eyes lit up. “We should go then. We should see the Monarchs. It would be so beautiful, Flora,” he said, slinging his arm around my shoulder. “And we could visit your grandmother. We could do it this year. We still hav
e time—a couple of months—to plan. Say you’ll go with me to Michoacán.”
How could I possibly agree to run away with him to a foreign country? I mean, we weren’t even officially dating yet. The question was so heavy on my brain that it went blank. Shut down. Fried.
“Are you a gypsy?” I asked, partly to deflect his question and partly out of genuine curiosity. After all, if he was a gypsy, it would explain why he thought I could disappear from my life at a moment’s notice.
“A gypsy? No,” he said, shaking his head and grinning. “But I’ve been accused of it plenty of times by people who don’t understand my family. They assume we’re bad people, just because we’re not like them. It gets a bit tiring after a while.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
“That’s okay. You didn’t know. And I don’t blame you for asking. You must have lots of questions about how we live. It’s very unique.”
Up ahead, a rickety footbridge spanned a bubbling brook. Mick let go of me so we could cross single file, but once we were safely on the other side, he looped his muscular arm around my waist and pulled me in for a close hug. And immediately I forgot about gypsies, butterflies, Mexico. All I could do was feel. Feel his heart thumping flush against my chest. Feel his hot breath in my ear. Feel his soft, inviting lips flex against my…forehead?
Damn. A sweet, gentle peck on the head. That was supposed to happen yesterday. Today we’d walked and talked and even considered running away together, which made this a lip-locking, tongue-twirling, make-him-my-boyfriend kind of day.
Now because of what happened next, I’m obligated to issue a warning: Never, ever kiss a boy for the first time with your eyes closed. I swear, this advice would have saved me a lot of trouble if I’d had it beforehand. Because Mick was all nuzzled into my neck when I tilted my head to the spot where I thought the sloppy, wet magic would happen, only to discover—a few seconds too late—that my mouth had connected not with his luscious lips but somewhere along his jaw line. And at first I didn’t even notice. That’s right, I aggressively made out with my almost-boyfriend’s chin. And even though it was humiliating, I sort of wish I could have seen the look on Mick’s face as I sucked obliviously away. It must have been priceless.
It’s weird how sometimes it’s the things you least expect that end up mattering most. Case in point: Mick’s reaction to my off-target kissing. Before I made the moronic move, I would have described our attraction as a combination of extreme lust and absolute like, which to most people sounds like love but really isn’t. Something has to happen to fuse the lust and the like together. There has to be a trigger. A catalyst. For me, the catalyst was Mick’s reaction to my off-target kissing. Anyone but him probably would’ve laughed at my stupidity or made a production out of wiping the slobber off his face. But Mick didn’t even pull away. Instead, he tenderly took my face in his hands and guided my lips to his.
And when our mouths were a mere millimeter apart, he whispered, “Will you be my girlfriend?” Without waiting for a response, he pressed his moist, supple lips to mine.
Meanwhile, I futilely tried to nod my acceptance of his offer. But even though I was having communication problems, I was pretty sure he knew I wanted to be his girlfriend anyway from the feverish kissing. Honest to God, the way he devoured me was so intense I could taste sex hormones in my saliva—unless, of course, lack of oxygen to my brain was just making me delusional. Lucky me, I was too love-drunk to tell the difference.