Page 5 of Canned & Coated

It’s also where I had my first kiss, which, for the record, was not with Milo or Tanner. It was with Bethany DuBois, a girl from school I got stuck taking on a double date because Tanner liked her friend and that friend refused to go alone. Which meant I spent an entire weekend pretending to be straight while Milo hovered nearby as the world’s most disgruntled fifth wheel, visibly having the worst time of his life.

Back then, roughing it felt adventurous, like we were choosing some wilder, cooler version of life for a weekend. Now it mostly feels like paying money to be mildly uncomfortable on purpose.

Despite all of that, or maybe because of it, coming back here feels right.

Maybe there’s something in this place that still holds whatever it was we had back then. Something waiting for us to step back into it if we follow the same roads, pitch the same tents, and pretend we’re still the same people.

Still, I can’t shake the tightness in my stomach that started the second we turned off the main road, and if the way Milo keeps tapping his fingers against the steering wheel is any indication, I’m not the only one feeling it.

Eventually the RVs give way to tents. The crowds thin. The laughter fades. Then we’re there. Our spot. The same one we rented every summer once we turned sixteen and decided that made us grown.

There’s a big tent pitched dead center in the clearing, and parked beside it is Tanner’s Jeep, which somehow looks exactly the same and significantly worse.

It’s an awful shade of olive green, dented all to hell, the soft top long gone so only the exposed skeletal frame is left baking in the sun. The bumper is layered with faded, peeling stickers he refuses to remove, and the dashboard is completely overrun with sun-bleached rubber ducks because he’s one of those Jeep people now.

I’ve spent more hours than I care to admit gripping the frame, convinced every sharp turn would be the one that sent us tipping onto two wheels, or worse. It used to rattle if he pushed it past sixty, the whole thing shaking like it might come apart mid-drive, because truthfully I imagine even the Jeep itself doesn’t trust Tanner behind the wheel.

How it’s still running is a fucking mystery, but of course it is, because Tanner is here and so is the Jeep.

Nothing ever dies. Not really.

“I can’t believe he still drives that thing,” I mutter.

Milo scoffs. “Be nice. It got him across the country and back.”

“Twice,” I add before I can stop myself.

He must catch something in my voice, or maybe it’s the way I’m white-knuckling the donut box, because he reaches over without looking and threads his fingers through mine.

“Are you ready for this?”

Milo’s not big on PDA. He loves me, I know that, but it usually shows up in quieter ways or unremarkable little moments that somehow hit harder than some grand gesture. It’s him doing the dishes before I’ve even admitted they’re there. Tossing my laundry in with his because apparently I’m a child. Saying exactly the right thing at exactly the right time to yank me out of whatever spiral I’ve fallen into.

I look down at our hands for a second, mostly because I need the reminder.

This is real. This is where I am. This is who I’m with.

Also because if I look at him too long right now, he’ll know I’m emotional and I’d rather be hit by traffic.

Am I ready for this? It’s a stupid question, because what does ready even look like here?

We’ve all changed.

We don’t even really talk anymore.

Tanner doesn’t have social media, which feels exactly like something he’d do to make this harder. So I have no reference point. No warning. No badly lit selfies to study for clues.

I tighten my grip on Milo’s hand without meaning to. Maybe the answer I’m looking for is somewhere in that pressure.

“Yeah,” I say, even though it sounds a little borrowed. “I’m ready.”

Because I have to be.

Right?

Turns out declaring yourself ready and actually being ready are two wildly different skill sets. Not in some dramatic, life-changing sense, but in the very practical reality that nothing could’ve prepared me for the man who steps out of that tent.

Because this is not the Tanner McCormack I’ve had stored in my head all these years, the version I’ve been carrying around like a photo I could pull out whenever I felt nostalgic and emotionally unwell.