Page 43 of Grumpy Bear

And who said Luke wouldn’t meet somebody else the minute I set him free? He had a right to the same opportunities all these other men came here for. I knew better than anybody how camp connections worked. A day here was worth six months of dating in the outside world.

You could stop to chat with some guy setting up his tent, run into him at dinner, have a few drinks at The Cubby Hole, fuck, and feel something. Fall in love, sleep deprived, hungover, and higher than you’d ever been.

He’d smile at you at breakfast the morning after, give you a knowing wink. Maybe he’d even sit and eat with you and your buddies, talk about his real life at home, what he did for a living, show you pictures of his dogs. You’d be trying on the idea of his life—of what it would be like to have a life with him.

For an hour or two, you’d let yourself think you might have just lived the story of how you met. The story you’d tell at dinner parties for the rest of your lives together.

And by midday you’d see him pressed up against somebody new in the pool.

He wouldn’t ghost you. Nobody did that here. They didn’t have to. He’d still smile and give you that knowing wink, and you’d give him a nod and act like your heart hadn’t turned to stone in your chest at that exact moment.

It would be another insidious case of too good to be true.

Your hangover was suddenly all that was left. You’d need a drink, and no sooner had you thought it or wished it out loud, somebody with a nice beard and nice eyes was shoving a Solo cup into your hand or offering you a toke, and this must be heaven because you only had to hurt for a minute.

Everybody was naked and nobody had to be alone.

That was one day.

You still had the rest of a weekend—maybe a whole fucking week—to fall in love a few more times or bury yourself in even more cock and ass to forget you’d even considered the idea you’d met The One.

The Many was the cure for The One.

Take a few hundred men and imagine that scenario playing out for a good chunk of them, all day, every day. Even without the rampant prevalence of open relationships, what kind of odds were we talking about?

Luke could meet someone here.

I could.

I had.

It happened all the time.

And for those of us who weren’t just looking to fuck, when it happened, it really happened.

The emotions. The connection. The feelings.

Luke might have been less likely to fuck a dozen perfect strangers, but that didn’t make him resistant to something else. Something more.

Camp time ran fast. Camp romance was highly contagious.

He hadn’t been here long enough to develop any immunity.

He’d flat out told me he didn’t hook up, and he’d implied he didn’t plan on going anywhere. At least not tonight.

We had roughly eight hours left until we could—potentially—be alone together again.

And I did not have time to be worrying about any of this on the first day of the season.

For the next four hours, there was a slow steady caravan of vehicles from the gate, driving slow because of the gravel and the sights—the natural scenery and prospects who’d already been on the property long enough to take their clothes off. Some of the wolf-whistles and catcalls and shouted obscenities were greetings between old friends; some were mating calls, bold as any big city’s Pride parade.

The parking lot at the lodge filled up and a line of guys formed out the door, across the huge front porch and down the stairs, waiting for Jim and Luke to check them in. I went back and forth between the gate and the lodge, directing the flow, checking on last-minute stuff, checking on the pool.

My walkie went off every thirty seconds—“Sawyer, Sawyer”—and mostly I delegated, barking orders and repeating requests to whoever should be closest. If the issue was within walking distance, I ran wherever I was needed. Literally. The road was gridlock, so the UTV was out of the question.

I was supposedly the captain of this madness, but what that really came down to was being everybody’s runner, everybody’s bitch. A lot of it was like a quiz show, recalling off the top of my head where absolutely any object or supply might be located. Making remote decisions on the fly for all the staff who suddenly had no ability to think for themselves. What the fuck was wrong with these guys? They never asked my permission for the stupid shit they did, so why did they suddenly need me to tell them how to do their jobs?

One of the hardest jobs of all was keeping a grin plastered on my face for all the regulars who wanted to say hello, shake my hand, cop a feel, hug me, for chrissake.