A Broken Promise (Book Part 23)

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A too-warm tent and Harley’s revving wake me. I’m groggy but rested and pull out my phone. 7:00 AM. All at once, the night whooshes in—the texts I didn’t reply to, and Jason. I halfway expect a motionless camp, but as I unzip a small section, I see and wave to two of the guys, coffee cups in hand.

I could use coffee. A seat next to them. An easy morning.

I unzip the tent, step out, and stretch. It’s cooler outside, but not by much. Scanning the yard, I notice something different. It takes a second to process that Jason’s tent is no longer where it was the night before.

There’s a tinge of panic that he left without saying goodbye, but I am relieved to see him tightening the buckle on the satchel at the back of his bike. I hold my attention on him and wait for him to return the focus, but he never looks my way.

I play games in relationships. The cat and mouse and the peek-a-boo. The chess match that throws feelings at the stake and no one comes out alive.

I go to my car, open the trunk, and organize the back before returning for my camping stuff. With a stake in my hand, accordioning it down to stowing size, I hear a voice from behind.

“You can’t go yet.” I turn and smile, knowing it’s Jason. All is well.

“Hi, good morning.” I feel thankful there are no burned bridges and that I was right about nothing lingering. “Ok, I won’t. Why’s that?”

With a cool voice, unremorseful as a serial killer recounting details of a kill, he says. “You still need to pay for your campsite. The owner is coming by any minute to collect.” I stare at him, frozen, waiting for the slightest hint that he’s joking and he is or has already followed through with his commitment to pay the $20 for the site. The site I didn’t even want. But I get nothing. Then he turns and walks away.

This new reality stretches me past capacity as I stand dumbfounded. Like watching a background character in a movie, I see Jason firing up his bike, and while it idles, he walks over to his friends for hugs and goodbyes. My eyes move to the owner, peering out the front bay window. We do not make eye contact.

My thunderous heartbeat is as deep as a Native American war cry. It’s in my ears. I want to scream. I want to run. But with the owner in view, and not wanting to draw her attention, I re-enter my partially downed tent. When I exit, Jason has left, and on the porch are the guys. Keeping one eye on the woman, I move toward the men, thank them, and wish them the best for their journey.

When the woman turns, I rush to roll my stuff into one heaping mess. I quickly walk my stuff to the trunk, jam it in, close the trunk, and, in one motion, open my driver’s door, start the engine, and shift the car to drive. I don’t look back. I barely breathe, and don’t stop looking in the rearview until I’m at least twenty miles down the highway.