The Things We Do For Love (![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
non_plot challenge #34, 'confession')
This piece has been driving me nuts all week. I hate half formed ideas that keep getting away on you.
These are, incidentally, Josh's parents, when his mother was young and (by her own admission) stupid and (also by her own admission) smitten to death with the mysterious silent Chris Everett from Out West. His father is what some might call a 'man of few words'. Most men of few words look positively talkative next to this guy. On an entirely personal note, if anyone has the 10CC version of the song I stole the title from, can you let me know? I've had it in my head for two days, damnit.
It occured to Connie that of all the airheaded, stupid, frankly idiotic things that had ever been done in the name of pursuing a desirable member of the male species, this had to count for at least three of them, and was absolutely somewhere in the top ten. Dumber than high heeled shoes or corsets or foot binding or wearing tight metal rings around your neck until it was so weak that it would snap in half like a wilting flower if you removed them. This was, quite possibly, the dumbest thing she'd ever heard of, and definitely the dumbest thing she'd ever done.
Oh, it had started innocently enough; talking with Chris (well, she was mostly talking, he was mostly listening) about vacation plans. She had spring break coming up, and he had some vacation time coming from the restaurant. She tried to fish for information, of course; what was he doing? Was he going back home to Montana to see his family, or was he planning to stay in New England, or was he going somewhere else entirely?
The answer was 'camping'. He was going camping - somewhere up in the Berkshires. And for some stupid reason, all thoughts of relaxing on a beach in Cancun with Colleen drinking margaritas flew right out of her head, and for some even stupider reason she heard a voice that sounded remarkably like her own say:
"I love camping. We should go together!"
Because the truth was, she reflected gloomily as they trudged through thick, viscous mud, she had never been camping in her life. Ever. She'd grown up on the Upper West Side and went to college at Wellesley. The closest thing she'd ever been to camping was a Motel 6 in New Jersey.
What wasn't helping was that when Chris meant 'camping', he meant camping - park-the-car-eight-mile-hike-into-the-wilderness-everything-you-own-on-your-back camping. Not hook-your-RV-up-here camping, where the biggest problem was the mysteries of a chemical toilet. Not for this boy.
And even worse, she'd made it sound like she did this all the time. For fun, you know - get up in the morning, get your dry cleaning, go to Bloomingdales', and walk twelve miles over rough terrain in the afternoon. So now she couldn't go back (especially since they'd left the car eight miles and over a dozen turns in the trail ago) and was stuck going forward, further into the shadowy darkness of lies.
Colleen, with her 'boys are a dime a dozen and here's a dollar' philosophy, would say she was an idiot. She was starting to believe she was an idiot. Chris, as usual, was silent on the matter, walking straight-backed and bright-eyed along the trail.
After what seemed like an eternity, they stopped at a small clearing that looked like pretty much every other small clearing; the setting sun shimmered off of the nearby lake through black tree trunks, the only signs of civilization were a charcoaled ring of stones that must have been meant for a firepit and a faded metal post with a number. This was apparently their campsite.
Connie swung the pack off of her aching shoulders and tried to gracefully collapse on the ground, which turned into a half-controlled flop on the grass. They did not cover this in Miss Manners. That was all about walking with a book on your head and using the right fork. Nothing to do with this.
Chris knelt in front of her . "You okay?"
"Fine." she gasped. "Fine. Never better. Fine."
"Why don't you rest for a little while."
"I'm fine, I'm fine." Connie fumbled through her pockets and pulled out a half-crushed granola bar, tearing off the cellophane.
Chris shrugged and began the small mechanics of setting up camp; unpacking the slippery blue nylon tent, unrolling the sleeping bags, fitting rusted metal poles together to create the exoskeleton of what would eventually become their so-called home sweet home. It wasn't a warm evening, but before too long he shed the plaid workshirt he'd been wearing and tossed it aside on top of the packs, revealing a plain white t-shirt underneath that was stuck to his chest with sweat like a second skin.
Connie felt her breath catch in her throat. Ohmygoodness...
His dark hair was wet, swept off his forehead in that state between a curl and a wave. Six feet and four inches of tanned skin and the muscles brought on from spending his childhood on a ranch, jeans hanging off slender hips and held in place with a faded leather belt. All that was missing was the hat and boots; he had the grace and ease of a cowboy that had cut his teeth on campfire bread and grew up with lariats for toys.
That was why she was doing this.
Right. Hopefully her feet would eventually recover from their beating, otherwise she was going to have a hard time chasing him.
* * *
It was several hours before she realized there was something missing in the equation. There had been dinner - some strange meat thing on a stick that was similar to a hamburger - and there had been dessert - melty marshmallow and chocolate things that almost made up for the hike and actually made Chris look at her as though she was on crack when she confessed to never having had these before. Apparently they were standard camping food, and she had to make some speedy backpedaling lie by making up a sibling's chocolate allergy.
This really wasn't going well at all. And to make matters worse, she realized that there was absolutely nothing even faintly resembling a bathroom for about eight miles. She struggled to her feet, blisters protesting as the raw skin rubbed against her boots, and staggered off toward the woods.
It got dark fairly quickly here; fifteen steps in any direction from the fire and she was plunged into disorienting total blackness. Night had always carried with it the familiar lights of stores and streetlamps; here there was nothing more than the Brave Little Flashlight and the dim yellow-red ashes of their dying fire. Even the stars were hiding behind the trees. Oh well, at least no one would be around to see anything. Her poor sainted grandmother would probably have a heart attack if she ever found out that Connie, like the proverbial bear, did in fact shit in the woods; poor Gran would up and clutch her chest and genteelly keel over, the only sign of discord being the slightest spot of cream tea on her antique lace tablecloth.
As she tucked in her shirt again and struggled to her feet, the weak beam of light caught on ... a bright-eyed, curious something.
It was silent enough that the echoes of her own scream bounced and wove between the trees, and before the air fell entirely quiet again Chris was there with his arms wrapped around her, comforting and silent.
"T-th-there was a - a wolf, or something." she sobbed, burying her face in his chest and pointing with the flashlight.
He stroked her shoulders for a moment, smoothing the tension away, and then began peering around in the dark with his own flashlight, scanning the ground. Something caught his attention; he knelt in the heavy clay for a moment and then turned, getting to his feet.
"Raccoon."
Connie sighed, burying her face in her hands for a moment; when she spoke again it was slowly, distinctly. "I ... have never been camping in my life. I lied. I'm sorry. I ... just wanted to spend some time with you."
"I know." he replied simply.
"You do?"
Chris took her hand in his and started leading her back to camp.
"How did you know?"
A flicker of light from the fire caught his eyes, amused and dark. "No one except a novice would ever think of wearing brand new hiking boots on a trip. You probably have blisters."
"I think my feet are blisters." Connie laughed ruefully as she collapsed on the cool dirt floor. "God, I'm so stupid."
He shook his head, a whisper of a smile on his face as he took one of her feet in his lap and started carefully unlacing her boots. Methodically peeling away the cute too-flimsy socks with flowers, he caressed the sole of her foot gently with the wide flat of his calloused hand.
Connie sighed and fell back onto the dirt, staring up at the dark, fluttering leaves, watching the smoke drift in trails and patterns across the sky. "It's a beautiful night."
Chris, as usual, had no reply.
These are, incidentally, Josh's parents, when his mother was young and (by her own admission) stupid and (also by her own admission) smitten to death with the mysterious silent Chris Everett from Out West. His father is what some might call a 'man of few words'. Most men of few words look positively talkative next to this guy. On an entirely personal note, if anyone has the 10CC version of the song I stole the title from, can you let me know? I've had it in my head for two days, damnit.
It occured to Connie that of all the airheaded, stupid, frankly idiotic things that had ever been done in the name of pursuing a desirable member of the male species, this had to count for at least three of them, and was absolutely somewhere in the top ten. Dumber than high heeled shoes or corsets or foot binding or wearing tight metal rings around your neck until it was so weak that it would snap in half like a wilting flower if you removed them. This was, quite possibly, the dumbest thing she'd ever heard of, and definitely the dumbest thing she'd ever done.
Oh, it had started innocently enough; talking with Chris (well, she was mostly talking, he was mostly listening) about vacation plans. She had spring break coming up, and he had some vacation time coming from the restaurant. She tried to fish for information, of course; what was he doing? Was he going back home to Montana to see his family, or was he planning to stay in New England, or was he going somewhere else entirely?
The answer was 'camping'. He was going camping - somewhere up in the Berkshires. And for some stupid reason, all thoughts of relaxing on a beach in Cancun with Colleen drinking margaritas flew right out of her head, and for some even stupider reason she heard a voice that sounded remarkably like her own say:
"I love camping. We should go together!"
Because the truth was, she reflected gloomily as they trudged through thick, viscous mud, she had never been camping in her life. Ever. She'd grown up on the Upper West Side and went to college at Wellesley. The closest thing she'd ever been to camping was a Motel 6 in New Jersey.
What wasn't helping was that when Chris meant 'camping', he meant camping - park-the-car-eight-mile-hike-into-the-wilderness-everything-you-own-on-your-back camping. Not hook-your-RV-up-here camping, where the biggest problem was the mysteries of a chemical toilet. Not for this boy.
And even worse, she'd made it sound like she did this all the time. For fun, you know - get up in the morning, get your dry cleaning, go to Bloomingdales', and walk twelve miles over rough terrain in the afternoon. So now she couldn't go back (especially since they'd left the car eight miles and over a dozen turns in the trail ago) and was stuck going forward, further into the shadowy darkness of lies.
Colleen, with her 'boys are a dime a dozen and here's a dollar' philosophy, would say she was an idiot. She was starting to believe she was an idiot. Chris, as usual, was silent on the matter, walking straight-backed and bright-eyed along the trail.
After what seemed like an eternity, they stopped at a small clearing that looked like pretty much every other small clearing; the setting sun shimmered off of the nearby lake through black tree trunks, the only signs of civilization were a charcoaled ring of stones that must have been meant for a firepit and a faded metal post with a number. This was apparently their campsite.
Connie swung the pack off of her aching shoulders and tried to gracefully collapse on the ground, which turned into a half-controlled flop on the grass. They did not cover this in Miss Manners. That was all about walking with a book on your head and using the right fork. Nothing to do with this.
Chris knelt in front of her . "You okay?"
"Fine." she gasped. "Fine. Never better. Fine."
"Why don't you rest for a little while."
"I'm fine, I'm fine." Connie fumbled through her pockets and pulled out a half-crushed granola bar, tearing off the cellophane.
Chris shrugged and began the small mechanics of setting up camp; unpacking the slippery blue nylon tent, unrolling the sleeping bags, fitting rusted metal poles together to create the exoskeleton of what would eventually become their so-called home sweet home. It wasn't a warm evening, but before too long he shed the plaid workshirt he'd been wearing and tossed it aside on top of the packs, revealing a plain white t-shirt underneath that was stuck to his chest with sweat like a second skin.
Connie felt her breath catch in her throat. Ohmygoodness...
His dark hair was wet, swept off his forehead in that state between a curl and a wave. Six feet and four inches of tanned skin and the muscles brought on from spending his childhood on a ranch, jeans hanging off slender hips and held in place with a faded leather belt. All that was missing was the hat and boots; he had the grace and ease of a cowboy that had cut his teeth on campfire bread and grew up with lariats for toys.
That was why she was doing this.
Right. Hopefully her feet would eventually recover from their beating, otherwise she was going to have a hard time chasing him.
* * *
It was several hours before she realized there was something missing in the equation. There had been dinner - some strange meat thing on a stick that was similar to a hamburger - and there had been dessert - melty marshmallow and chocolate things that almost made up for the hike and actually made Chris look at her as though she was on crack when she confessed to never having had these before. Apparently they were standard camping food, and she had to make some speedy backpedaling lie by making up a sibling's chocolate allergy.
This really wasn't going well at all. And to make matters worse, she realized that there was absolutely nothing even faintly resembling a bathroom for about eight miles. She struggled to her feet, blisters protesting as the raw skin rubbed against her boots, and staggered off toward the woods.
It got dark fairly quickly here; fifteen steps in any direction from the fire and she was plunged into disorienting total blackness. Night had always carried with it the familiar lights of stores and streetlamps; here there was nothing more than the Brave Little Flashlight and the dim yellow-red ashes of their dying fire. Even the stars were hiding behind the trees. Oh well, at least no one would be around to see anything. Her poor sainted grandmother would probably have a heart attack if she ever found out that Connie, like the proverbial bear, did in fact shit in the woods; poor Gran would up and clutch her chest and genteelly keel over, the only sign of discord being the slightest spot of cream tea on her antique lace tablecloth.
As she tucked in her shirt again and struggled to her feet, the weak beam of light caught on ... a bright-eyed, curious something.
It was silent enough that the echoes of her own scream bounced and wove between the trees, and before the air fell entirely quiet again Chris was there with his arms wrapped around her, comforting and silent.
"T-th-there was a - a wolf, or something." she sobbed, burying her face in his chest and pointing with the flashlight.
He stroked her shoulders for a moment, smoothing the tension away, and then began peering around in the dark with his own flashlight, scanning the ground. Something caught his attention; he knelt in the heavy clay for a moment and then turned, getting to his feet.
"Raccoon."
Connie sighed, burying her face in her hands for a moment; when she spoke again it was slowly, distinctly. "I ... have never been camping in my life. I lied. I'm sorry. I ... just wanted to spend some time with you."
"I know." he replied simply.
"You do?"
Chris took her hand in his and started leading her back to camp.
"How did you know?"
A flicker of light from the fire caught his eyes, amused and dark. "No one except a novice would ever think of wearing brand new hiking boots on a trip. You probably have blisters."
"I think my feet are blisters." Connie laughed ruefully as she collapsed on the cool dirt floor. "God, I'm so stupid."
He shook his head, a whisper of a smile on his face as he took one of her feet in his lap and started carefully unlacing her boots. Methodically peeling away the cute too-flimsy socks with flowers, he caressed the sole of her foot gently with the wide flat of his calloused hand.
Connie sighed and fell back onto the dirt, staring up at the dark, fluttering leaves, watching the smoke drift in trails and patterns across the sky. "It's a beautiful night."
Chris, as usual, had no reply.
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