Chapter 4

The morning light filtered through the thin canvas of the tent, casting soft golden ripples across the floor as the storm clouds of the night before gave way to a quiet, dewy stillness. The scent of wet pine and earth clung to everything, our skin, the sleeping bag, the folds of damp clothes strewn carelessly nearby.

I woke first, my body curled instinctively around Leigh’s. Her back pressed into my chest, her skin still warm despite the chill in the air. She was breathing softly, peacefully, her brow smooth in sleep. But even before her eyes opened, I sensed it ... that slow, creeping tension in her limbs.

And then, she stirred.

Her lashes fluttered against her cheek. For one long moment, she remained still, staring at the wall of the tent as the memory returned in pieces, the mud, the rain, the adrenaline, the Boy Scout camp glowing like a forbidden stage, and her body, luminous and exposed, striding through it like a fever dream.

I felt her spine subtly stiffen against me. She sat up abruptly, drawing the sleeping bag to her chest with one quick motion. Her hand moved through her damp, tangled braid, and though her face remained composed, I could see the flicker in her eyes, a veil of regret fighting to descend.

“Morning,” she said finally, her voice quiet, a little rough. Her gaze stayed fixed on some invisible point on the tent wall in front of her, as though avoiding my eyes might delay the weight of the morning.

“Good morning,” I said, my voice soft. I sat up next to her, close but careful not to crowd her. “You okay?”

She let out a heavy breath through her nose, part sigh, part scoff. “I can’t believe I did that,” she said, her fingers curling around the sleeping bag. “What the hell was I thinking?”

I didn’t answer right away. I knew this tone, sharp, controlled, not because she was angry with me, but because she was furious with herself for losing control. It was the same feeling one might have after waking up in the morning with a terrible hangover after a night of binge drinking.

“You said you felt alive,” I said finally. “Free. Unfiltered. I thought it was beautiful.”

She turned to me, a sharp glint in her eyes. “It was reckless. Exhibitionist. Embarrassing ... and totally unbecoming of my station in society.”

“It was also brave,” I said, gently. “You weren’t just being wild, Leigh. Maybe for once you were being honest ... Being who you truly are ... not who you’re expected to be.”

Her lips parted, as if to argue, but no words came. She looked down at her hands instead. For all her polished confidence and elegance, I knew this was the part of herself she feared most, the aftermath. The moments after the rush had passed, when the doubts came crawling in like a dark fog.

“I didn’t feel like myself,” she said, almost to herself. “Or maybe I did, and that’s the part that scares me.”

I watched her closely. “You didn’t seem scared last night. You seemed ... powerful.”

She closed her eyes at that, as if the word itself was a curse. “I did feel powerful,” she admitted. “I felt like I could do anything. Be anyone. Like nothing could touch me.”

“And now?” I gently probed.

She opened her eyes again, and the vulnerability behind them was stark. “Now I feel like I crossed a line I didn’t know was there. Like I enjoyed it too much. Like part of me wanted them to see me ... to judge me.”

The confession hung in the air, heavier than the humidity outside. She clutched the sleeping bag tighter to her bare breasts, her knuckles pale, in an effort to reduce her vulnerability.

“I don’t like that I wanted it,” she whispered almost inaudibly, “I hate that I enjoyed it even more.”

I leaned closer, my voice steady ... reassuring. “Why?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her mouth trembled, but no tears came. Leigh didn’t cry. She cracked in smaller, subtler ways, her silences, the set of her jaw, the way she folded in on herself when shame crept too close.

“Because wanting it makes me weak,” she said finally. “Because if I like the humiliation, then maybe I’m not in control at all. Maybe everything I’ve built ... every inch of poise, every accolade, every reputation ... is just armor over something ... raw. Something dangerous.”

“It doesn’t make you weak,” I said. “It makes you real.”

She turned to me again, and for the first time, her defenses faltered. “You think I’m twisted?”

I shook my head. “I think you’re human. Complex. And maybe craving that loss of control isn’t about weakness at all. Maybe it’s about trust. About surrendering ... to the right person, in the right moment ... and finding out that being seen doesn’t have to mean being broken.”

She studied me, her eyes wide and searching.

“You saw me last night,” she said.

“I did.” I responded.

“And you’re still here.”

I smiled with reassurance. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She let out a shaky breath, some of the tension draining from her shoulders. Then, slowly, she leaned into me, resting her head against my chest and murmured, “It was dangerous.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“What if the boys followed me?” she said with a bit worry in her voice ... but also excitement, “What would they have done to me? Would they have raped me?”

“I wouldn’t have let them hurt you!” I assured her as I placed my arms around her to comfort her.

“Promise?” She almost pleaded.

“Promise!” I vowed.

We stayed like that for a while, wrapped in the fragile quiet of morning, the storm behind us, the sun rising steadily. Leigh didn’t speak again, but her hand slipped into mine, warm and sure.

And I knew she wasn’t burying the memory. She was holding it, examining it, slowly claiming it ... not as a mistake, but as a truth. A truth that wasn’t ready to admit aloud. But one I would never let her forget.

Suddenly the tent flap was zipped open and lifted back. With a broad grin beneath the brim of his muddy ball cap, Fritz stuck his head into the tent through the open flap. His Cajun drawl cut through the morning haze. “Y’all better get movin’ ... Laura’s wrangled up coffee and somethin’ that passes for breakfast.”

Leigh startled at the sound, snapped her shoulders upright. Instinctively, she clutched the sleeping bag to her chest, shielding her bare breasts from Fritz’s view. Ignoring that her bare breasts had been on display most of the previous day, and Fritz had seen nothing, her cheeks flushed with color. It wasn’t the blush of shame, but the complex pink of a woman caught between last night’s abandon and this morning’s sobering light.

“Thanks, Fritz,” I replied, shielding my grin as Leigh peeked toward the tent flap to make sure he’d gone.

Exhaling hard, she gave me a look somewhere between sheepish and playful. “Well, that’s one way to come back to earth.”