Feeling proud of myself—and needing to document this triumph before the tent inevitably collapses—I grab my phone and snap a selfie in front of it, slightly flushed, slightly sweaty, but successful.
I open the messaging app and fire off the evidence.
Me
Behold! The Queen of Camping has arrived.
A reply comes almost immediately.
Theo
You actually put the tent up in your flat?
Me
And I did a mighty fine job, I’d like to add.
Theo
I would’ve paid good money to watch this happen in real-time.
Me
Rude. This was a flawless operation.
Theo
There’s a footstool trapped inside.
I glance at the pouffe, very visible through the opening of the tent. Fine. Maybe not entirely flawless.
Me
It’s part of the aesthetic. Rustic. Homely. A modern take on outdoor living.
Theo
Right. And where exactly are your tent pegs secured?
I bite my lip, staring at the four guy ropes currently looped around my radiator, the leg of my sofa, and—regrettably—a dining chair that now looks like it might tip over at any second.
Me
Don’t worry about it.
Theo
Oh, I’m definitely worried.
I smirk, flopping onto the sofa, my phone resting on my stomach.
This… this is easy.
The way we talk, the way we are, it’s natural. Friends. Always friends. And yet, my mind flickers back to the hot tub. That almost moment, the way the air felt different between us, the way his eyes had lingered just a little too long.
Then there was Pee-Pee, telling me maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if I did date… once the ban is over, of course. That I had learned things about myself now, that I wasn’t just reacting to loneliness anymore.
But Theo hasn’t indicated anything. No shift, no change—except, maybe, in the way he worries.
