Don’t go online.
The first message, a few days after the camping trip, is from Lucy, but it’s followed by messages from Rachel, Jessa, Mari, Kane, Barb, Geneva, and even my brother Shane.
Oh, shit.
So, what do I do?
I go online, of course.
Human nature, man; it sucks. It sucks to the tune of hundreds of Instagram notifications and quite a few DMs.
Bear posted a video.
I don’t think he meant to be a total and complete dick, but… well, he’s managed it anyway.
In the video, he’s sitting by himself by the campfire. The camera is stationary, as if it’s on a stand, so I’m guessing Cypress had gone to bed. It must have been recorded after Easton and I crept back to the tent together.
He’s drinking from a flask, which he raises to the viewer. “Single malt scotch,” he says. “Oban. Extra peaty. Good for pity parties.”
Because of the volume of comments and DMs, because of my friends’ messages, I’m pretty sure I know where this is going, but my stomach still drops like I’m in a faulty elevator.
“Tough week, guys. Hanna told me she’s not interested in taking things further.”
Giving him the maximum benefit of the doubt, he must have felt he had to let his viewers know he and I weren’t going to be a thing, and thought this would be a good way to do it.
But holy shit, if he didn’t foresee what would happen next, he’s either an idiot or an asshole.
Right now, I’m voting for both.
Bear carries on with a sorrowful bite of his lip. “And I’m just super bummed out about it. You know when you meet someone who just feels so perfect for you?”
He gives the camera a woeful glance. “I mean, she’s cute, she’s smart, she’s at home in the woods, and she loves to eat even more than I do. I know I’ll get over this, but… it just hurts right now, not gonna lie. So, if you’re out there, having a tough night, too, just know I feel you.”
And he signs off, with another wry, sad smile, and tip of his flask.
I can only imagine how many women just slid into his DMs to tell him they feel his pain.
Meanwhile, in the comments… and in my DMs…
Oh, shit.
Well, you know the drill. I won’t recap. His viewers pick on my pixie haircut and weight, they hate on my fashion choices, and they berate me for thinking I can do better than Bear, when Bear is so obviously waaaay above my pay grade.
Don’t pay any attention to them.
Stop reading!
Stop… stop… stop.
But I can’t look away. It’s the sickest form of FOMO, not wanting the rest of the world to know what’s being said about me if I don’t.
Even if I really, really don’t want to know.
I read until I can’t breathe and my eyes burn, and then I throw my phone down on the couch. I wedge my feet into my sneakers and let the front door shut behind me. There’s only one place I want to go when I feel like this, and that’s down to the edge of the river that runs along our property line.
It’s where I’ve always gone when things are tough, where I went the day of my mom’s funeral when I had to get away from all the people and their concern and questions. It’s where I ran when my brothers teased and taunted and pushed me to the outside of their impenetrable boy circle, and when the girls in school teased and taunted and pushed me to the outside of their closed girl world.
And today, it’s where I go to escape my ugly fifteen minutes of unearned, unwanted fame, since I’m definitely not an Internet “it” girl. I’m an Internet “out” girl.
I don’t want to give a shit. About any of it. I’ve spent my life learning how not to give a shit.
I’m a pro by now.
I bend, pick up a stone, skip it.
The water’s high this year—lots of snow melt—very different from the drought year when my mother died. With the water rushing, it’s hard to see what happens to the stone, how many times it bounces before it sinks.
I’m not sure how long I stand there, skipping stones, trying to trace their trajectory across the surface, feeling my heartbeat slowly ease back to normal, before I hear footsteps behind me. I don’t have to look to know it’s Easton; he’s the only one who’d look for me down here. He comes up beside me. Squats.
“Don’t,” I say.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t give me a stone. I’ll just brain you with it.”
A small laugh huffs out of him. Just the sound of it makes me feel a little better.
He does it anyway, searching in the dirt for one he likes and pressing it into my palm. I rub my fingers over it, testing it; it’s the perfect worry stone. I slide it into my pocket and hold out my hand for another.
“What, doesn’t meet your standards?”
I don’t tell him it’s too perfect to skip. I just shake my hand impatiently until he presses another stone into it. I release it and watch it skid and bounce over the water’s surface.
He picks one up and skips it so it follows a few steps behind mine—before they both disappear under the surface.
We do it for a few more minutes, until the sting slowly starts to go out of all those strangers’ words.
The feel of him next to me is safety and belonging.
I want to tell him that, but I can’t imagine doing so, because even hearing the words in my head is scary. Like by thinking them I’ve made them true, and by making them true, I’ve dared the universe to take them away from me.