The Truth About the Wolf
& Little Red
It was cold. I mean, really cold. Like, my balls had withdrawn deep into my belly seeking shelter kind of cold. If I had balls, anyway. A cricket chirped at my side, making me jump.
I hate camping.
“Hey, Em, you doing okay?” Jason asked by my side. He wrapped his arm around me, pulling me in closer to his warmth. Logs shifted and crackled in front of us, sparks disappearing as they danced their way up into the night air. Outside the light of the fire, darkness enveloped everything else in its impenetrable embrace.
The two other guys snickered. I was the only girlfriend who thought she’d enjoy camping, I guess. But the last time I’d gone camping was over a decade ago when I was nine and my dad did all the hard work and made it seem fun. Besides, I wanted to prove I was the cool girlfriend who enjoyed the activity. I could have killed Jason now for suggesting the trip in November, a month known in the desert for its wildly fluctuating temperatures.
What the fuck was I thinking?
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