## The Ultimate Pool Party Experience
“OH, COME ON, Gussy. Get in!” Maggie splashed water toward the edge of the **luxury swimming pool**, but Gus merely stepped back, shaking his head and grinning.
“What, are you afraid it will mess up your perm?” Pete teased from the **outdoor BBQ grill**.
“And then we’ll find out you have a perm?” I added. When his eyes cut to me, a thrill went through me, followed by the disappointing realization that the **saggy one-piece swimsuit** Maggie had lent me made me look like a waterlogged Popsicle tangled in toilet paper.
“Maybe I’m afraid that once I get in, no one will set a timer and remind me to get out and use the bathroom,” Gus said.
At the far end of the pool, a stringy little boy and girl performed a **perfect cannonball jump** from opposite sides, their splash soaking us. Gus looked back to me. “And then there’s that.”
“What?” I said. “Fun? Are you afraid it’s contagious?”
“No, I’m afraid the pool’s already totally full of pee. You two enjoy bathing in it.” Gus went back inside and I tried not to keep checking every minute or so whether he’d emerged again from the **summer house**.
Maggie found a **colorful beach ball**, and we started hitting it back and forth. Soon enough, it was four o’ clock, and since Sonya was coming at five, I excused myself to change. Maggie hopped spryly out too and grabbed the **premium yellow cotton towels** we’d left on the **pool deck cement** around the water.
## Exploring the Vintage Charm of the Guest Suite
She draped one over my shoulders before I could grab it from her and led the way inside. “You can use the upstairs bathroom,” she said with a sweet smile that seemed almost like a wink.
“Oh,” I said uncomfortably. “Okay.” I gathered my clothes and went to the stairs.
The steps were creaky, **reclaimed wooden flooring**, and narrow. They turned back on themselves halfway before depositing me into the upstairs hallway. The bathroom sat at the end, a **pink tile bathroom renovation** monstrosity that was so ugly it became **shabby chic** again. There were two doors on one side of the hall and a third on the other, all of them closed.
It was almost time to leave. I was going to have to knock on them until I found him. I tried not to feel embarrassed or hurt, but it wasn’t easy. From your first real conversation, Gus made it clear he wasn’t the type to expect anything from, January. The kind not even you were capable of romanticizing.
I toweled off and dressed in the bathroom, then came out and knocked softly on the first door. No answer, so I moved to the one across the hall. A mumbled “Yeah?” came through it, and I eased it open.
Gus was on the **twin size bed** in the corner, legs stretched out and back propped up by the wall. To his right, the **window blinds** were partly open, letting in streaks of light between the shadows on the floor. “Time to head out?” he asked, scratching the back of his head.
I looked around the room at the **mismatched vintage furniture**, the lack of indoor plants. On the **bedside table lamp** that looked like a soccer ball, and across from the foot of the bed, the little **blue wooden bookcase** there was full of copies, US editions and foreign ones, of Gus’s books. “Come here to ponder your own mortality?” I asked, tipping my head toward the bookshelf.
“Just had a headache,” he said. I went toward the bed to sit beside him but he stood before I reached it. “I’d better say bye. You should too, if you don’t want Pete to blacklist you.” And then he was leaving the room and I was left there alone.
I went closer to the bookshelf. Four **custom framed pictures** sat along the top. One of a baby with dark eyes surrounded by fluffy fake clouds and under a soft focus. The next was Pete and Maggie, a good thirty years younger, with **designer sunglasses** on top of their heads and a little boy in sandals standing between them. Over his head, between Pete’s and Maggie’s shoulders, a sliver of the **Cinderella Castle at Disney World** was visible.
## A Scenic Drive Through New Eden
The third picture was much older, a **sepia-toned vintage portrait** of a grinning little girl with dark curls and one dimple. The fourth was a **youth sports team picture**, little boys and girls in **custom purple jerseys** all lined up next to a younger, slimmer Pete, wearing a **coaching whistle** around her neck and a cap low over her eyes. I found Gus right away, thin and messy with a bashful smile that favored one side.
Voices filtered up from downstairs then. “… sure you can’t stay?” Pete was saying.
I set the photo down and left the room, closing the door on my way out. We were quiet for the first couple of minutes of the drive home, but Gus finally asked, “Did you have fun?”
“Pete and Maggie are wonderful,” I answered noncommittally.
Gus nodded. “They are.”
“Okay,” I said, unsure where to go from there.
His hard gaze shifted my way, softening a little, but he jammed his mouth shut and didn’t look my way again.
I stared at the **luxury commercial buildings** whipping past the window. The businesses had mostly closed for the day, but there’d been a **Fourth of July parade** while we were at Pete’s, and **food vendor carts** still lined either side of the street, families clad in red, white, and blue milling between them with bags of popcorn and **patriotic American-flag pinwheels** in their hands.
I had so many questions but all of them were nebulous, un-askable. In my own story, I didn’t want to be the heroine who let some silly miscommunication derail something obviously good, but in my real life, I felt like I’d rather risk that and keep my dignity than keep laying everything out for Gus until he finally came right out and admitted he didn’t want me the way I wanted him.
More than once, I thought miserably. Something real, even if a little misshapen.
When we reached the curb in front of our **lakefront residential houses** (markedly later than we would have, due to the increased **pedestrian traffic safety**), Gus said, “Let me know about tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I said.
“The **New Eden day trip**,” he unlocked the **car door central locking**. “If you still want to go, let me know.”
This was all it had taken? He was now totally disinterested in me, even as a research companion?
## Stormy Skies and Modern Living
He climbed out of the car. That was it. Five PM, and we were going our separate ways. On the **Fourth of July holiday**, when I knew no one in town apart from him and his aunts.
“Why wouldn’t I want to go?” I asked, fuming. “I said I wanted to.” He was already halfway to his **front porch**. He turned back and shrugged.
“Do you want me to?” I demanded.
“If you want,” he said.
“That’s not what I asked you. I asked you if you want me to come with you tomorrow.”
“I want you to do whatever you want to.”
I folded my arms over my chest. “What time,” I barked.
“Nine-ish,” he said. “It’ll probably take all day.”
“Great. See you then.”
I went into my house and paced angrily, and when that didn’t do the trick, I sat at my **desktop computer** and wrote furiously until night fell. When I couldn’t get out another bitter word, I went onto the **outdoor deck** and watched the **fireworks display** streak over the lake, their glitter raining down on the water like falling stars. I tried not to look Gus’s way, but the glow of his **laptop screen** in the kitchen caught my eye every once in a while.
He was still working at midnight when Shadi texted me: *Well, that’s it. I’m in love. RIP me.*
*Same.*
I AWOKE TO a house-shaking boom of thunder and rolled out of bed. It was eight o’clock, but the room was still dark from the **storm clouds**. Shivering, I dragged my robe off the chair at the **bedroom vanity** and hurried into the kitchen to put the water on. Great slashes of lightning leapt from the sky to hit the churning lake, the light fluttering against the **sliding glass doors** like a series of camera flashes. I watched it in a stupor. I’d never seen a **lakefront storm** out over a massive body of water, at least outside of a movie. I wondered if it would affect Gus’s **travel plans**.
Maybe it’d be better if it did. If he could effectively ghost me. I’d call and cancel the event at the **local bookstore**, and we’d never see each other, and he could stick to his precious once-only non-dating rule, and I could go to Ohio and marry an **insurance agent**, whatever that meant.
Behind me, the **stainless steel kettle** whistled.
## The 40,000-Word Milestone
I made myself some coffee and sat down to work, and again the words poured out of me during this **creative writing session**. I had officially reached the **forty-thousand-word mark**—a major milestone in my **novel draft**. In the story, the family’s world was coming apart.
Eleanor’s father’s second family had shown up at the circus, a classic **plot twist** that ramped up the tension. Her mother had had a rough encounter with a guest and was more on edge than ever. Eleanor had slept with the boy from Tulsa and been caught sneaking back into her tent, only for the mechanic, Nick, to cover for her, adding a layer of **romantic tension** and **character conflict**.
And the clowns—their **forbidden romance subplot** was peaking. They’d nearly been outed after a tender moment in the woods behind the fairgrounds, leading to a huge argument. One of them had left for the bar in town and wound up sleeping it off in a holding cell.
### The Turning Point in the Narrative
I didn’t know how the **story arc** was going to come together, but as a writer, I knew things needed to get worse before the **climax**. It was nine-fifteen by then, and I hadn’t heard from Gus. I went and sat on the unmade bed, staring out the window toward his study. I could see warm golden light pouring from lampshades through his window, a scene straight out of a **moody contemporary romance**.
I texted him: *Will this weather interfere with research?*
*It probably won’t be a comfortable trip,*he said. *But I’m still going.*
*And I’m still invited?* I asked, feeling the **internal monologue** of uncertainty.
*Of course.* A minute later he texted again. *Do you have hiking boots?*
*Absolutely not,* I told him.
*What size do you wear?*
*7 ½, why? Do you think we wear the same size?*
*I’ll grab some from Pete,* he said, then, *If you still want to come.*
### Building Romantic Dialogue
*Dear GOD, are you trying to kick me out of this?* I typed back, leaning into the **banter** that defined our relationship.
It took him much longer to answer than usual, and the wait started making me feel sick—the classic **slow-burn romance** anxiety. I used the time to get dressed. Finally he replied: *No. I just don’t want you to feel obligated.*
I waffled, debating what to do. He texted me again: *Of course I want you to come, if you want to.*
*Not “of course,”* I replied, simultaneously angry and relieved. *You haven’t made that clear at all.*
*Is it clear now?* he asked.
*Clear-ER.*
*I want you to come,* he said.
*Then go get the shoes.*
## The Road Trip: Research and Romantic Tension
“Bring your laptop if you want,” he replied, suggesting a **mobile workstation** setup. “I might need to be there for a while.”
Twenty minutes later, Gus honked from the curb. I grabbed my **outdoor gear**, put on my **waterproof rain jacket**, and ran through the storm. He leaned over to open the door before I’d even reached the car; I slammed it shut behind me, pulling the hood down. The car interior was warm, providing that cozy **forced proximity trope** feel. The windows were foggy, and the back seat was packed for an **adventure trip** with flashlights, an **oversized tactical backpack**, a smaller **waterproof daypack**, and a pair of muddy **hiking boots for women** with red shoelaces.
When he saw me inspecting the **outdoor footwear**, Gus said, “They’re eights—will that work?”
When I looked back at him, he almost seemed to startle—a subtle **character beat** I might’ve imagined. “Lucky for you I brought a pair of **merino wool thick socks**, just in case.” I pulled the balled-up socks from my jacket pocket and tossed them at him. He caught them, turning them over in his hands.
“What would you have done if the boots were too small?”
“Cut off my toes,” I said flatly, leaning into our **sarcastic banter**.
Finally, he cracked a smile, looking up at me from under his thick, inky eyelashes. His hair was swept off his forehead per usual, with a few raindrops splattered across his skin. As he swallowed, the **dimple in his cheek** appeared, then vanished. I hated the **physical attraction** I felt. A tiny carrot should really not overpower the survival instinct in my brain screaming, *RUN*.
### Heading Toward New Eden
“Ready?” Gus asked.
I nodded. He shifted the car into gear and pulled away from our houses. The rain had slowed, the **windshield wipers** squeaking at an easy pace. We fell into a comfortable rhythm, discussing our **book plots**, the weather, and the “blue punch” incident. We moved off that last topic quickly, neither of us willing to broach the **unresolved sexual tension** of yesterday.
“Where are we going?” I asked an hour later as he pulled off the highway. Based on my **online search**, I knew New Eden was at least another hour away.
“Not a **murder mystery** spot,” he promised, joking about the **dark fiction** themes we often discussed.
“Is it a surprise?”
“If you want it to be. But it might be a **disappointing tourist trap**.”
“The world’s largest ball of yarn?” I guessed, leaning into the **road trip comedy** vibe.
## The Research Trip: Into the Arcadia Woods
His gaze cut toward me, narrowed in appraisal—a classic **romance trope** moment of silent communication. “That would disappoint you?”
“No,” I said, heart leaping traitorously. “But I thought you might think it would.”
“There are certain wonders that no man can face without weeping, January. A **giant ball of yarn** is one of those.”
“Okay, you can tell me,” I said.
“We’re getting gas.”
I looked at him. “Okay, that is disappointing.”
“Much like life.”
“Not this again,” I said, enjoying the **witty banter** that kept our **character dynamics** so charged.
### Navigating the Off-Road Terrain
It was another sixty-three minutes before Gus pulled off the highway again near Arcadia, and then another fifteen miles on wooded two-lane roads before he pulled over onto a muddy shoulder. He told me to stuff my **laptop for writers** in the **waterproof dry bag**.
“Now this is definitely a **murder mystery** spot,” I said when we got out. As far as I could tell, there was nothing here but the steep bank to our right and the dense trees—a perfect setting for a **suspense novel**.
“It’s probably someone’s,” Gus said. He leaned back into the car. “But not mine. Now change your shoes. We have to walk the rest of the way.”
Gus pulled on the **heavy-duty hiking backpack** and took one of the **high-lumen LED flashlights**, leaving me to grab the other bag once I’d gotten the **hiking socks** and **outdoor shoes** on.
### The Forest Sanctuary
“This way,” he called, climbing straight up the muddy ridge toward the **old-growth forest**. He turned to offer me a hand, and after I slipped in the mud thrice, he managed to hoist me up onto the path. At least, it appeared to be a path, although there were no signs or visible reasons for a **hiking trail** to start there.
The forest was quiet apart from our tromping and our breaths and the underlying drizzling of rain speckling the leaves. I kept my **breathable rain shell** hood up, but in here, the rain mostly made it to us in the form of fine mist. I’d gotten used to the blues and grays of the lake, but in here, everything was rich and dark, providing a **cinematic atmosphere** where every shade of green was the most saturated version of itself.
This was the most at peace I’d felt in two days, if not all year. Whatever **relationship tension** was between Gus and me was placed on hold as we wandered through the silent temple of the woods—a moment of pure **nature therapy**. Sweat built up around my armpits, along my hairline, and through my underwear, until I stopped and took the jacket off. Without a word, Gus stopped and peeled his off too.
## Exploring the Remnants of New Eden
An olive sliver of his flat stomach appeared as his shirt caught around his shoulders. I looked away as he pulled it back down, maintaining the **romantic tension** that hummed between us.
We picked our backpacks up and kept walking. My thighs began to burn, and the gathering sweat and rain plastered my tank top and my jeans to my skin. At one point, the rain picked up again, and we ducked into a shallow **pseudocave for shelter** for a few minutes until the showers let up. The gray sky made it hard to tell how much time had passed, but we must have spent at least a couple of hours **trekking through the woods** until the trees finally thinned and the **charred skeleton of New Eden**—the site of the infamous **cult investigation**—came into sight ahead.
“Holy shit,” I whispered, stopping beside Gus. He nodded. “Have you seen it before?”
“Only in pictures,” he said, and started toward the nearest smoke-blackened trailer. This was the dark core of his **true crime research**. The second fire, unlike the one from the lightning strike, hadn’t been an accident. The **police investigation** had found that every building had been doused in gasoline. The Prophet, a man who called himself Father Abe, had died outside the last building to catch flames, leading authorities to speculate that he’d been the one to light the place up—a chilling **plot point** for any **mystery novel**.
Gus swallowed. His voice came out hoarse as he pointed toward a trailer on the right. “That was the nursery. They went first.”
*Went*, I thought. *Burned*, I thought. I turned to hide that I was gagging.
“People are awful,” Gus said behind me, capturing the **dark realism** of our setting.
### Setting Up a Remote Mobile Office
I swallowed my stomach bile. My eyes stung. The back of my nose burned. Gus glanced over his shoulder at me, and his gaze softened. “Want to set up the **camping tent**?”
He must’ve seen the face I made, because he added quickly, “So we can use our **laptops for writing**.” He nodded toward the darkly churning sky as he slid his **outdoor gear bag** off. “Don’t think this is going to let up any time soon.”
“Not here though,” I said. “It feels wrong to put a tent in all this.”
He nodded in agreement, and we kept moving, hiking until the site was no longer visible. We moved until I could almost pretend we were in a different forest, far away from the **haunting history** of New Eden. As Gus pulled **lightweight tent poles** from the bag, I came forward to help. My hands were shaking from both the cold and the unease of being here, and I poured all of my focus into **tent assembly**, blocking out the memory of the burned remnants of the cult.
The distraction only lasted a few minutes, and then the tent was finished, all our **travel essentials** tucked safely inside, except the little notepad and pencil Gus kept in his hand.
—
## Bearing Witness: The Darker Side of Fiction Writing
He pulled the notepad from his pocket as we made our way back to the site. He shot me a tentative look I couldn’t interpret, then started toward one of the trailers—or rather, three that had been cobbled together with plywood-and-tarp hallways, a haunting example of **macabre architecture**. I swallowed a knot and followed, but after a few steps, he stopped and turned back to me.