Backwoods by Jill Sorenson

every morsel to comply with her “leave no trace” philosophy. Leo had no problem with that; he devoured his meal. For dessert, they drank vanilla mint chai from camp cups. It was a nice dinner.
    Leo still felt uneasy about the thieves, and he wasn’t proud of punching his dad or throwing up in the bushes. But he couldn’t remember the last time he’d shared a comfortable evening with family. He also hadn’t spent more than a few hours without his cell phone or gone to bed sober in weeks.
    “Do you want me to take first watch?” he asked his dad.
    “No. I’ll do it.”
    “Okay,” he said, stretching his arms over his head. “Wake me up at midnight or whenever you get tired.”
    “Don’t worry about it.”
    “What do you mean?”
    His dad just stared at him.
    “You don’t trust me to do it right?”
    “Should I?”
    Leo stiffened at the insult. He still had a bag of weed in his backpack and he wanted to smoke it. Even so, his dad’s lack of confidence bothered him. It hurt to be treated like a loser who had nothing to contribute.
    Clenching his hands into fists, he retreated to the tent and took off his shoes. Camping sucked. He couldn’t escape. He didn’t have any rolling papers. Hiking, swimming and exploring had sapped his strength.
    Taking off his jacket, he bunched it up behind his head to use as a pillow. His shorts were dry and comfortable enough to sleep in, so he didn’t bother to change before he slipped inside the sleeping bag.
    A few minutes later, someone walked by with a flashlight and went inside the other tent. Leo straightened, looking through the mesh window. Less than ten feet of space separated the two tents. It was Brooke, judging by the outline of her body. She tugged her shirt over her head and removed her bikini top. He couldn’t see anything, but his imagination supplied the details. After she wrestled into warmer clothing, he settled back down on the sleeping pad, wincing when it made a squeaky noise.
    Instead of staying inside her tent, she crawled out and approached his. “Leo? Are you awake?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Can I come in?”
    “Sure.”
    She unzipped the front of the tent and climbed in with him. She was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jogging pants. Her flashlight was really a headlamp, attached to her forehead as if she was going caving. She’d probably been caving. She was that kind of girl. She was also the kind of girl who said whatever popped into her mind, so he figured he’d have to listen to her opine on his relationship with his father. First, she got cozy in the available sleeping bag.
    “He’s doing the best he can,” she said quietly.
    “His best sucks.”
    “At least he’s trying.”
    “Trying to do what, tear me down?”
    “He wants to fix things between you.”
    “He wants to fix me . He thinks I’m a fuckup, and he can’t stand weakness or failure. His mission in life is to criticize everything I do.”
    “Do you expect him to pat you on the back for smoking pot?”
    “I expect him to mind his own business.”
    “Give him a break.”
    Brooke didn’t understand the history between them. His dad had started drinking after his career hit the skids. He was even more critical of himself than he was of Leo. He’d been emotionally unavailable for years.
    Now that he was sober and successful again, he thought he could just waltz back into the picture. It was almost as if Leo was a game and his dad had signed on for extra innings. His motivations were self-serving; he didn’t like to lose.
    “He asked me if I was gay once,” Leo said.
    Brooke adjusted the light on her forehead, smiling. “It’s not an insult.”
    “Yes, it is.”
    “Why would he think that?”
    “I was never good at competitive sports, but he kept making me try out. One of the kids on the soccer field called me a faggot because I was scared of the ball. He didn’t say it very loud, but I heard it and so did my dad. After the game, he got really serious and sat me