His Counterfeit Campfire Bride by Gwen Hayes
“It’s my heart defect then. Miguel, it’s not a big deal.”
“I just think we’re getting too cozy. All this forced togetherness. We’re really good at what we do, and we are selling the hell out of this marriage. But we need to make sure we don’t become our target consumer, you know?”
She balked. “You think I can’t tell the difference between what is real and what is fantasy.”
No. He was pretty sure that he was the one who couldn’t tell. “You’re getting uppity again.”
“Uppity?” Most women would have screeched the question. Not his wife. No, her voice was cool, polished. Icy. “I see.”
She wrapped the sheet around herself and walked coolly to the bathroom. She didn’t slam the door. No. Just a quiet snick of the lock. And then the shower started. She was washing him off of her.
Miguel sat on the bed, not sure how things had gotten so out of control. This wasn’t like him. And putting it all back on her was a total dick move.
A real man would apologize. Would not make her feel at fault or self-conscious about her health. A real man would do a lot of things that Miguel hadn’t been able to do. Sera wasn’t the only one with a heart defect.
“I’m so sorry, Sera,” he said, even though she couldn’t hear him. “I don’t have the heart to love you.”
THERE WAS PEACE IN A certain kind of numbness.
Sera found it as she surveyed their shared cabin and realized Miguel had packed and was gone.
The numbing started as an icy cold pain, but working like Novocain, the pain soon blurred into a fuzzy sensation in her chest.
She’d nearly lost her heart to him, hadn’t she?
Sera sank into the chair where she’d sat when they first masterminded their marriage campaign. It was only a few days ago. Less than a week. How had everything changed so much that nothing was different now?
She was alone. As alone as she’d been when they’d gotten here.
Miguel hadn’t changed either. He was just as unpredictable and unreliable as the man she knew from the city. It was her own fault she’d bought into their marketing. Damn, he was good, wasn’t he? He should have won the director position. She didn’t have half his talent for effective promotional message delivery.
He’d sold her a concept. Instead of pitching to the camp staff—he’d made her the lead influencer. When she bought in, everyone else would follow, right?
And boy, she’d bought in. She wanted to be Mrs. Miguel because Mrs. Miguel wasn’t lonely. She didn’t have to worry about everything all by herself. She had a partner. For the first time since she was a child, she didn’t have to carry all the responsibility. Her life, the fictional woman they’d made up, was simple and happy. Her husband adored her. What had he said? He couldn’t wait to come home to her.
They were going to raise agnostic heathens together.
The first tear came when she realized that the kitchen renovations they’d planned while sitting in a canoe today were never going to happen. She was never going to have a dog like Fido. What would she do with a dog right now? She worked ten and twelve-hour days and lived alone.
Pull yourself together.
The ice princess he’d accused her of being so many times would not cry over a fictional life. She was smart and practical. Somehow, she had to pull this one out of the campfire—just because he’d left didn’t mean she couldn’t win the grand prize.
It was almost time for the pre-dinner cocktail hour. She’d walk in with her head held high. No one would see her upset. Miguel...she’d say he had a business emergency in the city. She was staying behind to relax and read and enjoy the last day of their vacation. No sense in both of them paying for airline ticket changes.
She splashed cold water on her face. Skipped the flannel shirt he’d left in the closet for her, putting on her own instead.
She looked at her ring finger. Tomorrow night, she could move the ring back to her right hand. Where it belonged.
She got to the door and stopped, sliding to the floor.
She willed the numbness back. She didn’t want these feelings.
He’d made her believe. Maybe he was right. Maybe she couldn’t tell the difference between reality and fantasy.
Or maybe he’d set her up. Done this on purpose.
She’d never thought him to be mean spirited. Sure there were times when they’d both been devious during the run at the promotion—but they were supposed to be on the same side now at camp.
Nothing made sense. Her heart, the stupid naive thing it was, sank lower as the numbness continued to wear off.
Revenge. That had to be it. He was so upset about not winning the promotion that he’d orchestrated a way to bring her down. It wasn’t about winning the grand prize or convincing everyone they were a happy couple. For Miguel, it had always been about revenge. Getting her in his bed wasn’t enough. He’d wanted her to hurt. To feel things. He calculated every move so carefully. Earned her trust. Made her fall. Held out to her everything she secretly desired. Then yanked it back like a bully and laughed at her.
Her heart was already defective. She’d be damned if she allowed him to break it too.
City Miguel may have bested her this time, but she could grind Camp Miguel into the dust.
She dug through her makeup bag for the first time since they’d gotten to camp. Undid one more button on the shirt. Pocketed a condom from the box he’d left behind.
Tonight, she cheated on her husband.
Chapter Eight
THE COUPLE NEXT TO MIGUEL on the plane that evening was probably in their seventies. They shared a common shorthand language, honed by what was probably years of togetherness. They seemed to have a little ritual for getting settled in their seats. She held his book while he adjusted the pocket in front of him with what he’d need for the flight. Once he was buckled, she had an elaborate tray ritual in which she laid everything out the way she thought it might go after take-off, then rearranged it back into her bag, which her husband held in his lap without being asked. There was passing back and forth of ear plugs, gum, antacids. All without words. He wondered if they ever went on Rediscover Marital Intimacy getaways. Was that a thing a lot of couples did, or was that a product of the times?
If Bria had lived, would she and Miguel go to them? They’d still be together, right?
He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. He was a different Miguel than the one Bria married. He’d splintered, left that kid to stay forever at a funeral for a wife no one knew he had. It had killed him that her maiden name was on the headstone, but he didn’t tell anyone to change it. It probably would have killed her parents more to not have it. There had been enough death already.
Certainly he hadn’t told his family, who had hovered around him nonstop from the funeral through graduation through summer to his first day in the dorm. He’d let them sardine can his life, but never told them how he really was. What he really felt. He shoved it down, stayed quiet, and when they left him on campus, he shed the old kid and became someone new.
Nobody at college had known he’d lost Bria. Nobody knew he had ever thought he’d be a teacher. They didn’t know he had been a quiet kid. That he’d played sports in high school, but didn’t go to parties. That he spent more time with his family than kids his own age. What they did know was that he was always ready for a pickup game. That he was always ready for a beer. A girl. A laugh. He was a popular drunk for the first two years, and after coming close to academic probation, a popular dude who sometimes drank the next two. He turned to business college for the money. Because he wanted to make enough to plant his ass in the sand on a beach when he retired. He’d believed in the Great Cheeseburger in Paradise deity and little else for most of his adult life.
Advertising had been a natural fit for him. It was high energy. Thinking on your feet. It wasn’t structured—until he met Sera anyway.
Sera. Man did he screw that up.
He scrubbed his hands over his face. Monday was going to su
The old woman patted his arm on the rest between them. “You remind me of my grandson.”
“Yeah?” He’d be surprised if he did. The older couple were too Nordic to produce a swarthy Mexican, but she was sweet. Maybe someone in her family married someone tanner. “Why is that?”
“He’s having woman troubles too.”
He raised his eyes at that. “What makes you think I’m—”
“You have the look,” the old guy next to her said. “We’ve seen it a time or two. Six strapping boys and too many grandsons to count.”
“Fourteen and two great-grandchildren,” she answered for him.
“I stand corrected. Not too many to count. But all boys. Lots of women trouble.”
That’s a lot of boys. “How long have you two been married?”
“Fifty-two years.”
“That’s quite an accomplishment.” If half of all marriages end in divorce, what did they do that another couple wouldn’t have? Would he still be married? “I don’t know how you do it.”
They both shrugged. And then the attendant did the safety announcement. And then the plane took off. And then the woman patted his sleeve. “So, the woman trouble?” She led him gently into an answer despite that he didn’t know her.
He spent the flight telling two kindly strangers about Sera, about his teen marriage, about how he ran away from something great because he was too afraid to go through the idea of losing someone again. Therefore—losing her anyway.
The seatbelt lights came on and they announced the plane was getting ready for descent.
The old man leaned over his wife’s lap. “You’re a dumbass, Miguel.”
“Howard!” his wife chastised.
“Well he is. It’s not a secret. He knows it. Look at him.” Howard shook his head. “Nothing is promised. Nothing. Not tomorrow, not ten years from now, not fifty-two years from now. You were a brave kid once—you married that girl knowing exactly what wasn’t promised.”
“I wasn’t brave.” I was naive.
“Of course you were,” Howard said. “The man you are today would have left when that poor girl got diagnosed.”
The words arrowed into his heart. A clean shot. “That’s not true.”
“Sure it is.”
Howard’s wife pat his arm again. “I don’t know what they taught you at your intimacy camping trip, but real intimacy is every day. It’s waking up because your spouse is snoring. It’s pretending to care about baseball scores. It’s grieving together. It’s joy together. It’s not exercises you can practice. You just have to commit to every day. That’s all.”
Was one week enough time to get used to counting on every day? He thought of what it was like to eat every meal with Sera. To wait for her to finish brushing her teeth so he could pee. The mundane parts of living in a small cabin with her.
He’d liked it. “I’m a dumbass.”
“Yep,” Howard added.
Damn it. He was trapped in a tin can in the sky and he had to get back. Now.
Howard and Lynn, he’d finally asked her name, entertained him with stories for the rest of the flight while they circled the runway. Probably to keep him from opening an exit and jumping back to Sera. Their stories were...sometimes boring. He couldn’t wait to bore someone with stories about his life with Sera.
Miguel got off the plane and immediately bought a return ticket. A red-eye back to camp.
That flight he spoke to no one. He just went over the stupid way he’d left camp. What was wrong with him? Howard was right. The Miguel he was at eighteen had a been more of a man than he’d been recently. That kid stood by the person he loved.
Loved.
Yeah.
That.
Miguel wasn’t stupid. He may be hard-headed—he was definitely a dumbass—but he wasn’t stupid. He was in love. He loved Seraphina Worth.
And he’d broken her heart.
She might not give him a second chance. He didn’t deserve one.
So, she would probably tell him no. That was okay. It had to be. He just wouldn’t give up. She wouldn’t expect that. He’d wear her down. He was fairly confident he could. She obviously had feelings for him, despite her better judgment. So, he would just not give up.
He’d finally found something worth fighting for. He was just going to have to show her that he meant to commit to every day.
Love was not going to be easy for him. It would be hard not comparing her heart problems to Bria’s cancer. It would be hard to not slip into fatalist thinking. Or worse, go back to only caring about the moment and never the consequences.
Dude. He had a lot of growing up to do.
It was almost dawn when he pulled into the gravel lot of Camp Firefly Falls. He didn’t think it would be wise to slip back into their cabin while she was sleeping, so he made peace with the idea of resting his weary bones in one of the chairs on the porch outside their door.
He was about five feet away from the porch when the door opened. A man slipped out and gently closed the door behind him. He turned slowly.
Birk.
Fucking Birk was sneaking out of his wife’s cabin at dawn.
Chapter Nine
Good morning, Campers
It’s our last full day of camp. Time to cram as many of the activities as you can into one day since you’ve probably been slacking the entire week. That’s what vacations are for though. And unlike summer sleepaway camp from your youth—you don’t have to say goodbye to your crush tonight. We hope you’ll join us for a special end of the session party in the boathouse tonight.
Day Seven:
Not signed up for anything
A GHOST PASSED THROUGH MIGUEL. The ghost of the love he managed to kill before he even had it.
The cold, deep chill iced over everything inside him. And then was replaced with white hot rage.
“What. The. Fuck.”
Birk looked around and came bouncing down the steps. “Miguel,” he said quietly. “You came back.”
“Yeah. I came back to find the fucking marriage counselor doing the walk of shame out of my wife’s cabin. Is that what they teach you in Psych 101? Isn’t that against some kind of code of ethics? Banging your married client?”
“Keep it down man. People are sleeping.”
“Are you fucking kidding me with this right now?”
Birk clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, let’s at least get off the lawn.”
Miguel ducked out of his grasp. “Don’t touch me. Don’t fucking touch me.”
He knew he didn’t like that guy. From the very first time he saw him. “What do you think your bosses are going to say about you banging your clients? You’re supposed to be saving marriages, man.”
“We both know you’re not married.”
At that moment, the door opened again. Sera, sleepy eyed and wrapped in the plaid quilt from the bed, stepped onto the porch. “Miguel?”
Birk put his beefy hand in the middle of Miguel’s chest, stopping him from going toward her. “I think we all need a cool down.”
Did he think Miguel was going to hurt her? Jesus.
If he was going to hurt anyone, it was Birk the marriage counselor.
She looked so small up there, wrapped up in that quilt. Small and sad. Did she feel guilty? She shouldn’t. He’d practically pushed her into another man’s arms.
But if he looked as devastated as she did, they were both in way over their heads.
He turned to storm away because he really needed to smash something and he wanted it to be Birk’s nose. But somehow, Birk used enough “I statements” and other diffusing language to get him to meet in his office in ten minutes. When Miguel got there, he was greeted by the barely awake Michael and Heather Tully. Sera was the last to arrive.
“Miguel, I’ve briefed the owners on the situation,” B
“Is that what this is? A situation?” He looked to his friend, Michael. “He had sex with his client.”
“Seriously?” This from Sera. Cool Sera who was yelling. “You have a lot of nerve even being upset.” She sat all the way back in her chair. “Sorry, am I being uppity again?”
Oh man. He was such a jerk.
“Let me just say a few things so I can keep my job and nobody gets hurt any more than they already are,” Birk said. “Nothing inappropriate happened last night. Sera was upset when Miguel left. We talked most of the night and then I left when she fell asleep.” He directed a stern gaze to Miguel. “She was in no shape to be alone, so I stayed with her.”
My fault.
Heather yawned. “I don’t really understand why you guys are pretending you’re married. I mean it’s fine, I guess. It’s not against the law or anything.”
Miguel just stared at Sera from across the room. Watched her push her hair behind her ear. Realized neither of them wanted to explain.
So Birk filled them in.
“Wait. Grand prize? You thought it was a competition?” Heather asked. “Like a marriage game of some kind?”
“It’s not a competition?” Sera asked.
This time, Tully answered. A little too glibly for Miguel’s taste. “Ah no. The grand prize is awarded in a drawing on the last night. It’s for a free session next year. Which I’m sure the two of you would love to come back for.”
Well, somehow that was surprising and not, all at the same time. There wasn’t a prize. There had never been a prize.
“Sera, I’m so sorry,” Miguel said, more tired than he’d ever been. He’d forgotten how much emotions weigh.
“Why did you come back?” she asked.
Because I realized I’m in love with you. “Because I realized I was being a jerk.”
She frowned. Was she disappointed? He doubted she would want to hear the real reason. “Well, we agree on something.”
“CAN I TALK TO MY husband...I mean...Miguel... alone, please?” Sera asked the room full of people she felt bad about dragging into her personal business. Especially as messy as it was.