Page 30 of Kind of a Dirty Talker

For a moment, I consider crawling into the single lofted bunk bed above it so that Wesley can have the larger mattress, but being lower to the ground is probably safer if he has to slam on the brakes for some reason.

And the thought of climbing even the small ladder up to the bunk is suddenly too much. I haven’t just been awake for twenty-four hours; I’ve been going hard almost that entire time. I spent the first half of yesterday running myself ragged helping Melissa get everything prepped for the wedding. I probably made ten-thousand, three hundred, and seventy-six trips from the catering van down to the barn and I’m feeling every one of them as I collapse onto the memory foam mattress, cover myself with a sinfully soft fleece blanket, and sink into something deeper than sleep.

* * *

I’m literally out the second my cheek hits the pillow and wake who-knows-how-many hours later feeling disoriented and confused. It takes me a long beat to remember how I came to be asleep in a camper bed and another beat to realize the camper has stopped moving.

The familiar hum of the wheels on pavement and the soothing rocking from side to side is gone, leaving nothing but faint bird song and the fainter sound of…scratching.

Poking my head out from behind the privacy curtain, I look up to see one of Wesley’s socked feet sticking out of the top bunk, but the scratching isn’t coming from there. It’s Freya, awake and making her typical mess in the litter box I set up by the door. She’ll use the litter box when it’s cold or I’m away at work, but she prefers to be set loose in the backyard to do her business, and makes her dissatisfaction with the litter situation known by flinging it absolutely everywhere.

From what I’ve learned on online forums, that isn’t typical ferret behavior, but there’s nothing typical about my fierce, but dainty little lady. She’s equally offended by male humans and litter stink in the house, which feels meaningful.

“Okay, just a second,” I whisper as she sends litter spraying across the floor with a paddle of her back feet. “I’ll take you, just let me find your leash.”

Tiptoeing across the camper to keep from waking Wesley, I locate her leash near my purse and hook it onto her harness. Stepping over the litter mess—I can sweep up later, after Wes is awake—I head outside, shocked to find the sun tracking toward the horizon.

Glancing around, I see that we’re in a tidy parking lot with what looks like a trail marker on one side. After Freya does her business in the grass and gives a few nearby trees a thorough sniffing, I head toward the sign. Halfway to the marker, I hear rushing water, but I’m still bowled over by the view from the trailhead.

A wide waterfall spills over stones that glow a soft pink in the fading light, the lovely scene framed by the skyline of an unfamiliar city. A woman on a bike hops off as she nears the end of the paved trail. I flash her a smile and ask, “Excuse me, can you tell me what city this is? I’m on a road trip and was asleep when my friend pulled up.”

“Sioux Falls,” the woman says, returning my grin as she undoes the strap on her helmet. “Falls Park, specifically. It’s a great place to pull over and stretch your legs.” She glances down at Freya, her smile widening. “Even tiny legs. What’s her name?”

I tell her and we exchange a few pleasantries before she rolls her bike away. On her way to the parking lot, she calls over her shoulder, “And if you’re hungry, the café is still open for another hour, I think. It’s in the old brick building closer to the water. They serve coffee, sandwiches, ice cream, that sort of thing.”

I lift a hand, thank her, and start down the trail. A coffee probably isn’t the best idea at nearly six o’clock, but it sounds amazing. And if I’m caffeinated, I’ll be able to take over the driving while Wes rests. As nice as this place is, we can’t stay here overnight. It’s a day-use parking lot, not a place where campers would be welcome.

Over the next rise, Freya and I are treated to another gorgeous view of the falls and tempting smells from the café. At the door to the small structure, I gather Freya into my arms before pushing through the door, the better to keep her safe from customers not used to watching out for tiny pets.

But there aren’t many customers lingering in the café at this hour. It’s just me, Freya, and a sleepy-looking teenager with red cheeks scrolling through his phone.

To his credit, he looks up as soon we walk in, tucking his cell into his back pocket with a friendly smile. “Hey. The chef left for the day and we’re closing in half an hour, but we still have to-go sandwiches, a few baked goods, and coffee.”

“Coffee, please,” I say as I move to check out the offerings in the cold case. “Actually, make that two. Two coffees to go with room for cream and sugar.” I’m not sure how Wesley takes his coffee, but I figure it’s always better to err on the side of leaving room.

I collect two mozzarella, tomato, and basil sandwiches from the case that look fairly fresh, as well as a container of cheese, nuts, and a boiled egg for Freya. She prefers raw eggs, but she’ll nibble on pieces of egg yolk or white as a treat between meals, and I don’t know when I’ll be lucky enough to find ferret-friendly food again on the road.

“She’s so cute,” the teen says, his pink cheeks plumping as he smiles. “Can I pet her?”

“We can try,” I say, tapping my phone to pay as he bags up the sandwiches and gets a cardboard to-go carrier for the coffees. “But she kind of has a thing about men. She’s not super fond of them for some reason.”

“Maybe a man was mean to her when she was a baby,” he says, sobering. “Animals are like people that way. If someone hurts them when they’re little, the memories can stick around and mess them up later.”

My heart aching for this earnest kid, who sounds like he knows too much about trauma, I nod. “You’re right. I’m not sure what her babyhood was like. My cousin adopted her from a shelter when she was already grown.” I glance down at Freya, who doesn’t seem bothered by the boy, so far. “But you have friendly energy. Try extending your hand, palm up, fingers loose, and let’s see how she does. Her name is Freya, and I’m Tessa.”

“Hey. I’m Zack.” He reaches out, slowly, carefully, a look of awe blooming on his face as Freya sniffs his hand for only a moment before licking the tips of his fingers. “Wow.” He laughs. “That tickles.”

“It means she likes you,” I say, grinning. “Or that you have food on your hand. Maybe both.”

Zack laughs again, relaxing as Freya lets him stroke her head. “She’s amazing. I’m going to get a pet when I graduate and move into my own place. Pets are always happy to see you when you get home.”

I wince in sympathy. Clearly, whatever parental situation he has at the moment is less than fulfilling. Poor guy. “Yeah, you’re almost there. What are you…sixteen?”

“Seventeen,” he says, still focused on petting Freya. “I have a baby face. It’s the chubby cheeks.”

“Wow, yeah. Seventeen. You’ll be a pet-owning adult before you know it. It was nice meeting you, Zack.”

He grins. “Nice meeting you guys, too. Have a great night and enjoy the sandwiches.”

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