“Fuck,” I mutter and then lean an ear toward the kitchen. Luckily, we didn’t zip up the tent, so I can partially see the living room. “I think I see my pants. Why don’t I get dressed quick and distract them in the kitchen while you get dressed?”
She nods. “Okay, yeah, that’s a great idea.”
“Good.” I ease out of the sleeping bag as quietly as I can and reach out for my sweatpants, which are about three feet away. I look over my shoulder to find Larkin staring at my bare ass. “Can you not look at me from that angle?” I ask. “It’s not entirely flattering.”
She clamps her hand over her mouth, suppressing a laugh. “It’s flattering on this end.”
“That’s never a flattering angle.”
She motions to the living room. “Just grab your pants; who cares what angle I’m seeing your ass at.”
“I care. Because you’re not just looking at ass . . .”
“Are you referring to your balls? Because those are nice too.”
My cheeks flame. “We have severely crossed the line.”
“We crossed it last night, when your face was between my legs the second go-around.” She smirks, nibbling on her bottom lip.
“Don’t get me—”
“Your coloring book is in here,” Mom says, her voice drawing closer.
Fuck.
I quickly snag my pants and then pop back into the tent while Larkin dives under the sleeping bag.
I’m a sitting duck with two options.
Pray I can put my pants on faster than my mom can enter the living room, or I can duck under the sleeping bag as well.
Can you guess what I decided on?
Hint: it wasn’t the right choice.
“Yes, I’ll grab your colored—Ford,” Mom says, her mouth falling open as she steps into the room. I’m inside the open tent, with one leg in my sweatpants, one out. She assesses the living room, and I hope to God she doesn’t notice the discarded thong somewhere around here. “What are you doing?”
I blink.
I swallow.
I try to look like I don’t have company.
“Uh . . . you know . . . camping.”
“Camping? In the living room?”
“Did I hear camping?” Dad’s voice booms down the hallway.
“Yes, Ford is camping.”
“Outside?” Dad walks into the living room and assesses the mess. “What on God’s green earth is happening in here?”
I clear my throat and wish that I wasn’t half-naked—one leg still out of my sweatpants, completely bare. “Camping,” I answer.
“In the living room?” Dad asks, confused. “Naked?”
“He’s not naked,” Mom says and then takes a closer look at me. “Are you naked? In my living room?”
“No, not naked. Why would I be naked in your living room?” I ask nervously as they stare me down.
I’m thirty-six years old, but in this moment, I feel like a teenager caught with his pants down. Half of that statement is true.
“I don’t know, that’s what we’re asking—” Mom pauses and then glances up the stairs. “Dear Jesus, Ford. Is Larkin upstairs? And you’re naked down here? What the hell do you think she’d do if she came down here to see you camping naked in the living room, for Christ’s sake?”
“Larkin is here?” Dad whisper-shouts. A bead of sweat rolls down my back. If they only knew. “For the love of God, get your pants on. What are you . . . some kind of pervert?”
The sleeping bag shakes next to me, no doubt from Larkin barely holding in her laughter.
“No, Dad, I’m not—”
He points a finger at me. “I didn’t raise a pervert.”
“I’m not—”
Mom clutches her chest. “Oh no, is he a Peeping Tom? You weren’t naked, looking in on her bedroom, were you? I don’t think I could handle that.”
“And what’s with the tent? Is it a pervert tent?” Dad asks.
“I’m not a pervert, and I wasn’t doing any Peeping Tom shit. Jesus, who do you think I am?”
“I don’t know.” Dad tosses his arms up in the air. “I didn’t think I would come home to my adult son naked in our living room with his assistant upstairs, but here we are, so excuse us for questioning if you’re a pervert.”
Wow, are my parents taking this too far?
But I have no idea how to cover this up, how to explain why I’m half-naked in their living room. Think, Ford . . . think . . .