Read Things I Can't Forget for Free Online

yawning.
    “You scared me!”
    “I thought my morning breath had upset you.”
    He’s lounging on the porch swing. Sunglasses sit on top of his head. I take in his biceps and lazy smile and the blond stubble covering his cheeks and dimpled chin.
    “You doing okay?” he asks.
    “I’m fine,” I lie. “Did you sleep well?”
    “Will’s snoring sounds like a freight train.”
    We smile at each other. A long, still moment. He makes me feel calm, like wrapping up in my robe after a hot shower. I can’t explain it. But then I remember he’s a streaker. How far did he have to run when he went streaking?
    Instead of dressing as Miss Piggy, what if he ran a marathon naked?
    And then I’m wondering what he looks like naked.
    And then I’m shaking my head and rubbing my eyes.
    “I thought I’d see if you’ll help with breakfast?” He scratches the back of his neck, peering up at me.
    “You’re cooking?” I ask.
    “It’s my day to fix breakfast for everybody. Want some expert tips on scrambling eggs and making doughnuts over a campfire?”
    “You can make doughnuts over a campfire?” I exclaim.
    “Oh sure.” He smirks a little. “I can’t do anything fancy like Boston cream pie or anything, but I can make killer cinnamon doughnut holes.”
    “I love those,” I say quietly.
    “Well, I’d love some company.” He stands up, clutching a shaved tree branch.
    “What’s that for?” I ask.
    “My walking stick? It assists me in walking.”
    I giggle. “Are you injured?”
    “Naw. Of course not. I’m the lifeguard! Who would hire an injured lifeguard?”
    “My mistake.”
    “Your mistake indeed.”
    “You’re hilarious,” I find myself saying.
    He elbows my arm and glances over at me. Using his walking stick, he makes his way to the cafeteria on the hill. The building’s green paint is flaking off and the air smells like grease. He unlocks the doors and we raid the fridge for eggs, bacon, juice, and biscuit dough.
    “Grab that big can of Crisco off the shelf, please,” he says, nodding toward it.
    We lug all the supplies back down to the fire pit area next to Great Oak. He says, “Let’s get us some firewood.” Out in the woods, we pick up logs.
    “That one’s too wet,” he says.
    I drop it and pick up another.
    “That one’s too big,” he says.
    I drop it and pick up another.
    “Get some tiny branches for kindling, please,” he says.
    Matt arranges the logs in the fire pit, then grabs a wad of paper towels and stuffs them under the sticks. Then he turns the Crisco can upside down and lets the goop drip onto the wood. He lights a match and throws it on the wood pile. A flame bursts up.
    I jump back, panting. “Are you a pyromaniac?” I blurt.
    “Crisco’s amazing,” he says, smiling. Squatting, he begins tossing tiny sticks and grass onto the fire until the flame gets hot enough to catch the thicker logs.
    “Isn’t that cheating?”
    He laughs. “I wasn’t aware there are rules for starting a campfire when you’re starving for breakfast. I mean, sure, if this was a Boy Scout competition I totally would’ve been disqualified.”
    “Maybe I’ll use your Crisco trick when it’s time for me start my own fires,” I tell him.
    “I just converted you to my Crisco Cult!”
    I laugh. “Now what do I do, oh master of the Crisco Cult?”
    “Grab that cast-iron kettle and hang it over the fire,” he tells me. “And dump the rest of the Crisco in it so it’ll melt. Then we’ll fry up the doughnuts in it.”
    “What doughnuts are we gonna fry?” I ask, glancing at our supplies.
    “Take the biscuit dough and start rolling it into balls.”
    The first thing Matt does is get the coffee brewing (he has a secret stash). It’s a humid June morning and the fire’s roaring, so I’m wiping sweat off my face like crazy. For a second I’m terrified Matt thinks I look hideous, but then I glance over at him and find that his face is covered in dirt and he’s all sweaty too.
    Once Matt