Behind Mom's Back

Charlotte’s POV

Of course, Mom chose the worst possible moment to drop her bombshell.

Just as we were pulling up to the starting point, her voice cut through the quiet, bright and full of a forced cheer that made my stomach drop. She announced to me and Alexander—my stepfather—that we were about to embark on a grand adventure across the Mojave Desert.

I shot a look at Alexander. He met my gaze, and I saw it instantly—the same weary resignation I felt, mirrored perfectly in his eyes.

It’s not that I hate traveling. I actually cherish the time with Alexander. There’s a pull there, a connection I can’t explain, something that draws me in despite myself. But trekking across a desert so hot it could fry an egg on the sand? The threat of sunstroke, of getting hopelessly lost, of dying of thirst? No, thank you. I’d rather be curled up in an air-conditioned room, a cold drink in one hand and my favorite novel on my tablet in the other.

Right then, however, it was obvious Mom wasn’t listening to any silent objections. She was a flurry of motion, buzzing with a manic energy as she stuffed our oversized backpacks to the point of bursting. Water, enough clothes for a month, snacks, sunscreen, electronics, and a truly ridiculous number of wet wipes. Then she proceeded to lash them onto the two rental camels, completely ignoring the fact that there were only two animals.

“Mom, if you load any more on, I won’t have anywhere to sit,” I protested, swiping at the sweat already beading on my forehead. The heat from the ground was rising in visible waves.

“Charlotte has a point. We should leave some things behind,” Alexander added, his voice steady but leaving no room for argument.

Mom didn’t even look up. “Absolutely not. The signal out here is nonexistent. If we get stuck, this gear could save our lives,” she declared, her tone brooking no dissent.

Great. Of course she had a paranoid justification for everything.

I looked back at Alexander. Our eyes met again. His said exactly what mine were screaming: We are so screwed. Even in the midst of this ridiculous situation, my thoughts still strayed whenever I looked at him.

It wasn’t hard to figure out why. Alexander was the kind of man who turned heads without even trying. Broad shoulders, skin tanned from working outdoors, a shirt that stretched taut across his back. When he moved, his dark, tousled hair caught the light, and that sharp, defined jawline was just as distracting as ever. It was crazy that he was almost twice my age; he moved with the easy confidence of someone much younger.

Sometimes I wondered how Mom landed someone like him. A handsome, capable man who’d follow her anywhere—even into this literal oven of a desert. And here I was, just the awkward extra on this trip. The thought left a sour, jealous twist in my gut that I couldn’t quite swallow down.

“What if,” I tried, injecting a note of false brightness into my voice, “since I’m eighteen now, I just wait here at the edge of the desert? You two can have your romantic adventure. And hey, someone should stay behind in case you need a rescue party.”

Mom yanked a zipper closed and shook her head. “Not happening. This is our last big family trip before college. So quit complaining—we’re doing this. You’ll be grateful for the memories.”

Alexander folded his arms, a deep frown etching his brow. “Mom, there are only two camels. If you don’t take some of that off, Charlotte won’t have a seat. I’m not letting my girl walk through this heat.”

That’s the thing about having a decent man around. His opinion carried weight, and a good daughter knew when to back him up. Apparently, Mom did, too.

She chewed her lip for a second, then grumbled, “Damn, I should’ve rented three.” With a sigh of pure reluctance, she conceded. “Fine. She can ride with you.”

That got a reaction from both of us. Alexander straightened, his surprise evident. “Seriously? Why can’t she ride with you?”

A sly smile touched Mom’s lips. “Because I don’t trust you with the bags. Remember the camping disaster?”

I sighed inwardly. I’d been eight, dozing in the backseat, when Alexander had taken a turn too fast and sent a suitcase flying from the roof rack.

“We had to drive back twenty miles to find it,” Mom recounted, crossing her arms. “It was smashed to pieces. That was my favorite suitcase.”

“It was not your favorite,” Alexander retorted, exasperation creeping into his voice. “And that was a decade ago. Do we have to bring it up every single time?”

Mom pretended to consider this, tapping her chin. “Yes.”