Chemistry and Camping

By Elizabeth Kwak-Hefferan

Our intrepid columnist finds herself in new territory.

Good crush:
Sidelong glances.
Text messages fraught with double entendres.
Jittery, roller-coaster sensations in your stomach.
Analyzing his every move with five of your best friends.
You know—fun.

Bad crush:
Longing.
Sighs.
Lying awake at night while cheesy, romantic pop ballads play uncontrollably in your head.

I found myself thinking about the difference one night last fall. On the other side of a crackling campfire, a good friend of mine— who happens to be adorable and brilliant and hilarious—was cracking us all up with his impression of the dirtbag ski bums he’d known back in Vail. Strangely, though, I couldn’t entirely concentrate on what he was saying. His voice drifted in and out of my head— “shredding wicked gnar”—as I struggled to identify a new sensation settling in the center of my chest.

He glanced over at me, the firelight flickering in his eyes—“sick face shots, brah”—and it hit me: Oh! A crush. Well, it would be a good crush, then.

This wasn’t the time or place for anything more. We were 9 miles deep into Washington’s Olympic National Park, sweaty and dirt-streaked. I didn’t want to miss the Hoh River churning softly just beyond our circle, or snow-crowned Mount Olympus looming overhead, because I was mooning over him. Plus, we had 22 trail switchbacks between here and the next night’s camp. I couldn’t afford to lose any sleep.

He was my friend, anyway. No reason to complicate that. Oh, and one more thing: his girlfriend was sitting on the log next to him.

No big deal, I told myself firmly. I was bound to snap out of it sooner or later. The next few days were totally normal. I kept my eyes away from his. I emphatically did not think about him when we said goodnight, or jealously picture him zipping his sleeping bag together with hers, or fiercely wonder what this trip would have been like if she hadn’t come. She didn’t even like camping. She was the kind of girl who put on makeup before climbing out of her tent in the morning.

The next night his voice woke me well past midnight. “Guys? Did you hear that?” he said. “I heard something big. I think it was a bear.” I wasn’t worried—there were five of us, after all—so I rolled over and drifted off again. I didn’t dream about crawling into his sleeping bag and tucking my head into the crook of his shoulder. I most certainly did not feel any sharp stabs of pain at the image of him falling back asleep with his girlfriend, just a few feet away, their fingers intertwined.

On our last night in Washington, we camped next to the Pacific Ocean under a full moon. Bone-tired, starving, and sweaty, I watched him pitch his tent from the safety of the dark. As I scraped the last spoonful of dehydrated Santa Fe chicken out of its bag, it never crossed my mind that I would kill for the chance to sit next to him, only him, and gaze out at the ocean forever.

We cleaned up, flew back home to Colorado, and resumed our regular lives. He was my friend— a wonderful writer too, an always-positive force, a kind person who really cared whether or not those around him were happy. It didn’t take more than a few days for me to face up to the truth. Damn. This was not a good crush at all.

This was longing, and sighs, and lying awake at night while cheesy love songs played on an endless loop. It didn’t help that we were hanging out more and more, or that he was texting me with growing frequency, or that our good-byes stretched into hour-long extended conversations. It all just served to drive home the aching realization that right here was everything I’d always wanted—and I couldn’t have it.

How can you extricate yourself from a crush like that? How can you believe that the madness will ever pass? This was far, far beyond fun; this was excruciating.

But then, one freezing night, after I’d almost given up on ever escaping, he walked me home. But he didn’t say goodnight like he usually did. He stared up at the moon with—could that be torment on his face? He then caught my gaze. “Am I hallucinating,” he asked, “or is there something between us?”

Oh. Wow. He had a crush on me too, then, and it was just as bad. Unbelievable. Amazing. He was looking for an answer in my face, and I was definitely, definitely smiling.

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