Chapter Four
“Are you sure there isn’t anything else I can do?” I ask, fiddling with Finn’s GoPro tripod.
“Not unless you have a time machine that can take us back to get packs with fire starters inside.” He’s crouched on all fours, carefully rearranging the sticks he’s already arranged in three barely differing configurations, as if this is the particular twig tower that’s finally going to ignite. He might actually know what he’s doing, but I wouldn’t know. Because much like how he won’t let me help, he won’t tell me anything that I don’t drag out of him like I’m pulling teeth.
“You sure I can’t take a crack at the tent?”
Finn shakes his head before I’ve finished voicing the question, eyes still trained on the fire. “We only have the one. Can’t risk messing it up or breaking something.”
I want to point out—again—that I’m a grown-ass nineteen year-old. Not a fumbling, incompetent kid. I can read setup instructions.
But honestly, I’m too tired to fight any more today. He wants to treat me like I’m useless? Guess it’s just as well that I act like it. I can pick up my independent woman torch again tomorrow. Use it to set Finn on fire.
Maybe he would actually ignite, unlike everything else around here. Apparently it rained more than I realized from my pleasant stroll through the sprinkly mist. Or perhaps there was a single storm cloud hanging over our campsite in particular, dumping buckets of water onto everything as a fun little surprise for Team Finnatalie’s first evening together. Whatever the reason, all our potential “kindling”—twigs, leaves, anything else flammable from the forest floor—is just soggy enough to give Finn a hell of a time trying to make it burn.
This wouldn’t be so much of a problem if either of our packs had come with fire starters, or the fuel bottle needed to make our camp stove work, or even just more than one book of matches. I’ve heard Finn grumble about it roughly thirty-six different ways, because “in what world is that enough for weeks of backpacking?”
I feel useless, sitting here doing nothing, and wonder why I’m even letting him tell me what to do (which is nothing). I don’t look his way as I head into the trees. “I’m gonna see if I can find any dry wood.”
If he can hear me over his own muttering, he doesn’t answer.
As I wander, I remember watching my dad make fires in our old wood stove when I was little, though he bought firewood and starter bricks at the gas station. I’ve seen campfires built on TV, read about it in books. Actually…
Stopping in my tracks, I squint up at the sky and mentally scroll back through my recent-ish library checkouts. It was a romance novel I read—I mean, no surprise—a romantic suspense, about a woman on the run from a hitman. I don’t remember how or why she ended up in those unfortunate circumstances, but I do remember thinking that if I were her, I would’ve run to, say, an inconspicuous yet comfortable hotel somewhere, instead of into the mountains with little more than the clothes on my back.
But I digress. The point is, girlfriend was more of a camper than me to begin with, but she was also creative, and figured out all kinds of little tricks to get by in the wild. It wasn’t too long before she stumbled upon a ranger station, and the sexy outdoorsman on duty ended up helping her outwit and survive the bad guys while they also fell into mad, passionate love. But she totally could have saved herself, too! And her ingenuity is now going to help me, Natalie Hart, build the best damn campfire these woods have ever seen.
Newly inspired, I focus on looking for spots shaded by boulders or brush, where there might be wood I can use that’s been protected from the rain. It takes a while, but I get a decent armful of twigs and small branches. I also collect a clump of moss and dead, leafy things before heading back to the clearing.
Finn sits atop his folded-up poncho on the ground beside the campsite’s metal fire ring, looking especially sulky as he stares at his sad, damp twig pile. His head darts up at my return and the skepticism written plain as day across his face only strengthens my resolve. He’ll see.
“We’re not going to start a fire using more of the same stuff,” he says, making no effort to hide his annoyance.
“Not as dumb as I look!” I trill, sugary sweet.
“I never said you look—”
“Didn’t have to. And you’re not making any progress on your own, so why don’t you let me give it a go.” My voice this time is as hard as my expression when I glance his way, warning him to quit while he’s not at all ahead. I crouch by the fire ring and drop my burnable bounty beside it, then make a move toward my pack, where my secret weapons await.
“Feel free to give me a little space,” I call without looking at Finn. “I think wet blankets are more helpful in putting out fires than getting them going.”
When I turn back toward the ring with my makeup bag in hand, he’s standing a couple feet back, arms now crossed and a frown creasing his face. “What are you doing?”
I revert to extra-cheery mode. You know, for the Finnatalics. “I’m so glad you asked! I’m gonna show y’all a little trick for starting a fire in less-than-ideal conditions.” I face one of our GoPros and wave one hand to indicate our recently rained-on surroundings before dropping to my haunches and unzipping my bag. “This is something I learned from a book, actually. Hot on Her Trail by…hmm, who was it?”
I pull out a few of the cotton pads I use for eye makeup removal, along with a tube of cheap lip balm I only use in dire chapped-lip emergencies. It’s about to get sacrificed for the greater good—proving Finn wrong about me, whether we complete the challenge or not—but I’m not sad to lose it. Not like anyone’s gonna be testing the softness of my lips out here.
“Donna…something was the author, I think. But it has a guy wearing a Forest Service hat and no shirt on the cover—really steamy.” I fan myself and wiggle my eyebrows at the camera, not letting myself look over for Finn’s reaction before returning to my task and uncapping the lip balm. “But the heroine has to go on her own kind of wild adventure, camping and surviving in the outdoors for a few days before she meets the hero. And when she has to start a fire with a bunch of damp wood, she whips out her lip balm…”
I roll the tube all the way up before breaking off the waxy balm in my hand and setting the plastic part aside to throw away later. I hear Finn’s sharp intake of breath and have to peek, pleased to see he’s watching with rapt attention rather than doubt.
“And she tears off a piece of her cotton T-shirt for this part, but I don’t know, I’m kind of attached to all the clothes I have with me. So I’m gonna try these cotton pads.”
I continue to narrate as I work the balm into the cotton with my fingers, embracing the absolute gooey mess of it all, then clean my hands with a wet wipe. When I strike a match and bring it to the little pile of ChapStick-covered cotton, just as advertised in the book, it ignites easily and doesn’t burn out right away. I have enough time to work with it, adding the moss and other small forest detritus for tinder, blowing softly to help the flames along, and soon starting to build a cone of twigs—definitely drier than the ones Finn found—over the burning bundle. When the fire spreads and keeps burning, I let out the breath I’ve been holding since Finn uttered the words “someone more serious.”
I have to pay close attention to the fire and add more wood as needed for a while, but once it’s really going, I let an antsy Finn step back in.
“Here we go,” he mumbles to himself as he pulls the fire ring’s attached grate over the flames. I resume my place as a bump on a log, the useless feeling from before replaced with smugness. But that only lasts so long, as I realize no “Sorry I doubted you” or “Good job, you secret survivalist queen” is forthcoming. Finn just moves on down the task list as though I didn’t change the whole trajectory of our evening with my ingenuity, setting the pot from our camp stove atop the grate and pouring some water in. Once it’s boiling, he opens two pouches of dehydrated vegetable soup and pours them in.
So inevitably, as he goes on closely monitoring our dinner and stirring it occasionally with a reusable spork from my pack, I find myself wondering whether what I did was all that ingenious. Maybe I’m just used to sucking at life as of late, so achieving the smallest thing feels monumental. If my partner’s reaction is anything to go by, nobody else sees starting a lip balm fire as akin to discovering electricity.
When Finn says—again mumbling, again to himself—that our soup is about ready, I take it upon myself to bring over a couple of mugs for him to pour it into. Their appearance surprises him, he was so in the zone of Big Man Tend Fire Cook Food Pound Chest. But at least he says thank you this time.
We mostly eat in silence, except for when I give a brief, mostly false review to the camera about how delicious the soup Finn made is. We have some granola for a second course-slash-dessert, which is a stark example of what a turn my life has taken. I offer to clean up, but he feels the need to run that operation too, Finnsplaining about “leave no trace” principles and being aware of what scents and food remnants we’re leaving for wildlife to find. Which, okay, are worthy and important things to share. But I don’t have to like his tone.
By the time the sun is going down, I am fully over it. Over him. And more than anything, over the combination of time alone with my thoughts and together with all of Finn’s, both of which have my anxiety rearing its neurotic little head.
“Can I go to the bathroom alone, or do you need to micromanage that too?” I finally snap, just as he’s attaching the last hook from the tent wall to its corresponding pole.
Finn blinks over at me, his cheeks going pink as he opens his mouth to say something I’m probably not going to want to hear. I put a hand up. “Nope, that was a rhetorical question. I’ve peed in the woods before, and you already gave your spiel about it. You’re not coming with.”
I just remember to swipe a handful of toilet paper and a plastic bag as I stomp off. Part of the leave-no-trace stuff involves packing up your TP for later disposal, which, gross. But needs must. And at least I don’t have to deal with any other bodily functions yet.
When that’s dealt with—beyond the wildlife-safe, one-hundred-feet-from-camp distance, thank you very much—I find that Finn is tying some kind of strap around a tree near the tent. I take it upon myself to start my nightly routine as I look on, beginning with a makeup-removing wipe. This’ll be the first time in I don’t know how long that a boy is seeing me without my cosmetic armor. Good thing it’s almost dark. And, you know, that I don’t care what Finn thinks.
“What are those for?” I ask as I scrub at one eye, then another.
Finn doesn’t look my way as he wraps an identical black strap around another tree. “The hammock.”
“Oh. Why do we need that?”
He begins unfurling the hammock from the little ball it’s rolled into. “I’m sleeping in it.”
My hand pauses its wiping mid-cheek. “You’re sleeping in it?”
He nods, briefly glancing over before his eyes dart away again, as if he’s caught me over here in my birthday suit. Which I suppose is not much more shocking than catching me fresh-faced. “You can have the tent. I’ll be good over here.”
My brows pull together. “I…You…Does that count as proper shelter from the elements?”
This feels like an easier question than “Am I really so disgusting that you won’t share a tent with me?”
He shrugs as he attaches a carabiner on one end of the hammock to one of the trees by the strap, and then the other end. “It should. There’s a rain fly I can cover it with.”
His mind sounds made up, and I guess far be it for me to try to talk an unwilling guy into sharing my sleeping space. As darkness fully descends, we can finally shut off our cameras, but my routine gets more difficult. I do the best I can and just cross my fingers I don’t wake up with a chin zit the size of an Appalachian mountain. The hum of my battery-powered toothbrush sounds overly loud and out of place, and I swear I can feel Finn’s judgment from across the clearing, but cavities don’t care how far from civilization you are. In the end, he only makes one pointed remark reminding me to pack out anything scented in one of the canisters we’ve set far away from the tent and hammock for the night. Does that count as restraint in Finn’s bossy, domineering world?
Moving closer to the tent, I’m about to change into my pajamas as discreetly as I can. But as I go to strip off my leggings, it hits me that I’m still wearing my hiking boots. Haven’t taken them off once since this morning. And as quick as the realization comes…so does the pain.
It’s like my feet have realized, “Wait a second, these heavy-duty cages aren’t just an extension of us now! And actually, we hate them! We mustn’t be trapped any longer! FREE US!” I slump onto a log behind me, wincing at the biting twinges in my ankles and pinkie toes. Actually, as I untie the laces and loosen them enough to start easing my feet out, each one is more of a foot-shaped mass of ouch-iness. Surely that term is in a medical textbook somewhere.
I can’t suppress my winces and whimpers as I finally get the boots off, then the socks, and examine the damage as much as I can. Blisters on each pinkie toe, for certain, and on the inward-facing sides of my ankles. There are plenty more at-risk spots, where the skin looks red and raw but isn’t broken yet. I eye my discarded boots and socks with disappointment, muttering, “Y’all really let a girl down today.”
I must be disoriented enough to expect them to talk back, because I’m not surprised when I’m answered with a gruff “No kidding.”
Of course, my shoes haven’t attained sentience and a grumbly voice. I turn my attention to the weak beam of light now glowing around me to find Finn, first aid kit in one hand and some kind of tablet in the other, coming to sit beside me on my log. He eyes my gross feet with the detached coolness of a paramedic, quietly counting to himself.
I venture cautiously, “What are you—”
“Looks like we have enough Band-Aids for the both of us, tonight and tomorrow. We’ll restock at the next checkpoint. And hopefully get a real flashlight.” Finn waves what I now see is an e-reader, which he’s using as a makeshift light source with the brightness on high, then he sets it and the first aid kit on the log between us. He opens the kit and extracts exactly four Band-Aids—one for each of my blisters—then passes them to me. I accept, but my eyes dart toward his foot propped on the opposite knee as I register his “both of us” comment. It’s not in great shape either, as far as I can tell, all of his ouchies revealed by the outdoorsy-looking sandals he now wears with the straps loosened. “I’d disinfect first, then Neosporin, then Band-Aid. Put fresh ones on in the morning, plus cover the spots that haven’t blistered yet but probably will if you keep going without protecting them.”
Surprised by what seems an awful lot like concern, I swallow any snarky comebacks about knowing how to put my own Band-Aids on. “Got it. Thanks.” We both tend to our sickly little appendages in silence for a while, but I’m also taking in all kinds of new information in a peripheral observation, nonverbal way. Like how Finn already changed into his pajamas, dark basketball shorts and a thin white T-shirt. And how his newly half-bare legs are…different than I expected. More muscle to them, which I guess makes sense for someone who hikes a lot. He did imply he hikes a lot, didn’t he?
“Hey,” I say, causing his head to jerk my way mid-bandage-application. I gesture for him to finish before I continue. “Does this happen every time you hike? Or did you get new boots that need breaking in, too? Because if this is just the norm, that’s gonna suck.”
Finn doesn’t look at me again, but I can still see his mouth turn down at the corners, the little stress line in the middle of his forehead looking stressier. “Doesn’t happen every time. And my boots aren’t new.” It seems like he’s going to leave it at that, but as he crumples up his Band-Aid trash, he adds, “It’s just been a while since I’ve used them. I haven’t gone hiking since—I mean, it’s been a busy year. Haven’t had time.”
The cagey way he says all this has me rethinking my earlier judgment. He may be dramatic at times, but he can’t lie for shit. I just don’t know why on earth he’d lie about anything related to this.
“I’m, uh, going to try to get some sleep,” Finn says as he gets to his feet and takes the dim light with him. “So. Good night.”
“Good night?” I answer back, the word coming out more like a question. With a shake of my head, I call out after him, “Sleep tight! Don’t let the bed bugs bite! Wait, hammock bugs? Or any bugs? Lots of ’em out here. Well, you know what I mean!”
If a woman yells a bunch of nonsense in the woods but her teammate doesn’t stick around to hear it, does she even make a sound? I’ll undoubtedly get the chance to test this further.
Finished with my own self-doctoring, I pack up the first aid kit and resume changing into clean sleepwear before getting settled in my tent. The sleeping bag is nicer than anything I ever took to sleepovers growing up, and crawling in, I feel immediately ten times more comfortable than I have all day.
It doesn’t last, though.
Almost instantly, I’m wide awake. Jittery. Anxious as hell. I situate myself as closely as I can to how I’d fall asleep in my bed, even as it’s impossible to ignore that my usual pillow, mattress, and bedding are replaced by less ergonomic, more transportable stand-ins. My body won’t relax.
In a tent. In the dark. Near a boy who seems to rate me somewhere near plastic bags of used toilet paper in appeal.
The peaceful forest around me sounds deafeningly loud, even more so than on our hike today. Insects humming, birds whistling, leaves rustling. A plane flying over somewhere far in the distance. I can even hear Finn sighing softly a few feet outside the tent, shifting as he tries to get comfortable in the hammock, the straps rubbing on tree bark.
My pulse picks up. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as the buzzing inside me rivals the sound outside in intensity. I grab my e-reader and can barely get my eyes to focus on the words, let alone my mind. It’s full of questions and worries that multiply by the second.
What am I doing here? Is it always this loud outside? How many of these noises are actually concerning? Am I in danger? Is Finn? Did we clean everything up from dinner well enough, or is a bear going to smell our soup and come for us? What was that sound? And that one? Would I even hear it if a bear was coming, or not until it was too late? What about any other animal? Bears aren’t the only predators out here. How am I supposed to sleep with all this going on? But if I don’t sleep, will I be useless tomorrow? Even more useless than I was today? Is every night going to be like this one? How long can I keep this up?
For all that I was skeptical about Finn sleeping outside, it doesn’t take long for the soft sounds from the direction of the hammock to taper off, suggesting that he’s fallen asleep. Inside my lonely tent, I’m not nearly as lucky.
The next timeI notice the birds chirping, I reach a hand out to slap the ground beside me. When I connect with a smooth nylon tent floor instead of my phone, consciousness creeps in and I realize this isn’t an alarm I can silence.
Much to my disappointment.
Arching my neck, I peer out over the edge of my sleeping bag, which I’ve nestled into overnight, blinking against the dim daylight that filters into my shelter. It looks like the sun isn’t even all the way up. What do these birds have going on that’s so urgent?
I burrow into the bag again and close my eyes, trying to resume what, after a largely sleepless night, was finally a really good dream. I think it was about cinnamon rolls. I could smash a whole can of the Pillsbury Originals right now. My stomach grumbles.
Birds continue to chirp.
Damn.This isn’t going to happen, is it?
But I refuse to admit defeat and continue to lie down, my eyes squeezed shut, my mind running a highlight reel of favorite baked goods. Until I hear it. The swish of artificial material, the sleeping bag or hammock kind, brushing against itself. Then comes a soft, rumbly groan that is unmistakably the other half of Team Finnatalie. I hear more rustling and the light padding of footsteps moving away from our little camp compound.
I’m definitely not getting any more rest, but is fake-sleeping still preferable to more Forced Finn-ship? I feel bad for thinking yes.
Giving him enough time to attend to whatever morning business he has, I wriggle out of my sleeping bag and try to roll it and the sleeping pad back into their compact, pack-ready form. When I’m done with cleanup inside the tent, I make my way into the sunshine.
“Morning!” I call as I walk over, sporting quite the Look in my pajamas and hiking boots. My hair probably resembles the nests that my fine, feathered, natural alarm clock foes live in.
Finn sits on a log with his back to me, but peers over his shoulder at the sound of my voice. He doesn’t look sleep-disheveled in the least, already dressed for the day in a light green T-shirt and another pair of pants that could double as a storage unit. His hair is too short to even get messed up. I bet that’s intentional.
“Mm-hmm,” he says after taking a bite of a protein bar. I guess that means “good morning” in Antisocial Man.
“You sleep okay?” I pass his makeshift bench and head for my pack where it’s propped against a tree.
“Mm-hmm,” I hear behind me. “Good morning” again? Or in this language, does the term have multiple meanings? It will require more study.
He doesn’t ask me the same thing back, but it’s probably for the best. Since I got to have the tent while he was hanging like a bat between some trees, I don’t feel like my inability to sleep well will garner much sympathy. Then again, would anything garner Finn’s sympathy? Is that a thing he feels? Or does he operate on an emotional metronome, ticking back and forth between disdain and exasperation?
These are the thoughts that occupy me as I grab clothes for the day and my toiletry bag, then continue to dig through my pack for my own breakfast options. Where did those food rations go? I could’ve sworn—
There’s a sound like a hollow drumbeat from behind and I turn to see Finn with one foot propped up on the lid of a round, transparent container. Ohhh. The bear canister.
“Food’s in here,” he says, eyeing me like I’ve forgotten something as simple as the sky being blue. Embarrassment threatens to creep in, but I tamp it down and lift my chin high, because really, what do I have to feel bad about? That I didn’t remember every single piece of the overwhelming amount of new information I’ve had to take in over the last twenty-four hours? Not today, Oscar the Grouch.
I wolf down a protein bar, then find a tucked away spot to change my clothes and get ready for the day. The tent would provide more privacy, but it’s too confining for my needs this morning. While I don’t feel overly sticky and gross, or smell too bad yet, I still give myself a quick once-over with one of the body-cleansing wipes I packed while I stand behind a tree in my unmentionables.
It’s a humbling experience.
All part of the journey, though! I’m having FUN, I remind myself as I head back into the clearing, now properly clothed. I cross to the log where Finn is hunched over, tending to his feet.
“Care if I join you?” I ask when I plop down a few feet away from him, as if he has a choice. He doesn’t even grunt, just eyes me with skepticism as I set up my travel mirror in my lap and begin to attempt my Process outdoors. I start with another cleansing wipe, this one specifically for the face and with packaging containing a bunch of my favorite buzzwords, like brightening and smoothing and purifying. Next I layer on the serums, moisturizer, and all-important sunscreen. Once done, I pack all the bottles neatly back into my kit and begin to unload my makeup.
“There’s more?” Finn murmurs softly.
“Takes a lot of money to look this cheap,” I paraphrase Her Majesty Dolly Parton in an equally quiet voice back to him, keeping my eyes trained on the mirror as I dab concealer under my eyes. I don’t actually think I look cheap, of course. But I’ve always idolized Dolly’s ability to be unabashedly into taking care of herself. Looking good makes me feel good, and I look and feel my best when I put some effort in.
It’s one of the things my parents have rolled their eyes at over the years, trotting it out as evidence that I’m superficial and spend my time and energy on frivolous things. Ignoring the fact that even if I take thirty minutes to do my makeup in the morning, I’ll still be down in the stables mucking stalls on time, getting my hands and boots as dirty as everyone else. I’m not about to apologize for it.
Besides, I’m not even doing the full face for my time here. Just a little concealer—or a lot, if I keep sleeping as poorly as I did last night—some powder that contains extra sun protection, a touch of brow pencil, eyeliner, and tinted lip balm. I could be so much higher maintenance.
A long-winded sigh interrupts by internal self-congratulating. “I hate to ask, but—”
“Well then, don’t, Mr. Finntastic,” I offer cheerily in return, tilting my head from side to side to make sure the wings on my liner match. They’re perfect. I can’t believe I thought this would be hard!
“Is all of that really necessary?”
I cap my liquid liner and tuck it back into my bag before turning to face him, bringing one leg up on the log between us. With a solemn expression, I finally meet his judgy eyes. “In my years of experience watching Wild Adventures, I’ve observed that the teams who do the best are the ones who find their own unique ways to stay calm, focused, and competitive,” I say with conviction. “You have your pants, which I imagine contain all kinds of survival skills and resources in their many, many pockets, and your resting bitch face, which intimidates the competition. I have my skincare and makeup routine, which allow me to feel like less of a forest gremlin and distract everyone with my hotness. Doubt me if you must, but my Sephora Rouge membership and I will be laughing all the way to the financial aid office with our hundred-thousand-dollar scholarship.”
Finn’s head drops, and his hands come up to cover his face in a way that almost looks like he’s praying, but in fact, he’s just rubbing at the lines between his eyes again. “Shouldn’t have asked,” comes his muffled mumble.
My smile is both proud and serene as I stand and bounce over to my pack to put all my things back in. And it turns out I finished not a moment too soon, as a producer with an orange envelope and a camera operator emerge into our clearing.
Showtime.