Wild About You

Chapter Thirteen

Somehow, the night in a bunk bed is less comfortable than the ones I spend sleeping on the ground. I honestly think I wake up with new bruises from tossing and turning on the thin foam “mattress,” if you could even call it that. Though I’m sure I also have the horses to thank for my soreness.

Whatever the reasons, I’m groaning and moaning like a crotchety old bag of bones as I rise from my slumber and crawl out from my bottom-bunk cave. Then I shut myself up real quick upon finding that Finn is still fast asleep on the top bunk. Same as when we’ve woken up in the tent, he sleeps on his side and clutches his sweatshirt—freshly laundered along with the rest of his clothes—to his head. I wonder again what that’s all about. Is he most comfortable that way? Is it just a habit? It’s pretty cute regardless, making his normally hard features look childlike.

But after our talk on the porch, I have a whole new understanding of the intense, guarded quality to those features. The guy has been through some shit. I don’t know what it’s like to have a good relationship with a parent, but to lose that, and at such a young age, seems unthinkable. I have the urge to wrap him up completely in a mega version of his sweatshirt, squeeze him tight as if cutting off his air supply will soothe his grief.

Unfortunately that’s when Finn decides to wake up. His eyes pop open abruptly, giving me a real jump scare.

“Are you watching me sleep?” he asks groggily, blinking a few more times against the morning light peeking through the cabin’s one tiny window.

Pretty obvious that I was, yes. “No!” I cross my arms over my chest. “I was having a really good daydream about burritos. Your face just happened to be in my line of sight.”

His mouth tips up on one side and a warm, gooey feeling settles in my stomach. He’s giving those more freely every day, but each one still feels like a gift I want to tuck away in my pocket.

God, when did I become such a sap? And over Finn? No, this ain’t happening. Panic starts to replace the warm gooeyness and I turn away quickly, hoping he won’t see it.

“I’mgonnagogetready?inthebathroom,” I say in a rush while grabbing my toiletries and a change of clothes, then scramble out of the cabin like it’s on fire.

I try to savor these fleeting moments with a mirror and running water, but I’m distracted by my own thoughts. I mean, what the hell, Natalie? This is an irresponsible level of interest, the likes of which I’m pretty sure I haven’t felt since starting to date my first boyfriend in seventh grade. Normally when I’m into a guy—or when I let myself be into them, pre-Oliver—it burns hot and fast. It’s an attraction that’s mostly physical and we both know it, and when it inevitably flames out, I’m never left heartbroken because my heart was barely involved.

Finn is already so different. But this crush feels doomed for a multitude of reasons, starting with the fact that he’s my partner, followed by how neither of us has time for any distractions from winning this competition. And even if we did, he probably doesn’t have any interest in me, given his general “Ew, Natalie” aura for most of our time together.

On the plus side, I am a stone-cold, outdoorsy fox today. My freshly laundered shorts show off my newly smooth legs. The pit stains on my tank top’s arm holes are gone. My winged eyeliner is immaculate. My superclean, conditioned hair is smooth and shiny, so I’ve only pulled half of it up into a ponytail, displaying the purple streak to its best advantage.

When I make it back to the cabin, the difference does not go unnoticed.

“Wow,” Finn says like it’s nothing, like the word combined with his raised eyebrows and the way he looks me up and down isn’t lighting up my insides like a Christmas tree. Ho-ho-ho, indeed. “You look…renewed.”

Not quite the same effect as beautiful, gorgeous, or hella fine, but better than an electric-shocked Muppet.

“Why thank you,” I say with a mock curtsy. “You know what they say. Look good, feel good, hike good.”

“Ancient Appalachian proverb,” he agrees with a nod.

After a filling breakfast, we get our map back to the AT and the site of the next challenge, with several possible paths to get there, and all take off as teams. The path Finn and I choose to hike, along with Karim, Max, Harper, and Evan, isn’t especially rigorous, but you wouldn’t know that from my achy body’s reaction. Fortunately, everyone else is sore after yesterday’s ride too, whining about it as least as much as I am. I don’t let Finn carry my pack this time, even when he offers repeatedly, declaring that I can’t let him ruin my trail cred.

That he accepts this as a good reason makes me like him even more.

I’m realizing the hikes pass much more quickly when we’re in a bigger group. The route we chose from the stables to the challenge site is about five miles, and with more than enough time until the filming start time the crew gave us, we keep a moderate pace and stop together when anyone needs a water break.

The vibe is easy, our banter comfortable. Karim wins my undying love and respect as he details his plans for launching a boutique jewelry line called Ice Karim, inspired by a lifetime of people thinking his name is “Cream.” Max briefly tries to get a round of the Alphabet Game going, like we’re on a road trip, before realizing there aren’t any billboards, license plates, or much else with letters on it out in the forest. Evan and I duet on what we agree is the best song from Frozen 2, “Lost in the Woods,” even as Finn grumbles that we’re bringing bad karma to the hike. I’m just glad it feels like our good spirits are restored, though none of us really knows how Enemi and Zeke are faring.

When we make it to the destination on our map, we find ourselves in a flat, open space atop some cliffs with gorgeous panoramic views of the mountains, where we learn we’ll be camping tonight. We get to stop and take it in while the crew readies for filming and passes out sandwiches and assorted fruit for lunch. Just as we’re wrapping up mealtime, Burke Forrester arrives, looking fresh as a daisy. No way did he hike here from the stables.

We gather around him at the cliff’s most scenic edge, cameras rolling again. It’s only now that I realize how windy it is up here, or maybe the breeze is just picking up. My hair blows into my face, sticking in my recently applied lip gloss and reminding me why I’ve mostly done away with lip gloss since I’ve been here.

Our host beams, his hair so still it has to have been gelled within an inch of its life. “Co-EdVenturers! Welcome back to the Appalachian Trail. Feels like coming home already, doesn’t it?”

I wonder not for the first time if Burke has actually hiked the AT before. I’ve seen little evidence to suggest he considers it so homey.

“I’m excited to have you all together today for the next part of your challenge, which we’re calling ‘Helter Shelter.’ This all about making do when a place to rest your head is hard to come by. In the early days of the AT, permanent shelters weren’t as plentiful or well-maintained as they are today, and many thru-hikers relied on their own ingenuity to build lean-tos and other safe places to sleep each night. Even for the modern hiker, the wilderness is unpredictable. We want to channel these early hikers, testing your ability to adapt under less-than-ideal circumstances and create your own shelter.”

I shoot Finn a wide-eyed look, but his expression doesn’t mirror my concern. He just gives me a subtle nod, as if saying “We got this.”

Not sure where he gets that idea, but his confidence isn’t unattractive. Dammit.

“You can use anything from your packs except your tents, and you should use plenty of materials found in your natural surroundings. Get creative! You will have two hours to work on your shelters, but you won’t be able to make alterations after that, so you’ll need to ensure yours will adequately shield both partners from the elements and stay standing overnight. I’ll be judging the suitability of your shelters in the morning. Without further ado…Ready, set, adventure!”

Some of the other teams immediately run off into the forest, taking me back to the Great Backpack Scramble of day one. I’m about to do the same, not even sure where I’d be running to, but Finn’s hand clasps mine and keeps me in place. A small gasp leaves my lips, and I tell myself it’s the surprise of his hand rather than the feeling of his skin touching mine.

Very chill.

“I think we should start by finding a good tree we can build around. How does that sound?” he asks.

My eyelids flutter, and I’m annoyingly preoccupied with the way he hasn’t released my hand. Is this just a thing we do now? But more importantly, he immediately asked my opinion on how we should execute a challenge. I could make a big deal over it, and a couple days ago, I might have. But for once in my life, I don’t feel like choosing sass.

“Uh, yeah, that sounds good to me,” I answer with a nod.

“Good.” He gives my hand a quick squeeze before waving for me to follow him farther into the woods as he slings his pack onto his shoulder.

It quickly becomes apparent that I have no idea what constitutes “a good tree.” I think I’m learning how Charlie Brown felt in his Christmas special, when all his friends roasted the shit out of him for his dinky little sapling. Finn is, fortunately, gentler about it.

“Let’s look for one with a wider trunk that we could lean branches against,” he says about the thin birch I first point out, way too proud of myself for the new tree identification skills I’ve gleaned from my AT info books.

At my next attempt, a big oak tree: “That might be a little too wide, if we want to tie anything around it to secure it, you know?”

“Maybe one that’s a little less”—he holds his forearm out at about a forty-five-degree angle in front of the beech tree that is rather lopsided— “Leaning Tower of Tree-sa?”

A shocked laugh sputters out of me at the joke. “Finn Markum,” I say amid unstoppable giggles, pushing back the hair whipping chaotically around my head. “Was that a nature pun?!”

His cheeks go pink. “I think you know the answer to that,” he says sheepishly, turning to resume scanning the forest for our perfect shelter tree.

“I know, I just—I kind of can’t believe my ears,” I continue in wonder.

“Well, be-leaf it,” he replies with no inflection, not looking my way as he walks off.

I stand there gaping for a second before jogging to catch up with him, more surprised laughter bubbling up. “Are you kidding me with this!”

“Nope. This tree will work.” Finn comes to a stop in front of the sturdy trunk of a sugar maple, its lowest branches hanging at about his height.

“I’m sorry,” I say, holding up a hand as I bend at the waist to try to contain my hysteria. “I’m gonna need a second before I can focus on the challenge again.”

He drops his pack and kneels to start digging through it. “Pine by me.”

“STOP,” I wheeze, the belly laughs coming out full-force. “Who even are you right now? Has this awful dad humor been lurking right beneath the surface all along?”

Finn shrugs as he pulls out his rolled-up hammock and the straps used to hang it. “I’m normally more of a subtle, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it joke guy, but I’m trying to branch out.”

“Oh! My! God!” I skip to close the few feet of space between us, then grab him by the shoulders and give him a shake. “Real Finn, if you’re still in there somewhere, blink twice. Better yet, growl a passive-aggressive insult at me. I’m concerned aliens have replaced you with a Finn look-alike who learned human communication from a dollar store joke book, and I don’t know if production will still let me win without my original partner.”

Something about that finally breaks him. The serious mask slips completely, and not only is he smiling—with teeth!—but he lets out that deep, rumbling laugh. And doesn’t stop. I have to sit down beside him as his laugh gets me going again, and we’re both leaning against the tree, clutching our stomachs. It’s not even that his puns were that funny—god, they weren’t—but it’s like some last bit of tension between us has finally broken down, and I think we both feel it.

“Whew, okay, we should really get to it,” Finn says breathlessly, slowly getting to his feet before holding out a hand to help me do the same. I grasp it and, not expecting him to pull me up so swiftly and easily, stumble toward him a step, putting a hand to his firm chest to stop me from crashing into him yet again.

“Don’t worry,” I say breezily, giving his chest a pat as I take a step back. “We have plant-y of time.”

The wordplay ridiculousness goes on for the rest of the afternoon as we build our shelter, even as it proves more challenging than expected, with the wind repeatedly blowing down anything we set up. Nearby, I sense other teams getting frustrated, hear voices rise and many a frustrated groan. But it’s like Finn and I have built a little force field of good spirits, one I couldn’t have imagined as a possibility days ago. We collect downed branches to make a lean-to structure against the tree trunk, calmly discussing our approach until every so often, one of us works in a new nature/tree/forest-related pun, and we’re lost to the giggles again.

For some reason, the cheesiness of this back-and-forth with Finn does not make me feel like puking. Not in the least. Which shows that something is seriously wrong with me. Did he really look that good with his shirt off? Is there some kind of syndrome you can develop from being isolated with one other human in somewhat extreme circumstances in which you start to mistake the most basic signs of human decency as attractive qualities of a potential mate? I think I have that.

But I’m also feeling less and less inclined to find a cure.