Wild About You

Chapter Fourteen

By the time our two hours are up, Finn and I have proven to ourselves that we totally could’ve survived all this time without our tent. Tents are for the unadventurous. The conventional, inside-the-box thinkers.

Our shelter is badass. It’s built from fallen branches and sticks no bigger than my arm leaning against the tree at an angle to form a little upside-down cone. Finn wrapped the hammock straps around the trunk and the top of the sticks for extra stability. And over the top of it all, we’ve draped the hammock itself as a roof and gigantic windbreaker.

The camera crew that stopped by every so often to film our progress is almost certainly convinced Finn and I foraged some psychedelic shrooms. They’ve never seen our team communicate that much, let alone laugh till we both have the hiccups. And it certainly wasn’t the general vibe of the teams today. The wind was our common enemy. Daniel and Luis’s shelter is already half collapsed by the time we’re gathering around the campfire for dinner.

The collective mood has darkened since this morning, it seems to me, while we build our own burritos with campfire-cooked ingredients. I’m tempted to get another sing-along going but can read a metaphorical room. I’m glad to see, at least, that Finn has plenty of filling veg options to eat, and even though I totally lied about having a burrito daydream this morning, the meal is highly satisfying. Afterward, we all sit around the fire, eating our feelings in the form of “mountain pies,” which are essentially s’mores ingredients folded up into leftover tortillas. The marshmallow-chocolate combo is a classic for a reason. Zeke makes an absolute massacre of the three he consumes, the lower half of his face covered in a big ring of chocolate by the time he’s done. This, at last, breaks some of the tension, everyone dissolving into laughter when he turns to Harper and asks so innocently, “Do I have anything on my face?”

I’m grateful for the levity, and when I see the secret smile Zeke tries to hide behind a napkin, I suspect the big guy knew exactly what he was doing.

When we all split off and turn in for bed, sleep comes easier than I expect. I settle into a comfy spot in my sleeping bag inside our little lean-to, shut my eyes, and drift right off before Finn’s even put his e-reader away, apparently too worn out to anxious-spiral about anything.

Unfortunately, I’m woken up some unknown amount of time later by the soft howl of the wind. Normally I’d roll over and go right back to sleep. But I can’t once I realize that Finn’s sleeping bag is empty beside me.

Most likely, he just went out to pee. It’s still pitch-black outside, and I don’t feel rested enough for more than a few hours to have passed. He’ll come right back, I’m sure.

That’s what everyone whose partner goes missing in the woods thinks, a voice in my brain whispers. I decide to wait up until he gets back. Not that I could fall back asleep now, anyway. My heart is racing too much, my mind running through all the ways Finn could’ve met his demise on the other side of these dead tree branch walls. Walls that feel like they’re closing in on me, tighter with every minute he’s gone.

After a beat, I dig out my satellite phone and check the time. You know, for when the police ask me later. 1:58 a.m.

To occupy myself, I find my headlamp, turn it on, and survey our small shelter space. His sleeping bag is here, boots are gone. Sweatshirt he always has over his head when he sleeps is sitting on the sleeping bag along with his e-reader.

I check the time. 1:59. Cool, cool, cool.

I don’t want to sneak up on the guy while he’s doing bathroom business in the middle of the night. In fact, I don’t really want to leave my semblance of a safe haven at all. But how shitty will I feel for the rest of my life if he’s somewhere out there, incapacitated, about to become a family of black bears’ midnight snack, and instead of helping him, I spent the whole night twiddling my thumbs and playing the world’s dullest game of I Spy with his belongings?

It’s time to put on my Brave Girl Britches. Before I can talk myself out of it—which would be so, so easy—I shimmy out of my sleeping bag, tug on my boots, and step outside. And instantly get full-body chills. So I duck back into the shelter and grab the first warm thing I see, which happens to be Finn’s sweatshirt.

Totally because it’s the first thing I saw. Not because I am a simple woman who, when presented with an opportunity to wear a hot guy’s sweatshirt, will take it every time. I pull it on, the worn, soft cotton immediately soothing. It smells like Finn and the forest, which is when I realize those scents are almost interchangeable to me. Fresh air and campfire. I pull the collar up over my nose and breathe it in like it’s my new lavender rollerball.

I’m fine. I’m safe. I don’t have a childish fear of the big bad woods that hasn’t gone away after a week out here.

With the dim light from the lowest setting on my headlamp illuminating the way, I head toward the rocky overlook where we ate and hung out as a group earlier. I scan the woods from side to side as I walk, watching out for anything that resembles a tall human.

No luck…until there is. My whole body slumps with relief when I see the back of Finn’s Eat More Plants T-shirt. He’s sitting on the ground near the edge of the overlook, broad shoulders hunched with his arms resting on his bent legs in front of him. I focus all my attention on his familiar form as I approach, on the fact that he appears safe, whole, unharmed. I take a couple long, deep breaths, in and out, but still feel antsy. This feelings fog is chronic.

He must hear my boots approaching, because he suddenly sits up straight, spine going rigid, and…wipes at his face?

“Enjoying the view?” I joke as I plop myself down beside him and click off my headlamp. Then, as my eyes adjust, my chest tightens. Because Finn’s face is tear-streaked, and he doesn’t look okay.

Before I can ask, though, he answers, voice watery. “I am, actually. Good night for stars.”

I realize that I haven’t even really looked. So I turn to see what he means, and it’s like the entire sky is suddenly open before me. An endless expanse of deep blue-black dotted with masses of glittering stars. More than I’ve been able to see in a long time, maybe ever, even at home on the farm.

“Whoa,” I say on an exhale.

“Best part of camping,” Finn whispers back. It’s like we’re afraid to be too loud, to make any sudden movements and scare the stars away. I am, at least. Things as perfect as this night sky surely can’t last.

“Really?” I murmur back. “I think it’s carrying around my own used toilet paper.”

He snorts. “A close second.”

We sit there without speaking for a while, watching the stars like a movie with the night noise of the forest as a soundtrack. I’m wondering if he’s going to tell me why he was crying—why, I think from my peripheral vision, he still is—or if we’re both going to pretend it didn’t happen. Of course, I’ve never been great at subtlety.

“So did one of the stars insult your backpacking wardrobe? Because I’ll beat them up for you. I really will. The khakis have grown on me.”

I steal a glance at Finn and find his face creased with quiet laughter as he swipes more tears from his cheeks.

“The stars didn’t do anything to me,” he says on a sigh. “I, uh, I couldn’t sleep. Got to thinking too much about my dad. Thought I’d come out here and visit with him.”

Oh.I still, not wanting a single fidgety movement of mine to distract from whatever he needs in this moment.

“I don’t know what I believe happens after you die,” he goes on in his low, calming rumble. “If his spirit is still out there somewhere, if he’s watching from on high or whatever. But what I do know are my memories with him when he was alive. We used to camp a lot in the Green Mountains. We’d go year-round, but the best times were clear summer nights when the sky would get dark and absolutely fill with stars. I’d stay up long past my bedtime, Dad and I pointing out constellations to each other. Do you know many constellations?”

Startled at being invited into this walk down Finn’s memory lane, I have to think about it for a second. I vaguely remember taking a field trip in elementary school to a planetarium in the next town over. It’s been a minute. “Hmm, I know the guy with the belt, and a couple of ladles that are also bears.”

Finn laughs. “Right, yep. Those are the official names.”

“I also know I’m a Scorpio,” I add with an air of superiority. “And—wait, when’s your birthday?”

“December twenty-seventh.”

“And that you’re a Capricorn.”

“Now you’re just showing off.”

I hear the smile in his voice and smile back into the darkness.

“Well, my favorite constellation is Ursa Major—the Big Dipper, aka the ladle that’s also a bear,” he continues. “I think at first I liked it because it was usually easy to find, and we’d try to locate it first, but then my dad…he kind of made it a whole thing. The big bear was him and the little bear, or Ursa Minor, was me. I guess it means even more to me now.”

I feel a lump in my throat, and it’s getting harder to keep my smile and voice from wobbling. “I take it you found the Big Dipper out here?”

If that’s an answer any old one-time-planetarium-visitor should know, Finn doesn’t act like it. He just nods and leans back to rest on one elbow, pointing with the other out at the sky. “Over there. See the four corners? And the handle…” I follow his finger and sure enough, I see it. “It’s made up of circumpolar stars—always visible in the Northern Hemisphere. Barring, you know, trees in the way, or light pollution or whatnot. So I knew I’d probably see it if I went stargazing here, I just…hadn’t. Until tonight.”

I nod, leaning back onto my elbows beside him. “You hadn’t, because it makes you think of your dad?”

Finn seems to consider it, then shakes his head. “No. I guess I just hadn’t felt like it. I don’t have to avoid things that make me think of him, because honestly, I’m always thinking of him. It’s pointless to try not to. But I don’t always feel so…despairing about it anymore? Like, I can get through my days without feeling like I’m swimming through a thick cloud of grief at all times. I can feel happy. But then something will hit me in a certain way, and I’m pulled under again and have to just ride it out. Tonight is one of those.”

I hear him sniffle, and without thinking too much about it, I reach out to offer his own sweatshirt sleeve. He gives a sad chuckle. “I’m good, thanks.” He exhales heavily. “Today was a really good day, and sometimes I think the good days are weirdly harder. When things happen that I wish I could tell him about, or that I wish I could experience with him, and I just get so mad and sad and heartbroken all over again that none of that is possible.”

He isn’t trying to wipe away the tears now. It’s humbling, the fact that he’s telling me any of this, let alone letting me sit in the sadness with him. “It’s times like this that I wish I believed in heaven. That would probably be so comforting, to think I’d get to see him again someday if I play all my cards right, spend eternity together. But I settle for talking to the Big Dipper. Rage crying under the stars.” He shrugs. “There are worse ways to cope.”

“Definitely,” I say with my own sniffle. I don’t want to wipe my gross tear-snot on his sweatshirt, so I pull my T-shirt hem out from under it and use that to dry off my face. Not that I’m done with the tears and snot yet. “You could be putting up an unhealthy mental wall to prevent yourself from thinking about your person or dealing with their loss at all for, oh, four years, until you suddenly realize you can’t put it off anymore and it’s been making you really sad all this time anyway and you should maybe do something about that before you emotionally implode. It’s good you’re not doing that.”

Finn nudges me with his elbow. “You say you put a wall up, but you got a whole tattoo in her honor. You’ve gotten yourself to theater school, like you dreamed about with her. You’ve been keeping her with you, even if you feel like you pushed her memory out completely for a while there. Grieving also requires us to go full survival mode sometimes.”

I swipe at my cheeks again, forgetting this time and using Finn’s sleeve anyway. “Survival mode, huh? Who says I wasn’t prepared for Wild Adventures after all?”

I smirk at him playfully, but Finn’s smile back is a little weak.

“Natalie, about that. I need to apologize to you,” he says, voice solemn.

His pained gaze turns to the stars as he rubs a hand over his head. Wanting to ease whatever’s making him feel bad, I almost ask, “For all the puns earlier?” But I refrain.

“I know I’ve been…difficult to work with. To put it lightly.” A quiet laugh huffs out of him. I look back up at the sky again, not wanting him to feel the pressure of my gaze. “I’m really sorry for all of it. It took a while to realize how much it’s been affecting me—the difference between my past hopes and expectations for Wild Adventures, my dad being here with me, versus the way things have turned out.

“I was never gonna come here and just…have a fresh, fun, dad-free experience. I’ve been constantly thinking of how x, y, and z would have been different if I was doing this with Dad. So I think I was primed to not like you because you aren’t him. Everything about you that was or is different from him was like a personal offense. When all along, in reality, so many of those qualities are what make you incredible. You’ve been the most accepting, open, down-for-whatever partner, or companion, or friend I could’ve asked for. I just wasn’t asking for anyone but him.”

I feel his gaze turn to me again, so I look back at him. “So…yeah. I’m sorry, and it’s completely my shit to keep working on, and I never should’ve punished you for that.”

Well, fuck.

The tears in my eyes spill over, tracking down my cheeks and blurring the sky behind Finn into an abstract painting of darkness and light. I definitely wasn’t expecting this tonight—or maybe ever.

“I…Thanks, Finn,” I say, trying again to hide the wobble in my voice. “That makes complete sense to me. Grief is a uniquely awful experience, and I bet everyone going through it says and does things they aren’t proud of sometimes.”

Finn sits up and reaches out a hand to me. I accept it, and he gives mine a squeeze. “And I’m sorry I keep making you cry. I’ll try to stop being such a downer.”

I laugh in spite of myself. “No, no, you didn’t—I’m not crying because of you.” I tip my head from side to side. “Well, I am, but I’m not. I just hate it that your dad isn’t here and you didn’t get to do this with him. I’d give up my spot in a heartbeat if it meant you could have that. You should’ve had it, and it’s not fair that the universe or cancer or whatever we want to blame took it away.”

My eyes stay locked on his.

“But also, it’s…I don’t know that anyone’s ever apologized for taking something out on me that isn’t my fault, even though now I understand where you were coming from. It means a whole lot.”

It’s an understatement, but I think he gets that. With so many of my issues with my parents, it’s clear the way they treat me—their resentment, bitterness, whatever—comes from their own unhappiness. It took me a long time to get to that realization, and I’m not sure they ever will. And it seems like a hell of a long shot that they’ll ever acknowledge it to me. I can already feel the way Finn’s apology is healing something in me, patching up holes in my belief in my own worthiness of kindness, care, love.

His throat bobs, his eyes scanning my face for a long moment before he nods. It solidifies this new level of understanding between us, one I didn’t know I was missing, but that changes everything irreversibly.

Before long, we decide to head back to the shelter, each probably five pounds lighter in saltwater weight. It feels roomier than before, like a physical burden between us has been cleared. I return Finn’s sweatshirt ever so reluctantly, but I don’t even need it. I’m more comfortable than I’ve been anywhere, with anyone, in a very long time.