Wild About You

Chapter Eighteen

Finn turns out to be quite the capable actor in the role of Calm, Collected Guy Who Has Not Kissed The Hell Out Of Natalie, just as I’m crushing the role of Calm, Collected Girl Who Didn’t Melt Down Over Her Email Inbox This Morning. We chatted and laughed with the producers over breakfast—well, Finn didn’t do much of the latter, but I’m selfishly glad I have the monopoly on his ridiculous ho-ho-hos—then piled into a van and headed back to the trail. I was even able to take advantage of the good cell service before we had to give our phones back, googling “what to do if you get your period while camping.” The results were surprisingly helpful in mentally planning some practical aspects of my next few days.

Back at the clearing where the rest of the group is waiting with Burke Forrester, ready to kick off our next challenge, it’s both like a month has passed in twenty-four hours and like we never left at all.

“Finn, Natalie, welcome back!” Burke bellows once cameras are rolling. “How was your getaway? Relaxing?”

Yes and no, I think, a little shiver running down my spine as I remember the heart-pounding experience of getting acquainted with Finn’s lips, hands, body. But I also slept better in that big, cushy bed than I ever have or will in a tent.

So I answer with that part. Some of the others groan and call out their envy, so I grimace and try to look apologetic. I don’t think I pull it off.

“Well, I’m glad you’ve been able to rest and restore your energy, because you’re gonna need it for today’s challenge!”

Burke, bless his plastic little heart, is not exaggerating. We get our maps for the first leg and set off with gusto, all the teams packed close together as we hike to the next challenge site on the main AT. I don’t know if it’s the night away coloring my perception, or maybe how poorly things went for most everyone during the shelter-building challenge, but it feels like there’s a new bite in the air today, some extra layer of intensity and competitiveness between the remaining pairs. It could just be because there are fewer teams remaining—Enemi and Zeke, Karim and Max, Meena and Cammie, Evan and Harper, and Finn and me—and this is usually the point at which Wild Adventures picks up the pace, with more strenuous challenges and more frequent eliminations. That $100,000 is closer than ever.

But in the middle of it all, Finn and I are jog-hiking through the forest like a couple of happy Smurfs. It’s a little absurd.

“Okay,” I say, pressing a hand to the stitch in my side. Hard to say if it’s from the jogging, the laughing at Finn’s Burke Forrester impression, or my body doing its semi-regular preparation for the baby I don’t want in this decade. “(A) Can we slow down for a few, please, just a little, so I have some reserves left by the time we make it to the actual challenge?” I step to the side of the trail to lean against a tree, reaching up to click off my GoPro for the ten-minute-break privilege I haven’t used often. I nod for Finn to do the same, and once he does, whisper, “And (b) you’re gonna need to grunt or grumble something at me at some point while I’m filming today, or else viewers are gonna think you’ve been body-snatched.”

Finn leans on the tree beside me, not seeming to care about the gap between us and the rest of the teams widening as they keep walking. We know this challenge doesn’t hinge on the order we arrive at the site, as long as we all make it by the given start time, so we don’t need to out-hike anyone on this leg. He takes a sip from his water bottle, reminding me I should do the same, and stows it back in his pack before replying. “I haven’t been that bad.” When I just raise an eyebrow at him, he goes on. “Anyway, aliens couldn’t touch this body. It’s for your hands only.”

I spew the entire sip of water I just took onto the dirt in front of us. Finn’s laughter mixes with my hacking and coughing, echoing through the trees. When I can breathe again, I smack a hand against his taut stomach.

“You have got to warn me when Saucy Finn is making an appearance. My fragile being can’t handle it!”

He swings an arm around my shoulders and pulls me to his side, pressing a quick kiss to my temple. It’s so brief, so casually affectionate, and so so nice that I’ve lost my breath in a wholly different way than a moment ago. Definitely worth letting the others walk on without us.

“Your feedback has been received and will be passed on to Saucy Finn for future reference.”

My lungs don’t feel quite capable of taking a full breath for the rest of our hike, but I might just have to accept that as normal around Finn now. He has me on my toes, off my game, giving me butterflies like no one else has since my first middle school crush. And he makes it look so effortless.

It takes a conscious effort to force my mind back to the competition. My whole reason for being here. Not the guy holding the map alongside me and how good his forearms look while he does it.

My attention is easily reclaimed, however, when we make it to the tall, concrete structure that has clearly been commandeered for a Wild Adventures challenge. I have to tip my head all the way back to see to the very top. It’s about the height of my four-story dorm at Oliver, and looks like some kind of observation tower, capped with a round platform that looks out over the trees. People are up there, presumably hikers and tourists taking in the views from half of the platform, but the other half is empty, save for a couple familiar-looking Wild Adventures crew and a bunch of ropes that hang over the edge, equally spaced from one another and trailing all the way to the ground. My stomach lurches, not loving where this is heading.

We circle up with the other groups around Burke Forrester and the crew, who must’ve jet-packed over here to beat us hikers, and the camera operators start filming.

“Welcome to Kuwahi,” Burke announces. “This is the highest point on the entire Appalachian Trail, at an elevation of 6,643 feet. Today’s challenge is all about embracing that peak, the height to which we’ve all climbed.”

I look up at the tower again with a grimace.

“Behind me is the Kuwahi fire tower, built in 1959 by the National Park Service. It serves a variety of purposes, from allowing park rangers to spot forest fires to collecting data about unique weather patterns in the area. And at a height of fifty-four feet, it allows visitors to see views that, on a clear day, can be up to a hundred miles away. But we won’t be enjoying the scenery just yet.”

Has Burke’s smile grown more menacing with each challenge, or is it just me?

“Our challenge is called It’s Raining Co-Eds. Each member of your team will put on a harness and helmet, and receive a rain gauge that can hold ten inches of water. Taking turns with your partner, you will each climb up a ladder shared with the other teams to the top of the fire tower, fill your gauge with water, and hold it as you rappel back down the rope designated for your team, trying not to spill. Back on the ground, you’ll pour your water into your team’s bucket, which will hold eighty inches of rainfall—the annual average here—when filled to the orange line. Continue climbing the ladder, getting more water, rappelling down, pouring into the bucket, until the bucket is filled. The order in which teams finish will determine the order of your staggered go times to hike to the checkpoint tomorrow. Any questions?”

Yes, who the hell thinks of challenges like this?

It’s a free-for-all once Burke gives us the go-ahead. Everyone scrambles to grab a harness and helmet, put them on with the help of the trained climbing and rappelling professionals who will hopefully lessen our chance of dying, and get one member of each team racing to the top of this tower. Zeke is first on the ladder, swiftly but carefully making his way up. Meena is a few rungs behind him, and Max just got his harness clipped into the mechanism on the side of the ladder that’ll keep us from falling. I’m last in line, thanking my lucky stars that while I have a lot of fears, heights aren’t one of them. I can’t say the same for Harper, though, as I realize her small body is trembling while she waits her turn.

Her feet don’t move closer to the ladder’s base as Max begins to climb.

“Harps?” I prod softly. I know paralyzing fear well. “You good?”

“No,” she says back, voice wobbly for the first time I’ve ever heard, barely audible through the cacophony of cheering and encouragement from competitors on the ground and the spectators watching from the part of the overlook still open to the public. I know a fierce competitor shouldn’t get stalled by this, should say “screw friendship,” jump in front of Harper and get a move on, but it feels wrong. Finally, she steps forward. “But Ev’s scared of heights, too, so we’re shit out of luck.”

With that, she allows the crew member to hook her harness onto the ladder and takes her first step up. I can only gape while I wait to start behind her. That is badass. And brave. And oh damn, it’s my turn, and am I sure I’m not afraid of heights?

As I begin to climb, I confirm that I’m not. I wish my anxious brain was sensible enough to have such a valid fear. Instead, it’s decided to panic that I’ll forget how to climb a ladder midway, that my foot is gonna slip on one of the rungs and cause me to twist my ankle, or hit my face on the rung above me as I step up, and just like that, I’ll be out of the competition. All very reasonable injuries to worry over, I know, but I can’t stop thinking through them.

So of course, after I finally make it to the top and collect my water, my rain gauge–holding hand is a shaky mess when I rappel back down.

“I’m sorry,” I say to Finn when I dump my first tube of water in our bucket, and it only measures five inches.

“It’s all good,” he says as he jogs toward the ladder for his turn. “We’ll get the hang of it.”

And he does quickly, coming down his first time with eight and a half inches of water and managing to get ahead of Karim and Max as Karim clumsily tosses his water over the edge while clipping onto the rappelling rope, some of it splashing a couple producers on the ground. He has to unclip and get more water before starting down, putting him behind even a clearly petrified Evan.

My next turn, I do better with six and a half inches, while Finn has an almost-full gauge on his second try. But the third go-around, I fumble while pouring the water into the bucket, nearly losing everything I came down with.

On my next turn, so close to filling our bucket, I feel the pressure as I start up the ladder. I’ve had to stop focusing on what order we’re all in, as I can’t tell how full everyone’s buckets are or how much water they’re spilling each time or who’s lapped me when I wasn’t looking. I try to focus on doing the best I can and tuning out all the mayhem around me. Going up the ladder is still the hardest part, and the rungs shaking every time someone new starts climbing behind me makes it all the more nerve-racking. As a result, I’m all the more careful with each step I take.

“You’re doing great, Nat,” Finn calls from the ground. He doesn’t sound like he’s yelling, but his rumbly voice is distant enough that I’m probably pretty high up. I wouldn’t know, as my eyes won’t focus on anything but my hands and feet.

“You’re welcome to go faster any time, though. Seriously. Totally an option,” a grating, higher-pitched voice chimes in. Enemi, living up to her nickname today.

I’m choosing to ignore her, mostly out of inability to multitask. Finn, apparently, is not.

“Hey, shut it. She’s not moving any slower than your teammate.”

I nearly miss a rung in surprise.

Enemi scoffs. I’m pretty sure, anyway, though she could’ve just choked on a bug. Wouldn’t be mad about the latter. “And as you might have noticed, I’m pushing just as hard for my teammate to pick up his pace.”

“That’s between you and him,” he barks. “Just leave mine alone.”

I almost gasp out loud. Mine. I know the word is literally referring to me as his teammate. But the heart-eyed fool within me wants to hear it a little differently. I should probably splash said fool in the face with some fake rainwater. But what’s the harm in letting myself be a teensy bit smitten, if only deep down on the inside?

Actually, I don’t want the answer to that.

At the top, I continue to ignore the stunning vista from Kuwahi, single-minded in filling up my rain gauge and getting it to the ground. I hold it close to my chest in one hand as a crew member helps me clip my harness to the rope, and I use my free hand to guide myself down. Every ounce of my attention is on keeping this water as steady as possible, and my descent is extra slow in the effort to do so.

When I pour what’s left into the bucket on the ground, it’s worth it.

“Fifty-one inches!” I cheer. “If we can get three more almost-full, we’ll get there!”

Finn doesn’t even point out that he can do mental math, thank you, as he’s running away. We’ve come so far.

He quickly and gracefully climbs the ladder and reappears a few moments later to bring his full rain gauge down. As I watch, I try to take deep, calming breaths, to press my palms flat to my thighs in the hopes that they’ll decide to be steady. I take a drink from my water bottle, because the Big Water agenda is always telling me it solves everything. Why not try?

Finn nails it again, then gives me a pat on the back as I head off for what I hope is my last trip up. The contact, while brief, sends a surge of pleasure through me. He’s on my team, literally but also more than that. He believes in me. And he should, because I’ve totally got this. I repeat it to myself, my racing heart, and my wobbly ankles the whole way up.

At the top, I hear cheering that I’m pretty sure is Enemi; she only makes sounds that joyful when she’s won a challenge. Dammit. I fill my rain gauge and prepare to rappel down once more, but once I’m clipped to the rope, I notice Harper standing by her rope beside mine, clutching her rain gauge close to her chest. She looks out toward the view but I don’t think she’s really seeing it, every muscle in her face tense as she takes slow, deliberate breaths.

I’m so close. I should finish this out and check on her later. But I haven’t forgotten what she and Evan did for me in that cooking challenge, and how she’s been just the kind of steady support I’ve needed from the start, before she knew anything about me, before Finn was giving me any of that.

“Harper,” I say, and her head jerks my way, her expression still hard and unsettled. “Let’s go down together, okay?”

Her breath whistles between her gritted teeth, and she seems so frustrated with herself as her eyes drift to the side that my heart breaks a little. “It should get easier after doing it this many times, shouldn’t it? I need to get my shit together. I spill, like, half the water every time.”

I reach my hand out on instinct. “Let me take your water too, then. Come on.”

Harper’s shoulders slump, her chin dips, every inch of her emanating embarrassment. “You don’t need to do that. I—I’ll get there.”

“I know I don’t have to, but it’s probably my last chance to offer and your last to take me up on it, so.” I try to look flippant, like I couldn’t care less if she lets me return the generosity she’s extended to me. “What’ll it be?”

My descent is a blur, two full rain gauges clutched in one of my hands, and I only vaguely register Harper starting her way down beside me with two free hands and nothing to stress about this time but getting to the ground. I pass off one of the gauges to a confused Evan then run to my own confused partner and our bucket, pouring the last of my water to get us to roughly seventy and one-quarter inches. It all comes down to Finn.

So of course, he delivers, and we finish in third behind Zeke and Enemi and Meena and Cammie. When we get the official stamp of approval on our full bucket, Finn picks me up in one of his tight, squeezing hugs again, but this time, it’s a struggle not to wrap my legs around his waist and kiss the smile from his handsome face.

In fact, I find it hard to resist that impulse even when he’s not hugging me, all through the end of the challenge—where Karim and Max narrowly beat out Harper and Evan—to setting up our campsite a while later in a nearby clearing with the other teams, and the campfire dinner with the whole exhausted group.

My craving for Finn’s affection is briefly sidetracked by affection from a different source, when Harper and Evan catch me in a two-sided hug sandwich while I’m assembling a s’more for dessert. I don’t feel entirely deserving, considering they still came in last place, but who am I to look a gift hug in the mouth, and all that? Especially from Harper, known Not-A-Hugger, who tells me she’s making the exception for “these extenuating circumstances.” The embrace makes me feel warmer than the fires I find myself near most nights. It also makes me realize how much I’ve been aching for this kind of platonic affection, which I had gotten so used to growing up with my two best friends. Not just out here on the trail, but for most of the past year.

I’m tapped out of energy, both emotional and physical, by bedtime. But looking at my partner, thinking of our entire day together and all the time we haven’t spent kissing since leaving the hotel, I’m struck again, intensely, by the want coursing through me. Want to be near him, hold his hand, press my face into his neck, feel his grip on my waist, and so. Much. More.

I’m buzzing as much as my electric toothbrush when I finish my nightly routine and go back toward our tent. The area we’re camping in is more wooded than some of the others, and I’m glad we’re separated from neighboring tents by several trees on all sides. Not that I’m planning on mauling Finn or anything, but even whispered sweet nothings feel risky when all that stands between you and another team is a little thin nylon and two feet of air.

“You in there?” I ask softly into the darkness as I start to unzip the side flap. There’s no headlamp or e-reader glowing from inside, but Finn never takes longer to get ready than I do.

“Yep,” he answers. “Been making the bed.”

I give a confused laugh as I pull the flap open and crawl inside. When I grab for the top of my sleeping bag, it doesn’t pull down as easily as normal.

“What did you…?” The material swish-swishes as I feel around, followed by Finn’s stifled laugh when I connect with his torso under the bag.

“Stop, stop,” he chuckles, and his hand reaches out to clasp mine and halt its roaming. “I, ah, zipped our sleeping bags together to make one mega bag. I thought it might be kinda fun, but also know it’s goofy and might not be comfortable for the whole night, and it’s okay if you don’t want to keep it this way.”

I hope it’s too dark for him to see my unstoppable toothy smile. Talk about goofy.

“Uh, obviously we’re keeping it,” I squeak as I scramble to the top of the mega sleeping bag and slide my feet in. Finn unzips it part of the way and helps me wriggle down next to him before zipping us in. “Well isn’t this cozy! We’re like…like two hermit crabs sharing a shell.”

I can barely make out the amusement flickering across Finn’s face when he says, “I don’t think hermit crabs do that, do they?”

“Okay, two joeys in a mama kangaroo’s pouch.”

He winces. “So we’re siblings? Yikes.”

“All right, fine,” I huff. “If you insist on being this way, we’ll go with two peas in a pod. My mistake for trying to be original.”

His hand finds my waist, slides around to my back and pulls me in to rest against his chest. I bring an arm up to loop around his neck and idly run my fingers through the short hair on the back of his head.

“I don’t think you could be unoriginal if you tried,” Finn whispers. Then finally, his lips are on mine.

A strange kind of relief flows through me as it feels like we pick up right where we left off. Like our chemistry and connection wasn’t a fluke spurred by a luxurious getaway from our real lives or, I don’t know, the romantic power of mini golf. It’s still here in our tiny tent and every bit as magical as before.

When we pull apart to catch our breath, Finn rolls to his back and I rest my head on his shoulder like it’s as natural for us as poking fun at each other. His fingers toy with the ends of my hair while I trace small circles over his chest with my pinky.

“You know,” I whisper sleepily after a while of listening to nothing but the sounds of the forest. “King beds are nice and all. But there’s something to be said for pea pods.”

Finn’s laugh is soft and just as weighed down with tiredness. “Hermit crab shells.”

“Kangaroo pouches.” I smile as my eyes fall closed.

But I’m jostled a few minutes later. I see Finn reaching for the sweatshirt he always puts over his head while he sleeps, subtly enough that I know he’s trying not to wake me, and I frown. “Why do you need that?”

He practically jumps through the tent roof. “Shit, I thought you were asleep already!”

“Almost, but I felt you sneaking away and got curious. Are you freaked out by forest noises too?”

I can faintly make out the tense lines of his face as he re-situates himself in the sleeping bag. “Not really. Is that why you wanted me to sleep in the tent with you that first time?”

“Yeah,” I admit, but it doesn’t feel as scary given all the other things he knows about me already. “Wait, we’re not talking about me. What’s with the sweatshirt?”

There’s a long pause before he deflates a little, blowing a heavy breath toward the ceiling. “I don’t know how to tell you this, Natalie, but…” He stops long enough for my heart to seize with fear. “You snore. Loudly.”

Now I’m the one to flail-jump in shock. “I—you—why didn’t you tell me sooner?!”

Finn rubs a hand over his head. “I don’t know! It’s mostly fine when I cover my ears with something, and I didn’t want you to worry about it.”

“Well, a lot of good that did both of us! I’m so sorry, I didn’t know. I mean, I know I used to, but I thought it had gone away because I asked my roommate about it once and she said she never heard anything, but maybe the air quality is better at Oliver or there’s less pollen up there or something, and being back in the South for the summer, it must’ve come back. I should’ve expected as much, I guess. Or you could’ve just told me, but—”

“Nat.” He reaches over and finds my hand in our cocoon, linking our fingers together. “It’s not a big deal. Seriously. This is why I didn’t want to tell you. And anyway, I’ve gotten comfortable sleeping this way. I’ll probably start doing it when I’m back home too.”

I can hear the crooked smile in his voice and I huff out an exasperated sound in response. This just won’t do.

“Hang on,” I bark. I stomp out of the tent, ignoring his protests as I walk to my pack and dig through it for my toiletry bag. Inside, I grab a couple cotton pads. Who would’ve thought these would come in handy for so many situations out here?

“Here,” I shove them at Finn when I’m back in the tent. “Ball these up and stuff them in your ears. You can tear them in half if they’re too big. Just—quit doing the sweatshirt thing. If you’re going to suffocate yourself with your own outerwear, I don’t want it on my conscience.”

Finn tries to stifle his laughter, shaking his head in a what-am-I-gonna-do-with-you way. I’ve gotten that head shake a lot in my life, but never has it looked so very adoring. He tears one of the cotton pads in two and balls up each half before placing them in his ears, just as instructed. Mission accomplished, I lie back down.

“I’m still mad you didn’t tell me,” I grumble as I roll onto my side so my back is facing him. “This isn’t over.”

My eyelids are already heavy again when I hear Finn’s sleepy murmured response, feel his arm wrap around my middle and pull me closer as he tucks himself behind me. “Good. I hope it’s not over for a long time yet.”