Wild About You

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Are you ready to be challenged in a way you’ve never been before?”

God, no, why, is what I want to groan back at Burke Forrester when he poses the question in the morning. Have I not been challenged enough the past couple days? Including last night, when Finn set up his hammock while I was off doing my bedtime routine. I returned to find the tent and my sleeping bag sitting out, sad and alone, in a space a couple yards from the two trees with a sulky man cocoon suspended between them. When I set them up and settled inside, also sad and alone, I could still see the light of Finn’s headlamp. I swear it shone through my eyelids when I closed them and tried to sleep, casually driving me to Edgar Allan Poe character madness. The Telltale Headlamp.

So yeah, Burkey Burke. Every bit of Wild Adventures has been a challenge like none I’ve had before. Why don’t you throw us a softball?

Finn stands behind me, stone-faced and cold. Yet I can actually physically feel the heat coming off of him, and it makes me want to curl against his side. Swallow my pride, say whatever I need to say to get us past this fight and on better terms. Cuddling terms. Kissing terms.

“It’s about to be a long, lonely night for each of you.” Well, then. After grumpily tucking away my scheme to regain any FDA (Finn Displays of Affection), I register what Burke has said. Lonely? My stomach sinks. He doesn’t mean…

“This challenge is called ‘The Lone Wolf.’ For the first part, each Co-EdVenturer will spend today and tonight alone. This will give you insight into the experiences of both early trailblazers on the AT, many of whom trekked uncharted territory on their own, as well as the modern solo thru-hiker. It might also show you what your teammate has really meant to you in this journey. After recent shake-ups, maybe this will help foster a new appreciation for your partner out here on this wild adventure. Or maybe…you’ll find you would’ve been better off as individuals.”

I gulp, then end up coughing as my throat feels too tight to swallow anything.

“You may divide resources however you want,” Burke goes on, “and you will have fifteen minutes to converse and sort out supplies between you before you’ll receive directions to your individual campsites. Your fifteen minutes begins…now!”

When I turn to Finn, the panic must be written all over my expression, as something in his own instantly softens. I guess I’ll take pity over hate, if I have to choose from the two.

“I’ll give you the tent,” he says, shrugging his pack down from his shoulders and opening it up.

“Oh,” is my answer, my mind already miles away, running through all the potential disasters that could come from me trying to live through the night by myself. Maybe Finn thinks I’ve come a long way in my time here, but does he really believe I’m at the Lone Wolf level of self-sufficient? Doubtful.

Without asking, he reaches down and unsnaps my pack’s hip straps, the feeling of his hand brushing my stomach making me suck in a breath. He doesn’t look up, but the way his jaw tenses makes me think he heard it anyway. He steps behind me and takes the pack from my back, setting it beside his on the ground and starting to sort out our supplies.

I’m unsettled, twitchy as he shifts provisions back and forth, but I can’t even bring myself to help, starting to pace instead. My mind is a roaring cacophony of no, why, no, I can’t, I won’t, don’t make me, this will end badly for all involved!

From what little I can process over my own mess of feelings, Finn seems unbothered by the prospect of a night apart. He’s probably relieved to get a break from me, from everything between us. We haven’t had any chance to talk this morning, or he hasn’t given us one. How can we get to the making up when we can’t get any time together? I don’t imagine this particular absence will make his heart grow fonder.

Lord knows what’s in my pack when he finally holds it up, all zipped shut again and ready for me to slide it on. I turn and slip my arms through the straps, but when I go to secure the hip belt, my hands shake too much to make the two sides of the buckle align right away. Finn notices, of course.

Behind us, producers are starting to round everyone back up, but Finn steps in front of me and puts his hands on my shoulders, keeping me firmly in place.

“Hey,” he says, ducking his head so we’re eye level, his earnest face filling my line of sight. “Listen. You can do this. You know everything you need to spend a night on your own. You have all the resources. You’ll be safe. If sleep doesn’t come easy, try reading a book. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I swallow against the rising emotion in my throat, feeling the stinging at the backs of my eyes. Unable to put words to all that’s rioting through me right now, I just nod.

We walk back to the group side by side, and I’m all too aware it might be the last time.

I am thiscloseto eating dry vegetable soup powder for dinner, and evencloser to a complete mental breakdown.

It’s unclear if this experience is making me appreciate Finn any more; I appreciated him plenty already. But it is giving me more empathy for the protagonists of that whole subgenre of psychological thrillers I call Morally Gray Woman Lives Alone, Watches Neighbors, Thinks Too Much.

Everything in these woods seems suspicious right now. Like the bird that’s been sitting in a sugar maple at the edge of the clearing, staring at me for ten minutes straight—definitely a government spy robot. And how my camp stove won’t light, even though I’m following all of the instructions that are written in French (a language I can’t technically understand). Someone’s obviously tampered with it to sabotage me. They knew there’d be no firepit at this campsite, so I’d have to use it.

When they fictionalize my story, it’ll be called The Girl in the Tent.

At least I still think I’m funny, kind of, and can distract myself with humor. One of the very few things I have going for me today. Another is that I can walk in a straight line, as I found my way to my solo campsite, a backcountry spot a short walk off the AT, with no issues. I talked to the GoPro a little, assuring viewers that I was totally calm about this challenge and eager to see what was in store.

But the wins have been scarce ever since. I decided to set up the tent first, so I’d have a place to sit other than on the ground or a bear canister. There aren’t any good logs in this particular clearing. I was dismayed to find that somehow, between sleeping in it last night and getting it out here, one of the clips that holds the top of the tent to the poles was broken. The thick, ostensibly sturdy plastic had snapped right in two. So one corner of the ceiling drooped in a rather sad fashion, but I decided it would be fine as long as it didn’t rain.

Then the rain started. A light drizzle at first that still had me throwing myself and all my stuff I could fit under shelter. And good thing I did, as the drizzle quickly turned to a downpour. Thus, I whiled away the afternoon hours watching the rain in the glimpses I could catch through the mesh at the front of the tent, and every so often lifting the fallen section at the back to dump out the rain puddled on top of it. Trying to push away thoughts of Finn and how he’s faring in this storm, alone and tentless.

Logically, I can see how none of this is my fault. But my emotions are not having it. The rain has let up this evening, leaving behind air so humid, I’m swimming through it. But the storm inside me, built up from all that’s happened the past couple weeks, the past year, even longer, rages on. Sitting and thinking is never great for me.

I’m not even hungry for this soup I’m failing to make, my stomach is so unsettled. The buzzing under my skin, coursing through my whole body since this morning, has only gotten worse with each new screwup or inconvenience. My pulse seems to think I’m in the middle of a neck-and-neck footrace.

If I’m trying to outrun anything, it’s my own mind. Fears. Worries. Unacknowledged grief and pain. Why is this—Wild Adventures, the Appalachian Trail, of all settings I’ve found myself in over the years—where it’s all caught up with me? Not just caught up, but tackled me to the ground. I’ve put on a good act for so long, but reality can’t wait anymore. The lights are up, the audience has left, and it’s just me. Alone, on my outdoor stage.

I give up on the stove and begin packing it away. I click off the camera for the night, ending what is probably the most depressing footage captured all season, and I can only hope it ends up on the cutting room floor. I repack the pouch of soup too, even though I know I should eat something if I’m going to have the energy to make it to the checkpoint—and my partner—tomorrow.

My partner, who made me feel anything but lonely in the tiny camping nest I’m now crawling back into. I had the dream—a good, genuine guy who’s seen me at my worst and still wanted me. Hell, he was the worst when I first met him, and I still fell for him. Despite Harper’s hope for us, I can’t help thinking that I ruined our chances of a romance novel–type love. We’d be the book that dedicated romance readers would throw at the wall upon finishing, yelling, “Where’s my HEA? This is bullshit!” A brief, depressing novella that tricked people with a cutesy cartoon cover.

Of course my eyes are leaking again. It’s a daily routine now, I guess. Put on my makeup in the morning, cry it off in the evening. I feel like a broken TV, frantically flipping between channels that are all playing something miserable. I’m sad about Finn. Then I’m panicking at an especially unsettling noise outside. Then I’m upset with myself for being so afraid of everything all the time, for being so tangled up in my own mind that I destroy anything good in my life. Then I’m despairing because even when I don’t mess things up myself, everything can still go terribly wrong. Like Granny Star dying, which I then think about and get deeply sad all over. Repeat.

I don’t know how to break myself out of this, when I’m alone and can’t quiet the mess inside my mind long enough to take a full breath. I wish Finn were here, that I could look to my right and see his little smirk illuminated by his tablet’s light as he reads something he finds funny.

As he reads.

This morning, before we parted, Finn told me I should try reading if I can’t sleep. I haven’t even really tried sleeping yet, but maybe a book is just what I need. Not the AT guides, a romance novel that can sweep me in and pull my attention from everything else. Things can’t really get any worse while I’m reading, can they?

After a few more minutes of shallow attempts at calming breaths while lying flat on my sleeping bag, I work up to sitting. Then I go for the pocket in my pack where I keep my e-reader. I pull out the familiar black shape, but when it’s in my hands, I quickly realize there’s something off about it. For one, it doesn’t have my purple letter N sticker on the front of the case. And it does have something bulky stuffed under the cover.

I flip it open and a stack of orange paper goes sliding into my lap. Confusion wrinkles my forehead. These aren’t just sheets of paper; they look like our challenge envelopes, but there are words scrawled all over them in black ink. I look back up to the device in my hands and realize it’s not my e-reader at all. It’s Finn’s. Eyes flicking to the envelopes again, I see the words Dear Natalie.

A soft gasp escapes my lips.

With trembling hands, I pick up the orange stack and start to read.

Dear Natalie,

First of all, sorry for my shitty handwriting and stationery. It’s worse than normal because I’m writing this with my headlamp on in my hammock at night and the pen I borrowed from Zeke bleeds a lot (apparently he collects fountain pens—I think this one’s broken). This is also the only paper I could find. I have felt especially bad at articulating my thoughts and feelings around you, probably because what I feel for you is different than anything I’ve felt before and I am completely out of my element. But also just because I’m me, and use words sparingly, and they’re often not the right ones. So I thought I would try writing some down. I hope this isn’t a completely ridiculous idea.

As you know, I’ve been reading a book about Grandma Gatewood, a 67-year-old from Ohio who was the first woman to thru-hike the Appalachian Trail. I compared the two of you early on, and I think you thought it was an insult. Probably because of the “grandma” part. But I meant it as a compliment because, like you, she was a complete badass.

Emma Gatewood was not some hard-core outdoorswoman. She started on the trail without telling her family she was doing it. She wore canvas tennis shoes and carried a small sack of stuff, didn’t even bring a tent. She told anyone who asked why she did it that she thought hiking the AT would be “a lark.” Everyone doubted her, told her she should quit, should turn back, that she’d never make it.

But she wasn’t a delicate little old lady either. She had 11 (!!!) kids. Lived on a farm and never had much money. Got herself out of her marriage to an abusive husband. She had a lot working against her, but she was strong and persistent, determined and creative, outgoing and friendly to strangers, and all of that helped her get through the whole AT three times.

Any of this sound familiar? You might not think so, but I really do. You’ve had to deal with a lot of shit. Different shit than hers, but you’ve still taken on so much by yourself. People have doubted you and told you that you can’t achieve your goals. I (a dumbass) doubted you, to start with. But you keep proving everyone wrong and showing that you, too, are strong, persistent, determined, creative, outgoing, friendly, and one hell of a good partner to an aforementioned dumbass. Grandma Gatewood would be proud of you, Granny Star would be proud of you, and you should be very proud of yourself.

We both have things to work on, of course, but I want to work on them with you. I’m sorry for making you feel like your baggage was somehow heavier than mine. It’s not. Let’s help each other carry it all. I’ll fix your hip belt so your shoulders don’t bruise. I’m sorry for letting you think you’ve held me back. You’ve pushed me forward, into real life again, through more fun and adventure than I ever expected to have.

I chose to stay with you as my partner and I want to stay with you as more. I want us to get to the end of this thing and win it all. Then I want to keep getting to know you and building on what we have because I think it could go far past this trail, our tent, and a double sleeping bag. I know I want it to.

Feels like I should close this with a “Do you like me?” and checkboxes for yes or no. But how about when you’re ready, you come tell me. You can write it down if you need to—I’ll let you borrow Zeke’s pen.

Yours,

Finn

P.S. (update as of this morning—while you’re pacing + distracted + letting me repack stuff) You might have noticed I switched our e-readers. I hope you see this note and read it in our day/night apart. I also hope you might feel inclined afterward to read about Grandma Gatewood—I finished the book and left it back on pg 1. Thought you’d find her comforting and/or inspiring, or at least see I’m not bullshitting you about her badassery. I stole your e-reader because I started Hot on Her Trail by Donna O’Hare (per your rec) and don’t want to stop—just got to the part where she meets the handsome ranger. But if you don’t want to read about GG you’re welcome to anything else on mine.

Still yours,

Finn

As soon as I finish reading it, I go back to the start and read again. Then one more time, by the end barely able to make out the words through tear-filled eyes. I’m careful not to let any of my waterworks spill onto the envelopes, though, since they’re now among the most valuable things I own. I’ll probably need to invest in a museum display case when I get home.

I try, in my rereads, to actually digest Finn’s words. To not just read like I’m committing a script’s lines to memory, but to take them to heart. He still cares about me, even knowing all he knows. I’ve let him in on thoughts and feelings I’ve kept from every other person in my life, and instead of my messiness putting him off, it seems to have drawn him in even closer. He wants to be with me, walk with me, help each other carry the heaviest, hardest stuff together. My heart feels ready to burst with the amount that I want that too. If I had even half a clue where he is right now, I’d run across mountains to fling myself at him and never let go.

As a warm, hopeful giddiness settles in my chest at Finn’s romantic declarations, I let myself sit with everything else he wrote. Granny Star used to tell me that was an important skill—to own it when someone says something kind to you. So if Finn says she’d be proud of me, I know she’d want me to own that. She’d want me to try believing everything he said—reminiscent of what she used to say—about my strength and persistence and Grandma Gatewood badassery. Especially knowing that this is what he was up to in his hammock last night, when we weren’t talking and I thought he was still furious. If he can believe the best in me, even when we’re in a rough patch, well, it means all the more.

I hear the dull tapping on the tent ceiling and realize the rain has resumed. Light but steady, it’s enough to deter me from wanting to go outside again, even as I feel my appetite making a slight comeback and the bear canister with all my food is sitting under a tree a safe distance away. I can wait.

Besides, it’s not just me and my thought spirals anymore. I have Finn, at least in spirit and handwriting form. And I have Grandma Gatewood.

I lie back on my sleeping bag, swipe the tablet screen open, and start to read.