Chapter 16 Sadie #2
“Who says they all need to match?” he says. “I’ll do one of each.”
I laugh, torn between my perfectionism and the voice in my head telling me I should try to let loose a little. That is essentially the point of why I’m here, right? To do things I wouldn’t usually do—and to be okay when my circumstances aren’t exactly what I envisioned.
He takes my hand in his, holds it up close to his face.
I move the lamp closer so he can see what he’s doing.
By the tentative way he holds the polish brush, I can tell he doesn’t have any sisters and never spent time in an emo/punk band—but his hand is surprisingly steady as he paints, slowly adding a few careful layers of the light pink Strawberry Scone before switching over to Lavender Stems for my pinky.
The sight of him etches itself into my memory: the way his brow furrows in concentration; the focus he’s putting into it so he can get everything just right.
“You’re actually pretty good at this,” I say when he’s done, admiring his work. “Might need to have you redo all the rest of them while you’re at it!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he says, grinning as he holds up his hands. “Let’s not get carried away.”
I listen to the rain, still going strong, as he tucks the bottles away so my nails can dry. The colors actually look pretty cute together. More than that, from now on, the two shades he painted will be linked with the image of him painting them.
Maybe it’s not so bad to go with the flow sometimes.
Maybe it’s not so bad to spill your entire bottle of nail polish if it means the hot hiking guide can make something even more beautiful than what you’d originally planned.
Abby would be so proud that I’m not only tolerating my mismatched nails, but…actually…really liking them?
Or maybe I just really like him.
I didn’t come out here looking for a guy, or even a hookup. Being out here is changing me on a molecular level, though, I can feel it: this place, this experience, is carving its mark on me—and Thorn is bearing witness to it.
I think, again, of Survivor. I’ve never understood how the contestants could form such tight bonds over such a short period of time, but now I see that the experiences they go through—being far from their comfort zones, out in nature, with almost no contact with the outside world—all combine to function as a pressure cooker.
When you’re at a pivotal moment in your life and stripped down to your core, it’s only natural that the people you share those experiences with become deeply bonded with the experience itself.
Maybe that’s what’s happening here. I feel like I’ve known Thorn for four weeks, not four days—
And everything in me wants to know more.
It’s a tight fit with both of us in my tent, especially with Thorn’s height. He’s examining my sleeping bag at the moment (the soaking-wet end, not the covered-in-nail-polish end).
“How does it feel on the inside?” he asks.
The sleeping bags are supposed to be water-resistant to some extent, so maybe it’s just the outer layer that’s still cold and wet.
I slip inside, stretch my legs all the way out. There’s so little space in the tent that we’d be touching if not for the thick layer of sleeping bag fabric between us.
“Not too bad, actually,” I report. “It’s like I can tell it’s wet, but can’t actually feel it—it’s just a little heavier there than it would be without the extra weight the water adds.”
“I’d offer mine,” Thorn says, right as another boom of thunder drowns out his voice. “But…yeah.”
His sleeping bag has got to be a hopeless bundle of rain and mud at this point.
He sits up on his knees, assessing our situation. I have to tear my eyes away from his black boxer briefs, and the carved stretch of his stomach that isn’t covered by my hoodie that he’s still wearing.
But the alternative is his face, and ugh—it’s such a good face.
He’s hot when he’s smiling, and he’s hot when he’s perplexed. Right now, with his five o’clock shadow and the way he’s biting his full lower lip, he’s kind of off the hotness charts entirely.
“You’ll be warm,” he finally says after a long moment of silence, as if the conversation that led him to this conclusion wasn’t just in his own head. “That’s all that matters.”
“And what about you?” I ask.
“You’ll sleep in the sleeping bag, and I’ll sleep next to you. Not in the sleeping bag.”
“But you’re…” My eyes drift to his bare legs, veritable tree trunks that support his over-six-foot frame.
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I’m what?”
I pretend to ignore the way he’s caught me staring. “Won’t you be cold?”
The night air turned chilly hours before the storm rolled in, but there’s even more of a bite to it now.
He shrugs. “I might be.”
This sleeping bag is mummy-shaped, barely enough room for one person, let alone two—especially when we’re talking about trying to squeeze an entire Thorn-sized human inside.
Still, I’m tempted to try.
“Okay, this is going to sound like the dumbest idea,” I say as I unzip the sleeping bag and climb back out. “But what if we, like…spread some clothes underneath us for cushioning and then share the sleeping bag as a blanket?”
He considers it, eyeing my short sleeves and even shorter shorts, then shakes his head. “I’m afraid you’ll be too cold that way.”
“Easy,” I say. “Just sleep close enough to keep me warm.”
His eyebrows raise, and I slap a hand over my mouth. I didn’t mean to say that out loud—
But—
Maybe it’s good that I did.
Maybe it’s good that I was honest.
“Sure, why not,” he says after a beat, grinning. “Let’s try it.”
And that’s how I end up spooning with Thorn in the middle of a thunderstorm: every inch of him pressed up against every inch of me, his left arm wrapped around me and pulling me in tight, the sleeping bag in no way big enough to share.
He generates more than enough warmth, though—so much that, an hour later, when we’re both clearly still wide awake, he whispers something in the dark, his breath hot in my hair.
“Mind if I take the hoodie off?”
I will not sleep a wink if he takes the hoodie off.
Sadie of Tomorrow might regret it—but right now, all I care about is Sadie of Tonight.
“I don’t mind,” I reply.
A moment later, it’s clear why he wanted to take it off: the heat of his bare chest radiates through my silk pajamas. He’s a furnace.
Neither of us pulls away. If anything, we get closer: he’s so tall it’s like I’m totally enveloped by him, his lips pressed into the top of my head and my toes curled against his ankles. His hand slides down the length of my arm and settles at my hip.
“Okay like this?” he murmurs.
I smile to myself, eyes wide open in the darkness.
“Yeah,” I say, barely more than a breath.
I’m aware of every inch of him, truly not sure how I’ll make it through this situation without taking it further—
But we just stay like this, together, and it’s perfectly enough.
I count a thousand raindrops before I finally fall asleep.
For once, none of my dreams live up to reality.