Wild About You

Chapter Eight

I should have known, from my lifetime as a reality TV viewer, that today was too easy for me. They might as well call it “Part Two: Natalie Hasn’t Suffered Enough Yet.”

“Okay, this doesn’t seem too bad,” I declare without believing a word I’m saying. Finn and I are standing by our cooking station, where in addition to the fancy camp stove setup, we have a gallon jug of water and a fully stocked bear canister we haven’t been allowed to open yet.

According to Burke, we won’t race to the second checkpoint until tomorrow. Today, all my fellow non-forager team members and I are facing off in a camp stove cooking showdown. Using the ingredients provided in the bear canisters—including mushrooms that are not the ones we foraged today, though the viewing public will never know—we’ve been tasked with making a one-pot mushroom carbonara. Complicating things is the fact that I don’t have the recipe—my partner does.

To add a fun, extra element of pressure, Burke Forrester gleefully announced that he brought a friend out to help him judge our dishes—celebrity chef and certified smokeshow Seb Kelly. Yes, Seb is allegedly the nicest guy in the world, and happens to be a coworker of my best gal Reese at the cooking channel where she’s worked for a year, Friends of Flavor. But he’s also famous and talented and unsettlingly beautiful, and none of these factors are helping me stay calm and focused in light of what I have to do.

You’re an experienced actress, I keep repeating in my head. So, like…act and shit!

My inner voice could work on her motivational messaging. But outer me keeps smiling, even if it’s shaky. Even if I barely know what carbonara is, the other teams don’t need to see us sweat before this thing even begins.

Finn, apparently, has none of those qualms.

“Have you ever even cooked outside?”

The sharp point in his question pierces my chest. It hits somewhere near the soft, squishy side of my heart that I don’t show a lot of people but found myself letting him see today. After that, I thought maybe we were past cheap shots at my capabilities.

Of course I was wrong.

“No, I haven’t,” I answer as calmly as I can. Which, okay, is not very calm. “If only I’d had the opportunity to practice the other evening, while there was plenty of time and space to do so around someone with experience in it. Wouldn’t that have been a big help to us right now, if he’d allowed me to participate in cooking over the fire that I got going?”

Finn drops the water bottle he’s been holding with such a loud thunk, I almost think he put a little extra force behind it. “Right. I’m an asshole and it’s my fault you came on a wilderness survival show without having spent a night outdoors in your life.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and look down at my boots, refusing to let him see any more of my emotions. I’m all too aware that any other team or producer or Smokeshow Seb himself could be witnessing this little drama we’re having, but I don’t expect anyone else to willingly wade into the shark-infested waters of our team dynamic. Until they do.

“Nah, I think it’s just your fault that you’re acting like an asshole.” My head whips up at the familiar flat tone, and I find Harper standing at the next station over with her arms crossed over her chest. It’s clear she’s refined the skill of overcoming her naturally sweet looks with that narrow-eyed, unimpressed scowl.

Finn looks so taken aback, it’s like he really thought he was yelling at me in a soundproof bubble. He leans away as if afraid the girl half his size might advance on him, his face and neck taking on a red flush as his mouth opens to respond.

Unfortunately, I’ll never know how he planned to save himself, as the producers choose that moment to resume filming. Burke officially kicks things off with an air horn that sends a whole flock of birds flying out of the clearing, and the humans on the ground descend into instant chaos.

“You got this, Harper!” I hear Evan call first thing from their spot the required ten feet away from Harper’s camp stove station. So many voices are talking over each other all at once, and I already feel like I’m behind, or not understanding how this is supposed to go or something. Burke told us that we’re allowed to ask our recipe-holding partner yes-or-no questions, just like they did this morning. They’re also allowed three “saves” to correct us if we’re doing something majorly wrong. But how does everyone else have questions for their partners already? Or are they all just getting a constant barrage of cheering and support?

My own partner’s voice, which I haven’t heard since an opposing team member defended me from his criticism, rises above the fray with his attempt at encouragement. “Forty-five minutes to go! No time to waste!”

“Inspiring,” I mutter under my breath as I open my bear canister. I pull out all the ingredients provided to me, most of them as cold as if they were just removed from the fridge, and set them on the small prep surface beside the burner. Then I assess what I know.

Mushroom carbonara is a pasta dish, confirmed by the box of uncooked noodles. I’m also pretty sure a carbonara is the one where there isn’t really a sauce so much as an eggy, cheesy concoction mixed in with the noodles. Eggs: check. Cheese: check. Whoa, maybe I do know what I’m doing.

“What are you doing?” Finn yells, interrupting my inventory.

I grit my teeth in what I hope to the cameras will look like a smile. “I’m thinking and planning, dearest Finn! Is that okay with you?”

I don’t even register his answer, because it doesn’t matter. It’s showtime. At showtime, you have one job, and it isn’t arguing with your costar on stage. It’s putting on the damn show.

“Do I need to boil water for noodles first?” I shout once I’ve got my thoughts together enough to form my first yes-or-no question.

“Yes, you—” he calls back, clearly wanting to say more, but catching himself. The hundreds of boxes of mac and cheese I’ve made in my life weren’t for nothing. I fill the pot about halfway with water, then set it on the burner.

Remarkably, I’m certain I hear Finn’s sigh, even through the ongoing, much louder commotion of teammates yelling back and forth to each other and the occasional declaration from Burke Forrester that one person or another has used a save.

“I can’t make the water boil any faster, bud!”

“Are you sure you have the stove as hot as it can be, and there isn’t anything covering up the burner?” he yells back. Behind him, the producer on the other side of the camera closest to Finn raises a hand in the air and waves, pointing at him with the other hand.

“Finn,” Burke Forrester bellows before I even understand what the producer was signaling. “You have used one save! You have two remaining.”

“What?!” Finn’s reaction comes out as a loud sort of croak that would be funny under other circumstances. “How was that a save?”

When I look down to search for any kind of temperature control on the stove, I realize my hands are shaking. Wonderful! My body’s timing could not be better. The smothering stage mom energy from the other half of my team is certainly helping nothing.

I vaguely register Burke’s explanation to Finn that anything that could help the team member doing the cooking, even if phrased as a question, counts as a save. But I’m more focused on making this save count for something. A fruitless effort, as far as I can tell. When I lift the pot to check, the burner is completely uncovered, though I can see a metal flap that could presumably slide over the flames to reduce the heat. Otherwise, I find nothing that would keep the stove from heating up the water as fast as it can.

Maybe, I think optimistically, this will teach Finn to shut his damn mouth for a minute and let me do my thing.

Maybe, I decide ten minutes later, after he’s used both remaining saves to offer suggestions as unnecessary as his first, I can use my mushrooms and noodles to spell out HELP ME on Seb’s plate, and he’ll whisk me away from this nightmare. Back to civilization and a Finn-free future and, if I’m lucky, Seb’s kitchen, where he’ll feed me consolation desserts.

It’s a lovely vision, one I latch onto to keep myself from falling into complete despair as I mindlessly stir the pasta. Finn apparently needed to take a lap, after unintentionally using his last save to shout “Why are you cutting up the mushrooms?” He didn’t even talk back to Burke this time, just silently stormed off to the other side of the clearing. Screw Natalie and any questions she needs answered from the recipe, I guess!

“How’s it hanging over there?” Harper asks, and I look over to see her waiting for her noodles to boil, offering me a small, sympathetic smile.

“By a thread, basically,” I call back. “You?”

“We’re good.” She glances at Evan, who has even more pity in their eyes when they give me two thumbs up. “So are you! You got this. And if he doesn’t come back, maybe we can be the first Wild Adventures throuple.”

That makes me laugh and helps bring my blood pressure down even more than a hot chef daydream. I’m not losing it. I haven’t set anything on fire or poisoned anyone, and people who are not my partner still like me, dammit.

By the time I try a noodle and decide they’re done boiling, Finn has returned, looking marginally less unraveled than when he walked away.

“Okay, so I probably drain the water out of the pot now, right?” I ask, welcoming him back with an opportunity to (a) correct me if I’m wrong, while (b) not breaking and rules or (c) making me feel like draining said water directly over his head. When he opens his mouth, I add, just in case, “Yes or no!”

His lips form a flat line, eyes narrowing for a moment before he nods. “Yes.”

He can stay mad, but I’m not letting us get disqualified with a fourth save I don’t need.

For the remainder of the cooking process, I pretend I’m Reese in one of her Friends of Flavor videos. I narrate everything I’m doing, rambling a bunch of nonsense to the camera about my favorite ways to prepare mushrooms when, in fact, I’ve never prepared mushrooms in my life. I confirm each step with Finn, who has finally gotten the hang of this yes-or-no-answer concept, but still has no poker face.

“What, is this not when I add the eggs?” I ask, holding the bowl I just cracked a bunch of eggs into frozen in mid-air when I catch his wince.

He shakes his head. “No.”

I purse my lips, considering my stove station. “Do I…add the cheese first?”

He rolls his lips between his teeth and shakes his head again, brow furrowed so intensely I worry it might get stuck that way if I don’t figure this out quickly. When I’m about to throw my hands up and dump the eggs in the pot anyway, Evan’s voice rings out, louder than it’s been in a while.

“Harp, you’re going to want to turn the heat down so your noodles don’t burn and the egg mixture doesn’t cook too fast.”

I don’t know how everyone else is playing this thing, but I’ve had a hard enough time with managing my own station and communicating with Finn; I can’t imagine how confusing it would’ve been to try to follow other teams’ exchanges and snag any tips, even if that’s a smart way to play the game. But something about Evan’s slightly robotic delivery feels like it was meant for me to hear.

This suspicion is confirmed when I look to Harper’s station, and see she’s nearly ready to plate her carbonara, clearly having passed the step of adding eggs a while ago. My eyes dart between her and Evan, both of whom seem to deliberately avoid my gaze. Fine, be that way, I think as a swell of confused emotion rises in my chest and I lift my pot of noodles from the burner and slide the metal piece over it halfway to lower the heat. But good luck avoiding my hug attacks of gratitude when this challenge is through!

Though it seemed impossible for a while there, I finally end up with a pasta dish that appears edible and probably nontoxic. I do the best I can to plate it nicely on our collapsible camping dishes, swirling the fettuccine noodles to make a little circular pasta pile on each, dotted with the mushrooms I might or might not have needed to chop into smaller pieces. I garnish both plates with parsley, because there was parsley in my bear canister, and I haven’t used it for anything else, so…

“This looks gourmet as fuck,” I say reverently when I’m done, pointing with my tongs at the steaming plate-bowls. Then I remember my surroundings and grimace toward the closest camera. “Shit, sorry! I mean—oh, bleep me as you must, whoever eventually edits this. I’m just too excited.”

When I chance a look at Finn, who’s been quiet for a while, I’m surprised to find the ghost of a smile on his face.

When time runs out, Burke clearly relishes his chance to act like the host of an entirely different reality TV genre. “And time…is…UP, people! Step away from your stoves, utensils down, no more fiddling with the food!”

Live out those dreams, Burkey.

Finn and I each hold a plate of pasta while we stand with the other teams in the Signature Semicircle of Wild Co-EdVenturers around the folding table that’s been set up for judging, covered by a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. As Burke calls teams up one at a time to have their mushroom carbonaras tasted and critiqued by him and Seb, my palms start to sweat so much, I worry the plate might slip out of my hands. I can barely hear their feedback over the sound of my own heartbeat thumping in my ears, and my mouth has gone dry.

And for what?I ask myself, as if I’ve ever been able to reason with this bitch. This isn’t even an elimination yet! Worst-case scenario, you can tap into your inner track star and sprint to the checkpoint tomorrow!

Finn has to nudge me with his elbow when it’s our turn, because I don’t immediately start toward the table with him. When I do, it’s on wobbly legs that I hope get cropped out of the final footage.

“This looks delicious,” Seb says.

Want to get married?I say back in my mind.

Burke and Seb both raise their sporks—because hard-core backpackers can’t spare the space for even one unnecessary utensil—and dig in with gusto.

Finn must sense my nerves, because he gently bumps his hip to my side. If I were him from two days ago, my limbs would dramatically flail as I jumped a foot away from him in shock. But the me of right now must be truly desperate for comfort, whatever meager form it takes, as I follow when he leans away so my side just barely brushes against his and stays there.

I don’t know if Burke Forrester has been making these same moan-adjacent sounds with every dish he’s tasted, but I do know I’ll never unhear them. Seb, fortunately, uses words to express his thoughts, which I know shouldn’t make me love him more, but the bar for men remains ever on the ground.

“This is really great, Natalie,” he says, gently dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a napkin before offering me a smile, and I don’t even ask him to say my name again so I can record it. “I love the saltiness, and you cooked the noodles to perfection. Thanks for sharing!”

We get no further feedback from Judge McMouthNoises at the other end of the table, but I feel more at ease returning to the edge of the circle. Maybe I should record Seb saying a handful of nice things, so I can replay them any time I feel myself spiraling, like an audible shot of serotonin. I’m even soothed by listening to his feedback for the remaining teams, no matter the fact that he compliments literally everyone and says nothing negative.

We’re sent to the other side of the clearing while Seb and Burke confer over their rankings. Finn paces in small circles while I give Harper and Evan the hug attacks I internally promised them. Harper squirms and grumbles protests about how she’s “not a hugger” and she “didn’t even do anything,” but her arms wrap limply around me all the same.

And in the end, the good guys win this one—Seb awards a pair of shiny golden sporks and the earliest go time for tomorrow to my carbonara comrades, Harper and Evan.

Unfortunately, the gratification of earning a respectable second place in a challenge is like having candy for dinner rather than a well-rounded, nutritious meal. It may fill you up and make you happy in the short-term, but your stomach will be grumbling again before bedtime.

It’s not like I expected Finn to kiss my feet.

For one thing, they’ve been sweating in my hiking boots for three days now, and still have some healing blisters. I wouldn’t let Enemi go near them right now, not even after she judgily told me in front of everyone around the fire circle last night that putting a purple streak in my hair was “brave.”

So no, Finn needn’t show his gratitude for my saving our asses, despite his best attempts to take us down in camp stove burner flames, in that way. But my stomach is grumbling for some kind of acknowledgment that he wasn’t at his best today. A simple “sorry” would go a long way.

Hip bumps of solidarity are nearly forgotten, the tension between us as thick as ever while we hike the quick quarter mile to our campsite for the night. Finn silently begins setting up the tent, and I don’t have it in me to put up a fight about letting me help. Honestly, he should be setting up the tent for me. Laying out my sleeping bag inside, putting a chocolate on my pillow.

I know it shouldn’t be that big of a deal. But as I dig through my pack for all the stuff I need for the night, the pride in my accomplishment has worn off, and I just feel deflated.

I’m tired of not being recognized for what I can do—by my parents, by everyone at Oliver. Not being taken seriously can be motivating to a point, in a fuck-the-haters way. But spite is like an adrenaline rush for me—it wears off, and I’m left tired, trying to catch my breath, and looking around for someone to say, “Hey. You’re good now. You can stop pushing so hard,” and maybe most of all, “I’m proud of you.”

Finn’s known me for three days, and it isn’t fair to pin all my baggage on him. But the way he’s been treating me isn’t fair either, and I don’t have to be this constant sunshine, trying to give off enough light to make up for all his darkness. He can make an effort to be pleasant for a change.

I wander off to go through my nightly routine, the anxious energy building within me, the buzzing under my skin even stronger than that of my toothbrush. My mind wanders even further. Maybe I never get others’ affirmation or pride because I don’t actually deserve it. I’m not impressive or talented; I have a lot of dumb luck, like Harper and Evan helping me out today because they’re nice people who felt bad for me. That’s what really kept us in the game, isn’t it?

The thought sets me off down darker mental paths as I finish cleaning myself up and changing into pajamas, my hands shaking, breath coming more erratically as I tumble through all the ways I’m not good enough to be here, at Oliver, any of it. By the time I’m crawling into my tent, my mind has run wild—fear of all the ways I’m on the brink of failing getting muddled with the fear of my current environment. I’m panting when I collapse onto my sleeping bag, and I bring a hand up to my chest as if I can slow the pounding of my heart. Why this? Why now? I’m not in any imminent danger. I know that. But also, do I? I don’t have night vision or any other ability to see what all’s out there, lying in wait beyond the flimsy tent fabric that offers no real protection. Shit, should I have brought the bear spray in here? But since Finn’s sleeping outside, he should have it—he’s the first line of defense. Is he aware of that, ready for it?

It all feels paralyzing—I’m not safe here, I know it. But I’m not any safer if I burrow into my sleeping bag, nor if I get up and leave the tent. What am I gonna do, run through the dark woods in my tiny pajama shorts until I reach civilization? It’s all I can manage to lie flat and press my palms into the slick material of my sleeping bag, feeling the layers of stuffing and my sleeping pad beneath it. I try to breathe deeply, in and out, a lot like what we did earlier today. But my breath hitches at every noise coming from outside. I don’t even feel able to discern which ones are just Finn moving around, or the wind in the trees; all of it sounds equally menacing, terrifying.

I wonder if…No, that wouldn’t help anything.

Wouldn’t it?

If I felt any more in control right now, I might worry about this giving Finn more ammunition against me. Not only will he think I’m useless, but that I’m mentally unstable, to boot. But when I was at school and having the worst of my doom spirals about my life and future, and everything felt so terrible I wanted to do nothing but lie on the floor and cry, one thing stopped me.

My roommate. We weren’t exactly friends or anything, but something about the presence of another living, breathing human in the room, one who seemingly did not think life as she knew it was ending, was calming to me. Let alone the social pressure of “there’s another person here and she doesn’t know you that well, so you cannot be an inconsolable ball of feelings right now, get your shit together, Natalie Hart!”

I can do it. I should do it.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I call out shakily, “Finn?”

There’s a long pause, during which I grab fistfuls of sleeping bag and release them a couple times, willing myself not to startle at every little noise. Is he out there? Did something happen to him between when I hightailed it to the tent and now? God, if I wasn’t in here losing it, I could have listened for—

A throat clears. “Uh, yes?”

Of course, he’s fine. I’m being ridiculous, I know I am. I think about saying “never mind,” feeling my pulse slow a little already at the sound of his voice.

Not because it’s his or anything. Any voice would do.

I squeeze my eyes shut and bite the bullet. “Do you think…could you maybe, ah, sleep in here tonight?”

Another long silence, but this time I know he’s out there. He’s heard me. He’s deciding how to tell me “Hell no, you absolute fre—”

“In the tent?”

“Yes.” It comes out as nearly a whisper, so I add in a stronger voice, “Yes.”

What am I going to say if he asks why? Because I’m possibly nuts? Obviously he’ll ask why—it’s a weird request, with our tense partnership being what it is. But I don’t know how to explain myself. Maybe I’ll say I’m cold?

“Okay. Give me a second.”

Surprise hits me, followed by a wave of relief. I hear the swish of his sleeping bag and imagine him wriggling his long body out in the same caterpillar imitation I do every morning. More rustling as, I assume, he gets out of his hammock, the soft thump of feet hitting the ground. Then comes the whirr of the zipper being tugged, and in my periphery I see the tent flap open on the opposite side from the one I dove through not long ago, and the beam of Finn’s headlamp shining in.

I keep my eyes trained on the ceiling, still feeling the buzzing under my skin from head to toe along with the vague sense that I’m not safe yet. It’s like the world’s most persistent cell phone alarm clock, this vibration running through my body and mind, and I’m never quite able to rouse myself to hit Snooze.

Finn doesn’t say anything as he arranges his sleep setup in the tent, which suddenly feels a lot smaller than it did with just me in here. But rather than being cramped or claustrophobic, it has an instant calming effect. I can see, even without looking at him head-on, that he is safe and unconcerned about any of the fears running through my head. I’m able to bring my hands from my sides up to rest on my stomach, rising and falling with my breaths, which grow deeper and slower, little by little.

Once Finn settles in, I can feel his eyes on me, and I think I’m ready to meet them. It’s mostly dark, but he’s removed his headlamp and set it on the floor in the sliver of space between us, like a small but mighty lantern. He’s lying on his side parallel to me, but with his head at the end where my feet are. Upper body propped up on one elbow, he eyes me with that characteristic wrinkle between his brows.

“Are you okay?” he asks when he has my gaze locked in his.

“Getting there,” I say on an exhale, letting more of the truth show than a chill, daytime Natalie would probably like.

“Can I get you anything?”

Caught off guard, I start to shake my head no. But then a thought occurs to me. “Where’s the bear spray?”

“In my pack right outside,” Finn answers, adding without hesitation, “Want me to get it?”

At my nod, he immediately sits up and opens the tent flap again, leaning out to rummage through his bag before quickly returning with the red canister in hand.

“I’ll set it down here by your feet, okay? Safety lock is on, so we’re not about to spray each other in our sleep.”

It’s the gentlest I’ve ever heard his voice, and there’s a little bit of a teasing tone at the end. It melts the roughest edges off the craggy ice wall that’s been sitting between us all evening, maybe even since we met. All I can do is nod again as he gets back into his sleeping bag.

I don’t know if it’s actually gone quieter outside, or if I’m just less attuned to it all than I was in my panicked state. Whatever the case, I’m able to hit Snooze. A temporary reprieve. The buzzing has faded to a low hum, the feeling of imminent danger ebbed to the low-level wariness with which I live most of my everyday life.

Slowly, I sit up and crawl to the head of my sleeping bag before opening it and sliding inside. When silence falls again, Finn clears his throat.

“You good now?”

There’s no judgment there, that I can detect, but I’m returning to myself enough to feel the self-consciousness over my episode creeping in. “Yes,” I say quietly. “You don’t need to ask again.”

It comes out a little more cutting than I mean it to sound, so I add on, “But thank you.”

He grunts in acknowledgment, and I watch as he sits up and clicks off the headlamp, plunging us into full darkness. I half expect the panic to kick back in, but nothing really happens. Mostly, I’m just exhausted.

I roll onto my right side, which is how I always fall asleep and just happens to now be facing Finn’s shadowy, sleeping bag–covered form. My heavy eyelids fall closed, suddenly very ready to let sleep claim me. I can feel the haze settling in, the lingering jitters making way for thick, deep sleepiness. My mind is starting to do its thing where I’m half thinking real, sensible thoughts but also half in nonsense-dreamland.

Which is why when I hear “I’m sorry,” I think I’m dreaming it.

But when Finn says it again, with feeling, my eyes pop open.

“I’m sorry about earlier, Natalie. I was out of line, saying what I did, not trusting you to figure things out for yourself. This evening or…other times. I’ve been an ass, and you haven’t deserved it. I’m sorry. You did great today, not just on the cooking—though that was amazing and I shouldn’t have doubted you—but in everything. You…you’re a good teammate.”

A confusing lump of emotion forms in my throat, shock mingled with satisfaction, validation, maybe even a flutter of embarrassment at the recognition, even if it’s exactly what I wanted and then some. “Thank you. I, uh, accept.”

“Okay. Good,” he murmurs back.

The chirps of crickets and hum of cicadas and breeze through the trees are more like a soft, sleepy soundtrack to me now as I lie there, processing Finn’s words, so sincerely delivered. I’ve nearly let sleep take me fully when semiconscious Natalie feels the need to add a slurred, slumberous, “I am a good teammate. I hope you treat me this nice during daylight from now on. Then you’d be a good teammate, too.”

I’m convinced he’s already fallen asleep when I hear nothing back, and that’s okay. I can tell him again in the morning.

But then he answers with a quiet but certain, “I’ll do my best.”

It’s the last thing I hear before drifting off.