10. Sara
10
SARA
J ack hasn’t uttered a word in several minutes. Instead, he throws his energy into that rickety old radio, checking for a signal, like his sanity depends on it.
Contrary to his incessant itch to get rid of me, there’s also a peculiar part of him that won’t quite allow him to leave me to fend for myself either. I won’t go as far as to say it’s his conscience because I don’t believe he has one of those.
I’ve been far too occupied hoping he hasn’t noticed the fact that a fly has gotten into my mouth to notice that we’ve stopped next to a cluster of enormous trees.
“Alright,” he says, throwing down his bag. “We’ll shelter here for a while.”
My brows crush together in disbelief.
Perhaps he’s missed the golf-ball-sized raindrops that are currently expelling from the blackest sky I’ve seen outside of a disaster movie?
He rolls out a large square mat, pointing to the edge farthest from him. “Toss a rock on the corner.”
I scan the area, my eyes flicking to a couple of smallish rocks at my feet. Hesitantly, I tap one with my foot. When I’m satisfied there are no crawly things with a hundred legs attached, I attempt to retrieve it with my index finger and thumb before discovering its shocking mass and the fact it requires both hands.
“What exactly is the plan here?” I place the rock on the mat, wiping my hands free of sticky, gross residue. “Sit out the storm on an oversized yoga mat? I thought you said there was a tower. You know, with an actual roof?”
Jack digs in his bag again. It’s one of those huge hiker types. The ones that strap at three different points to support all the crap hikers take on their excursions.
“We won’t make it to the tower before the storm hits.” He pulls out another rolled up item, this one made of the same waterproof material as a…raincoat? “Besides, we’ve got a roof.”
Like he’s performed the procedure a hundred times, Jack unravels the item and begins to insert curved metal rods into…
Oh no. No, no. All the nos.
“Is that a tent ?” I hiss.
Jack doesn’t raise his head. Instead, he continues hooking bits here and strapping things there, until a dome forms and I’m staring at the unmistakable structure of the very thing I refuse to shelter inside of.
“Why yes, Sara,” Jack confirms, leaving me only with the desire to smack that condescending look right off his face. “This is a tent. The only thing we have to protect us against the storm that arrived while you were flossing insects from your teeth.”
My body tightens, and I decide that if we should find ourselves at the top of another cliff, I would very much delight in shoving him from the highest point .
Several silent moments later, the tent is erected and the steady patter of rain echoes throughout the clearing. It’s not quite dark yet, but clouds have blanketed the forest, covering everything in shades of washed-out gray.
Jack unzips the entrance and steps inside.
“Are you sure you don’t have a phone or maybe an iPad? I mean, who travels without a phone?” I call into the tent.
Rustling and grunting comes from within as Jack makes final adjustments. “I do.”
“And just how long are we sheltering for exactly?” A wandering thought snags in my subconscious.
“Until the storm passes.”
And there it is. The thing I’d hoped he wouldn’t say. The prospect of the storm stretching into the night, trapping us.
“So, we’d sleep here?” I squeak.
Jack’s head appears through the gap below the zipper. “If you have a better idea, I’m all ears.”
Tragically, I don’t have a better idea. Frustration pricks at me, somewhere deep and close to my heart. I’ve never spent a night in a tent before. Sleeping bags and portable stoves and the absence of modern-day plumbing sour the appeal. There are those who camp and those who categorically do not. And I handsomely fall into the latter grouping.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I say when I catch Jack’s expression. He’s staring at me like an ungrateful child who’s yet to learn the mannerly way of receiving a terrible gift. “You can save it.”
“Didn’t say anything,” he replies in a tone that suggests there’s plenty he’d like to say.
“No, but your face paints a thousand words.” I pout. “You think I’m a brat who doesn’t like to get her hands dirty.”
Jack pulls out more straps from another compartment of his bag. “No. I think the storm is thirty seconds from showing its ugly face, and I’m the only one doing anything about staying out of its way.”
In mocking irony, a crack echoes in the distance and jagged fork paths light up the sky.
Right. It appears he has a point.
I grab the end of a rope and toss it into the tent. It lands just short of where I’d aimed. He scoops it up, managing not to roll his eyes at my pathetic trajectory.
I swallow thickly as I inspect the tent, remarking how quickly Jack’s managed to pitch it. “So, you do this a lot? This camping thing.”
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“Because I like it.”
I don’t have a response for that, and it’s not because I can’t understand why a person would find enjoyment in being out here. That part I’m slowly coming to grips with. He’s like Drew, someone who does things for the adrenaline rush. The part I’m struggling to comprehend is imagining Jack enjoying anything.
I shake away the comparison I just made between him and Drew. They’re nothing alike.
Drew. I groan because it’s the first time I’ve thought about him since flying off the cliff in the Jeep. He can never know about the accident, no one can ever find out. I breathe steadily, praying for this storm to pass so I can get back to the hotel.
The hotel. My key.
A ragged whine spews out of me. If I’d just left my key at reception as instructed, a search party would be on its way by now.
Another crack lights up the sky, and this time I can’t stop the squeal that rips from my throat .
I march back to the tent, shrieking as dirt and other debris kicks up, splattering my ankles and ruining my boots. What I would trade to be in heels walking on concrete right now.
I swipe the material at the entrance of the tent, and step inside.
“Shoes,” Jack mumbles as he nods to my feet. He’s got the blunt side of a knife between his teeth while he tugs at a rope, which hangs from the top of the tent.
I kick off the booties. “Why do you have a knife?”
He removes it from his mouth and uses it to cut off the end of the rope. “Comes in handy out here.” Then he hides it away in his pocket like he’s kicking himself for letting me see it.
“How far do you think it is to my Jeep?” I blurt out, a fresh idea prevalent in my mind.
“Too far.” He narrows his eyes as he hangs a lamp from the end of the rope. The dim space is suddenly transformed, everything amber-washed under the gentle glow of a bobbing lantern.
“My phone’s in there,” I say, upset that I didn’t consider this before now. “If I could get to it, then maybe I can call for help.” I can hear the pleading tone in my voice. I can’t deny it’s there, because at this stage that’s all I can do. Plead for him to recognize that there must be another solution other than spending the night together in this oversized raincoat.
“Getting to your car is out of the question,” he replies. “We’d have to trek down the mountain, which could take up to a couple days. ” There goes that idea. “I know this isn’t what you had in mind, and trust me, it’s mutual. But it beats being out there.” He motions to the roof of the tent where the rain pounds like pebbles hitting a tin roof.
“There’s got to be something else we can do,” I say. “ Maybe I could climb to higher ground with the radio? Give it here.” I hold out my hand.
“Waiting it out is the only option.” His low, grumbling tone begins to surface. “It’s like you’re determined to hurt yourself. Always trying to put yourself in the worst possible danger. Maybe that’s your game.” He pauses, his brow creasing with frustration. “What is it you want from me?”
My breath catches in my throat.
“What do I want from you ?” My jaw hangs, baffled by his outburst. “How about we start with you being less of an ass?”
He takes a step forward. “Start with?” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Ah, so you do want something. I knew it. Alright, let’s hear it.” He takes another step forward, his large frame towering over me even though he has to stoop to fit into this cramped space.
“Have you lost your mind?” I stand my ground, peering up at him as I stand as tall as my five-foot-five body will allow.
He pats around his back pockets, and, for a second, I believe he really has lost his mind because isn’t that where he put the knife?
“You know what?” He continues to pat fiercely. “Take the damn radio and go nuts. You want to go out there, be my— Ahh! ”
His roar rumbles through the enclosed space.
“What? What happened?” I’m craning my neck to see why he’s twisting away from me, clutching his hand tightly.
That’s when I spy the blood.
It’s dripping down the side of his hand, a crimson trail spiraling down his wrist.
“Shit,” I whisper, realizing what just happened. He was so consumed with finding the radio, he neglected to consider the knife in the other pocket. He must have sliced his hand in two.
My eyes dart around the tent until I see a small, relatively clean looking towel poking from inside his bag. Without hesitation, I reach for it.
“Give me your hand.”
“I’m fine,” he snaps, pulling away. “If I wasn’t so distracted…”
“Save it.” I roll my eyes. “Just let me see how bad it is.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“And I said, stop being a baby and let me see.” I ignore his protests, grab his hand, and when I see the cut is deeper than I thought, I force the towel on top of the wound.
Right when I’m sure he’s going to shove me away, he freezes instead, body rigid, expression perplexed.
And then, an odd shift occurs, and he does something truly bizarre. He relaxes.
He allows me to turn over his hand, so I can inspect the wound. His fingers, much like the rest of him, are huge. They’re masculine and swollen looking, but oddly not as beat up and tattered as I’d imagined for someone who spends so much time outdoors. I take a quick peek at the wound while I readjust the towel. It’s sticky beneath my fingers, but I manage to force a neutral expression.
“You’ll live.” I blink up at him, smirking. I note the cut from the base of his index finger to the center of his palm. “Just keep this here. Apply pressure, like this.”
I press into the wound, triggering his fingers to curl over my hand as I hit a pressure point. He releases them immediately, shocked by the involuntary contact.
We’re silent for a few beats. I’m stunned he hasn’t passed a comment about knowing exactly how to apply pressure to a wound or rolling his eyes and telling me I’m doing it all wrong.
Instead, he watches me silently, curiosity dancing behind his sea-foam eyes. So many shades of blue. Am I staring too long? Maybe. I don’t look away, however. Instead, I watch as he studies different parts of my face, his eyes lingering on my cheeks, my eyes, my lips.
“Thanks,” he says with a furrowed brow, like it’s strange that he’s using the word and, stranger still, that he’s directing it at me.
And even though he’s only looking at my face, I can’t help but feel exposed. I forget about that stupid brave face I force on so the rest of the world can’t witness my internal heartbreak. I forget about the daily struggle of fighting for my life in a boardroom in front of my boss.
All I can think about is this moment where I finally feel like a version of myself that I like.