Page 11 of Wild About You
When Finn says—again mumbling, again to himself—that our soup is about ready, I take it upon myself to bring over a couple of mugs for him to pour it into. Their appearance surprises him, he was so in the zone of Big Man Tend Fire Cook Food Pound Chest. But at least he says thank you this time.
We mostly eat in silence, except for when I give a brief, mostly false review to the camera about how delicious the soup Finn made is. We have some granola for a second course-slash-dessert, which is a stark example of what a turn my life has taken. I offer to clean up, but he feels the need to run that operation too, Finnsplaining about “leave no trace” principles and being aware of what scents and food remnants we’re leaving for wildlife to find. Which, okay, are worthy and important things to share. But I don’t have to like his tone.
By the time the sun is going down, I am fully over it. Over him. And more than anything, over the combination of time alone with my thoughts and together with all of Finn’s, both of which have my anxiety rearing its neurotic little head.
“Can I go to the bathroom alone, or do you need to micromanage that too?” I finally snap, just as he’s attaching the last hook from the tent wall to its corresponding pole.
Finn blinks over at me, his cheeks going pink as he opens his mouth to say something I’m probably not going to want to hear. I put a hand up. “Nope, that was a rhetorical question. I’ve peed in the woods before, and you already gave your spiel about it. You’re not coming with.”
I just remember to swipe a handful of toilet paper and a plastic bag as I stomp off. Part of the leave-no-trace stuff involves packing up your TP for later disposal, which, gross. But needs must. And at least I don’t have to deal with any other bodily functions yet.
When that’s dealt with—beyond the wildlife-safe, one-hundred-feet-from-camp distance, thank you very much—I find that Finn is tying some kind of strap around a tree near the tent. I take it upon myself to start my nightly routine as I look on, beginning with a makeup-removing wipe. This’ll be the first time in I don’t know how long that a boy is seeing me without my cosmetic armor. Good thing it’s almost dark. And, you know, that I don’t care what Finn thinks.
“What are those for?” I ask as I scrub at one eye, then another.
Finn doesn’t look my way as he wraps an identical black strap around another tree. “The hammock.”
“Oh. Why do we need that?”
He begins unfurling the hammock from the little ball it’s rolled into. “I’m sleeping in it.”
My hand pauses its wiping mid-cheek. “You’re sleeping in it?”
He nods, briefly glancing over before his eyes dart away again, as if he’s caught me over here in my birthday suit. Which I suppose is not much more shocking than catching me fresh-faced. “You can have the tent. I’ll be good over here.”
My brows pull together. “I…You…Does that count as proper shelter from the elements?”
This feels like an easier question than “Am I really so disgusting that you won’t share a tent with me?”
He shrugs as he attaches a carabiner on one end of the hammock to one of the trees by the strap, and then the other end. “It should. There’s a rain fly I can cover it with.”
His mind sounds made up, and I guess far be it for me to try to talk an unwilling guy into sharing my sleeping space. As darkness fully descends, we can finally shut off our cameras, but my routine gets more difficult. I do the best I can and just cross my fingers I don’t wake up with a chin zit the size of an Appalachian mountain. The hum of my battery-powered toothbrush sounds overly loud and out of place, and I swear I can feel Finn’s judgment from across the clearing, but cavities don’t care how far from civilization you are. In the end, he only makes one pointed remark reminding me to pack out anything scented in one of the canisters we’ve set far away from the tent and hammock for the night. Does that count as restraint in Finn’s bossy, domineering world?
Moving closer to the tent, I’m about to change into my pajamas as discreetly as I can. But as I go to strip off my leggings, it hits me that I’m still wearing my hiking boots. Haven’t taken them off once since this morning. And as quick as the realization comes…so does the pain.
It’s like my feet have realized, “Wait a second, these heavy-duty cages aren’t just an extension of us now! And actually, we hate them! We mustn’t be trapped any longer! FREE US!” I slump onto a log behind me, wincing at the biting twinges in my ankles and pinkie toes. Actually, as I untie the laces and loosen them enough to start easing my feet out, each one is more of a foot-shaped mass of ouch-iness. Surely that term is in a medical textbook somewhere.
I can’t suppress my winces and whimpers as I finally get the boots off, then the socks, and examine the damage as much as I can. Blisters on each pinkie toe, for certain, and on the inward-facing sides of my ankles. There are plenty more at-risk spots, where the skin looks red and raw but isn’t broken yet. I eye my discarded boots and socks with disappointment, muttering, “Y’all really let a girl down today.”
I must be disoriented enough to expect them to talk back, because I’m not surprised when I’m answered with a gruff “No kidding.”
Of course, my shoes haven’t attained sentience and a grumbly voice. I turn my attention to the weak beam of light now glowing around me to find Finn, first aid kit in one hand and some kind of tablet in the other, coming to sit beside me on my log. He eyes my gross feet with the detached coolness of a paramedic, quietly counting to himself.
I venture cautiously, “What are you—”
“Looks like we have enough Band-Aids for the both of us, tonight and tomorrow. We’ll restock at the next checkpoint. And hopefully get a real flashlight.” Finn waves what I now see is an e-reader, which he’s using as a makeshift light source with the brightness on high, then he sets it and the first aid kit on the log between us. He opens the kit and extracts exactly four Band-Aids—one for each of my blisters—then passes them to me. I accept, but my eyes dart toward his foot propped on the opposite knee as I register his “both of us” comment. It’s not in great shape either, as far as I can tell, all of his ouchies revealed by the outdoorsy-looking sandals he now wears with the straps loosened. “I’d disinfect first, then Neosporin, then Band-Aid. Put fresh ones on in the morning, plus cover the spots that haven’t blistered yet but probably will if you keep going without protecting them.”
Surprised by what seems an awful lot like concern, I swallow any snarky comebacks about knowing how to put my own Band-Aids on. “Got it. Thanks.” We both tend to our sickly little appendages in silence for a while, but I’m also taking in all kinds of new information in a peripheral observation, nonverbal way. Like how Finn already changed into his pajamas, dark basketball shorts and a thin white T-shirt. And how his newly half-bare legs are…different than I expected. More muscle to them, which I guess makes sense for someone who hikes a lot. He did imply he hikes a lot, didn’t he?
“Hey,” I say, causing his head to jerk my way mid-bandage-application. I gesture for him to finish before I continue. “Does this happen every time you hike? Or did you get new boots that need breaking in, too? Because if this is just the norm, that’s gonna suck.”
Finn doesn’t look at me again, but I can still see his mouth turn down at the corners, the little stress line in the middle of his forehead looking stressier. “Doesn’t happen every time. And my boots aren’t new.” It seems like he’s going to leave it at that, but as he crumples up his Band-Aid trash, he adds, “It’s just been a while since I’ve used them. I haven’t gone hiking since—I mean, it’s been a busy year. Haven’t had time.”
The cagey way he says all this has me rethinking my earlier judgment. He may be dramatic at times, but he can’t lie for shit. I just don’t know why on earth he’d lie about anything related to this.
“I’m, uh, going to try to get some sleep,” Finn says as he gets to his feet and takes the dim light with him. “So. Good night.”
“Good night?” I answer back, the word coming out more like a question. With a shake of my head, I call out after him, “Sleep tight! Don’t let the bed bugs bite! Wait, hammock bugs? Or any bugs? Lots of ’em out here. Well, you know what I mean!”