Page 12 of Wild About You
If a woman yells a bunch of nonsense in the woods but her teammate doesn’t stick around to hear it, does she even make a sound? I’ll undoubtedly get the chance to test this further.
Finished with my own self-doctoring, I pack up the first aid kit and resume changing into clean sleepwear before getting settled in my tent. The sleeping bag is nicer than anything I ever took to sleepovers growing up, and crawling in, I feel immediately ten times more comfortable than I have all day.
It doesn’t last, though.
Almost instantly, I’m wide awake. Jittery. Anxious as hell. I situate myself as closely as I can to how I’d fall asleep in my bed, even as it’s impossible to ignore that my usual pillow, mattress, and bedding are replaced by less ergonomic, more transportable stand-ins. My body won’t relax.
In a tent. In the dark. Near a boy who seems to rate me somewhere near plastic bags of used toilet paper in appeal.
The peaceful forest around me sounds deafeningly loud, even more so than on our hike today. Insects humming, birds whistling, leaves rustling. A plane flying over somewhere far in the distance. I can even hear Finn sighing softly a few feet outside the tent, shifting as he tries to get comfortable in the hammock, the straps rubbing on tree bark.
My pulse picks up. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as the buzzing inside me rivals the sound outside in intensity. I grab my e-reader and can barely get my eyes to focus on the words, let alone my mind. It’s full of questions and worries that multiply by the second.
What am I doing here? Is it always this loud outside? How many of these noises are actually concerning? Am I in danger? Is Finn? Did we clean everything up from dinner well enough, or is a bear going to smell our soup and come for us? What was that sound? And that one? Would I even hear it if a bear was coming, or not until it was too late? What about any other animal? Bears aren’t the only predators out here. How am I supposed to sleep with all this going on? But if I don’t sleep, will I be useless tomorrow? Even more useless than I was today? Is every night going to be like this one? How long can I keep this up?
For all that I was skeptical about Finn sleeping outside, it doesn’t take long for the soft sounds from the direction of the hammock to taper off, suggesting that he’s fallen asleep. Inside my lonely tent, I’m not nearly as lucky.
* * *
The next time I notice the birds chirping, I reach a hand out to slap the ground beside me. When I connect with a smooth nylon tent floor instead of my phone, consciousness creeps in and I realize this isn’t an alarm I can silence.
Much to my disappointment.
Arching my neck, I peer out over the edge of my sleeping bag, which I’ve nestled into overnight, blinking against the dim daylight that filters into my shelter. It looks like the sun isn’t even all the way up. What do these birds have going on that’s so urgent?
I burrow into the bag again and close my eyes, trying to resume what, after a largely sleepless night, was finally a really good dream. I think it was about cinnamon rolls. I could smash a whole can of the Pillsbury Originals right now. My stomach grumbles.
Birds continue to chirp.
Damn. This isn’t going to happen, is it?
But I refuse to admit defeat and continue to lie down, my eyes squeezed shut, my mind running a highlight reel of favorite baked goods. Until I hear it. The swish of artificial material, the sleeping bag or hammock kind, brushing against itself. Then comes a soft, rumbly groan that is unmistakably the other half of Team Finnatalie. I hear more rustling and the light padding of footsteps moving away from our little camp compound.
I’m definitely not getting any more rest, but is fake-sleeping still preferable to more Forced Finn-ship? I feel bad for thinking yes.
Giving him enough time to attend to whatever morning business he has, I wriggle out of my sleeping bag and try to roll it and the sleeping pad back into their compact, pack-ready form. When I’m done with cleanup inside the tent, I make my way into the sunshine.
“Morning!” I call as I walk over, sporting quite the Look in my pajamas and hiking boots. My hair probably resembles the nests that my fine, feathered, natural alarm clock foes live in.
Finn sits on a log with his back to me, but peers over his shoulder at the sound of my voice. He doesn’t look sleep-disheveled in the least, already dressed for the day in a light green T-shirt and another pair of pants that could double as a storage unit. His hair is too short to even get messed up. I bet that’s intentional.
“Mm-hmm,” he says after taking a bite of a protein bar. I guess that means “good morning” in Antisocial Man.
“You sleep okay?” I pass his makeshift bench and head for my pack where it’s propped against a tree.
“Mm-hmm,” I hear behind me. “Good morning” again? Or in this language, does the term have multiple meanings? It will require more study.
He doesn’t ask me the same thing back, but it’s probably for the best. Since I got to have the tent while he was hanging like a bat between some trees, I don’t feel like my inability to sleep well will garner much sympathy. Then again, would anything garner Finn’s sympathy? Is that a thing he feels? Or does he operate on an emotional metronome, ticking back and forth between disdain and exasperation?
These are the thoughts that occupy me as I grab clothes for the day and my toiletry bag, then continue to dig through my pack for my own breakfast options. Where did those food rations go? I could’ve sworn—
There’s a sound like a hollow drumbeat from behind and I turn to see Finn with one foot propped up on the lid of a round, transparent container. Ohhh. The bear canister.
“Food’s in here,” he says, eyeing me like I’ve forgotten something as simple as the sky being blue. Embarrassment threatens to creep in, but I tamp it down and lift my chin high, because really, what do I have to feel bad about? That I didn’t remember every single piece of the overwhelming amount of new information I’ve had to take in over the last twenty-four hours? Not today, Oscar the Grouch.
I wolf down a protein bar, then find a tucked away spot to change my clothes and get ready for the day. The tent would provide more privacy, but it’s too confining for my needs this morning. While I don’t feel overly sticky and gross, or smell too bad yet, I still give myself a quick once-over with one of the body-cleansing wipes I packed while I stand behind a tree in my unmentionables.
It’s a humbling experience.