Page 23 of Wild About You
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.”