Page 38 of Wild About You
The camera crew that stopped by every so often to film our progress is almost certainly convinced Finn and I foraged some psychedelic shrooms. They’ve never seen our team communicate that much, let alone laugh till we both have the hiccups. And it certainly wasn’t the general vibe of the teams today. The wind was our common enemy. Daniel and Luis’s shelter is already half collapsed by the time we’re gathering around the campfire for dinner.
The collective mood has darkened since this morning, it seems to me, while we build our own burritos with campfire-cooked ingredients. I’m tempted to get another sing-along going but can read a metaphorical room. I’m glad to see, at least, that Finn has plenty of filling veg options to eat, and even though I totally lied about having a burrito daydream this morning, the meal is highly satisfying. Afterward, we all sit around the fire, eating our feelings in the form of “mountain pies,” which are essentially s’mores ingredients folded up into leftover tortillas. The marshmallow-chocolate combo is a classic for a reason. Zeke makes an absolute massacre of the three he consumes, the lower half of his face covered in a big ring of chocolate by the time he’s done. This, at last, breaks some of the tension, everyone dissolving into laughter when he turns to Harper and asks so innocently, “Do I have anything on my face?”
I’m grateful for the levity, and when I see the secret smile Zeke tries to hide behind a napkin, I suspect the big guy knew exactly what he was doing.
When we all split off and turn in for bed, sleep comes easier than I expect. I settle into a comfy spot in my sleeping bag inside our little lean-to, shut my eyes, and drift right off before Finn’s even put his e-reader away, apparently too worn out to anxious-spiral about anything.
Unfortunately, I’m woken up some unknown amount of time later by the soft howl of the wind. Normally I’d roll over and go right back to sleep. But I can’t once I realize that Finn’s sleeping bag is empty beside me.
Most likely, he just went out to pee. It’s still pitch-black outside, and I don’t feel rested enough for more than a few hours to have passed. He’ll come right back, I’m sure.
That’s what everyone whose partner goes missing in the woods thinks, a voice in my brain whispers. I decide to wait up until he gets back. Not that I could fall back asleep now, anyway. My heart is racing too much, my mind running through all the ways Finn could’ve met his demise on the other side of these dead tree branch walls. Walls that feel like they’re closing in on me, tighter with every minute he’s gone.
After a beat, I dig out my satellite phone and check the time. You know, for when the police ask me later. 1:58 a.m.
To occupy myself, I find my headlamp, turn it on, and survey our small shelter space. His sleeping bag is here, boots are gone. Sweatshirt he always has over his head when he sleeps is sitting on the sleeping bag along with his e-reader.
I check the time. 1:59. Cool, cool, cool.
I don’t want to sneak up on the guy while he’s doing bathroom business in the middle of the night. In fact, I don’t really want to leave my semblance of a safe haven at all. But how shitty will I feel for the rest of my life if he’s somewhere out there, incapacitated, about to become a family of black bears’ midnight snack, and instead of helping him, I spent the whole night twiddling my thumbs and playing the world’s dullest game of I Spy with his belongings?
It’s time to put on my Brave Girl Britches. Before I can talk myself out of it—which would be so, so easy—I shimmy out of my sleeping bag, tug on my boots, and step outside. And instantly get full-body chills. So I duck back into the shelter and grab the first warm thing I see, which happens to be Finn’s sweatshirt.
Totally because it’s the first thing I saw. Not because I am a simple woman who, when presented with an opportunity to wear a hot guy’s sweatshirt, will take it every time. I pull it on, the worn, soft cotton immediately soothing. It smells like Finn and the forest, which is when I realize those scents are almost interchangeable to me. Fresh air and campfire. I pull the collar up over my nose and breathe it in like it’s my new lavender rollerball.
I’m fine. I’m safe. I don’t have a childish fear of the big bad woods that hasn’t gone away after a week out here.
With the dim light from the lowest setting on my headlamp illuminating the way, I head toward the rocky overlook where we ate and hung out as a group earlier. I scan the woods from side to side as I walk, watching out for anything that resembles a tall human.
No luck…until there is. My whole body slumps with relief when I see the back of Finn’s Eat More Plants T-shirt. He’s sitting on the ground near the edge of the overlook, broad shoulders hunched with his arms resting on his bent legs in front of him. I focus all my attention on his familiar form as I approach, on the fact that he appears safe, whole, unharmed. I take a couple long, deep breaths, in and out, but still feel antsy. This feelings fog is chronic.
He must hear my boots approaching, because he suddenly sits up straight, spine going rigid, and…wipes at his face?
“Enjoying the view?” I joke as I plop myself down beside him and click off my headlamp. Then, as my eyes adjust, my chest tightens. Because Finn’s face is tear-streaked, and he doesn’t look okay.
Before I can ask, though, he answers, voice watery. “I am, actually. Good night for stars.”
I realize that I haven’t even really looked. So I turn to see what he means, and it’s like the entire sky is suddenly open before me. An endless expanse of deep blue-black dotted with masses of glittering stars. More than I’ve been able to see in a long time, maybe ever, even at home on the farm.
“Whoa,” I say on an exhale.
“Best part of camping,” Finn whispers back. It’s like we’re afraid to be too loud, to make any sudden movements and scare the stars away. I am, at least. Things as perfect as this night sky surely can’t last.
“Really?” I murmur back. “I think it’s carrying around my own used toilet paper.”
He snorts. “A close second.”
We sit there without speaking for a while, watching the stars like a movie with the night noise of the forest as a soundtrack. I’m wondering if he’s going to tell me why he was crying—why, I think from my peripheral vision, he still is—or if we’re both going to pretend it didn’t happen. Of course, I’ve never been great at subtlety.
“So did one of the stars insult your backpacking wardrobe? Because I’ll beat them up for you. I really will. The khakis have grown on me.”
I steal a glance at Finn and find his face creased with quiet laughter as he swipes more tears from his cheeks.
“The stars didn’t do anything to me,” he says on a sigh. “I, uh, I couldn’t sleep. Got to thinking too much about my dad. Thought I’d come out here and visit with him.”
Oh. I still, not wanting a single fidgety movement of mine to distract from whatever he needs in this moment.
“I don’t know what I believe happens after you die,” he goes on in his low, calming rumble. “If his spirit is still out there somewhere, if he’s watching from on high or whatever. But what I do know are my memories with him when he was alive. We used to camp a lot in the Green Mountains. We’d go year-round, but the best times were clear summer nights when the sky would get dark and absolutely fill with stars. I’d stay up long past my bedtime, Dad and I pointing out constellations to each other. Do you know many constellations?”