Withering Hope (14 page)

"Tristan," I say, my hand hovering over his shoulder, unsure if I should shake him awake. He seems half-awake already, his eyes blinking open from time to time, unfocused. His trashing becomes wilder, more frantic, sweat beading on his forehead. The words he is muttering are incomprehensible.

"Tristan," I say again, a little louder. He grips my hand, just like he did that night he had fever. His eyes flash wide open for a few seconds and then close again. In that land between dreams and reality, he shifts closer to me until his head is almost on my chest. His grip on my hand is so tight I'm afraid it might stop my circulation, but I don't have the heart to tell him to let go. Though his clasp doesn't relax, his thrashing stops, and his breathing becomes more even.

"So many died. I couldn't save them," he whispers, his voice shaking. "Help them."

"What happened?"

"We stumbled upon a group of civilians. They weren't supposed to be there. I was instructed to lead the group to safety, but I wasn’t successful. They were all killed. I see that scene again and again. It's more awful every time. In my dreams, I save them, then pick up the gun and kill them myself."

"It's just a nightmare, Tristan." I wish I could find more comforting words, because my heart breaks for him.

"No. It's a blunter version of the reality. I didn't pull that trigger. But I did kill them."

He doesn't say anything at all afterward. He might have fallen asleep, so I try to move.

"Can you stay here for a little while?" he asks.

"Sure."

"Thanks."

After a while he falls asleep, and the nightmares don't return. How horrible it must be to face those terrifying images every night and still go through every day. A new wave of admiration swells up in me. It's been a long time since I felt this way toward someone.

I can't fall asleep, hard as I try. Returning to my seat would help, but it's out of the question. Tristan has me trapped, holding my wrist and resting his head on my chest. His other arm is around me in a very tight embrace, as if his life depended on it. Perhaps it does, and he takes strength from this just as I do when I seek strength and comfort from him when something in the forest scares the living daylights out of me. I need him to survive the horrors outside. He needs me to overcome those in his mind.

It's a good thing we can offer each other exactly the type of strength we need.

S
ometimes things happen and there is no going back. I should know, I’ve experienced plenty of those life-changing moments. They all threw me into darkness, sending me deeper and deeper into a pit.

For once, something is happening that will pull me out of that pit—it already does.

Someone.

And now that I’ve found her, I can’t give her up.

T
he first thing I do next morning is take a shower. I usually make the signal fire first and then shower, but I feel so sticky I can't stand myself anymore. Tristan is still sleeping when I get out of the plane. It has rained. The forest attains a magic hue after a rain, more so if it occurs in the morning. Mist coils through the foliage, mantling the trees and hiding the soaked floor. The sun paints rainbows almost every day. I know that because I climb to the top of a tall tree as often as I can after a rain. In the beginning I did it because I hoped to see a plane or a helicopter, but now I do it because I need to see the sun. For someone who grew up under the California sun, the few pale rays we get below the thick canopy aren't enough.

I enter our makeshift shower cabin, trying to imagine it's an exotic shower in an expensive resort, not a cubicle made out of a bunch of wood poles covered with leaves. The shower has three poles bound together on top to hold the woven water basket. If I pull at the braided rope hanging from it, water will flow from the hollow bamboo-like tube Tristan stuck in the front. But right now I need more to refresh myself than that thin stream of water. I want to overturn the basket, indulging in all of the water in one huge splash. I will replace the basket with a full one afterward. We have plenty since it rained during the night. I usually hang my clothes and towel inside the shower, but since I'm planning to unleash a cascade, I leave them outside so I don't soak them. The shower is my second favorite space after the plane. The basket is high up, so I have to jump a few times before I get a grip strong enough to overturn it. I feel like I stepped on clouds when the water pours on my hair, my face, my body, washing away the stickiness. It's warm, as always, except for a cold touch on my back… a shiver?

Or
something
.

I look once at the jet black snake curled at my feet before jumping out of the shower, screaming. I slide a few times on the muddy ground in my haste to run as far away from the shower as I can. I reach the airstairs just as Tristan descends it, and I start blabbing, shaking uncontrollably. His arms around my waist, he says something in a soothing voice, but I can't hear him over the deafening thumping in my ears.

When my pulse calms down, I manage to say, "Snake. In the shower."

"Did it bite you?"

"No, no. I just… just… kill it, please."

"Relax, Aimee. Breathe."

"I don't want to breathe," I yell, clinging to him, fisting his shirt. "I want that thing gone from there."

"I'll take care of it. I'll just bring your towel first."

That's when I realize I'm stark naked. My boobs are pressing against his chest. My nipples have turned to pebbles. Horrified, I leap away from him, which makes everything worse because now he can see me better. But he's already seen me in all my naked glory when I was running around like a mad woman. The more I think of it, the more embarrassed I become. My cheeks burn. Scratch that. My entire body burns with shame. I cover my lady parts and my boobs until Tristan brings me the towel and the clothes, then I wrap the towel around myself. Why the hell are my nipples hard?

"The snake is not in the shower; I'll see if I can find it in the vicinity. Go inside the plane and try to calm yourself."

"Okay."

I hide inside the plane longer than calming down and changing into fresh clothes would take. Deep and utter shame keeps me rooted on my seat. I wonder if there's a way not to go out and see Tristan ever again. It's not just that he saw me, it's… how my body reacted. My hard nipples, the tingle on my skin. That wasn't because I felt ashamed.

Why then?

I play with the engagement ring on my finger, guilt drowning my feelings of shame and confusion. I remember all the other times I felt guilty, those times when it was Tristan’s body that reacted inappropriately—a frantic breath, a touch that prompted him to bite his lip. I didn’t understand why I felt guilty then. But I think my subconscious did. I curse loudly. An engaged woman shouldn't feel like this. Not even if she hadn’t seen her fiancé in more than two months. I would have been his wife right now if this bullshit hadn't happened. I rest my head between my knees, trying very hard to picture Chris waiting for me at the altar, which is ironic since I've tried so hard to wipe that image from my mind for two months. But that image doesn’t come, or any other image of him, which makes me feel even guiltier.

When I get the nerve to go outside again, Tristan has started the signal fire, as well as a regular fire next to it and is roasting something that looks delicious. I guess he's done the daily hunt already. Excellent, because I'm starving.

"Did you fall asleep?" he asks.

"Yeah, a bit," I lie.

"Good." He scans me with a worried gaze. "You didn't rest much last night, did you?"

I lie again. "Oh, it wasn't too bad." I got maybe two hours of sleep last night because of the uncomfortable position I slept in, and the heat steaming off his body was suffocating.

"I'm sorry if—”

"Let's not start that discussion again, Tristan. You have nightmares. They're not a big deal to me, just noise. But they are a big deal to you. You didn't have any more last night after I came to you. When you slept in the cockpit, you thrashed around all night. This is an improvement."

"Yeah, it is."

"Well, that is the whole point." Tristan nods as he moves the bird around over the fire. "What did you do with the snake?"

"Got rid of it. Was lying in the sun on top of the shower."

"Can we do something from preventing snakes, or anything else, falling inside the water bucket?"

"I'll come up with something, sure."

"Thanks. The food looks like it'll take a while to be ready. I'm going to search for fruit so we can eat them for dinner."

Tristan stands up abruptly. "No."

"Huh? Why? I do this every day."

"I saw some worrying paw prints around there." He points to the space between the tail of the plane and the fence.

My stomach leaps to my throat. "It got on the inside of the fence? Can you tell what it was?"

Tristan shakes his head. "It might be a jaguar."

"You said those were rare."

"Yeah, well, we already got lucky crashing on this hill above the floodwaters; I guess we aren't lucky in this department. From now on, we'll stick together at all times."

"But that's not efficient at all," I protest.

"Neither is you getting yourself killed."

"Why are you so pessimistic?" I ask, exasperated.

"I'm a realist. You have no idea how to defend yourself."

"I can climb trees," I say heatedly.

Tristan abandons all pretense of focusing on our meal and stands up, agitated. "So can every animal in this forest. Besides you freak out when you see a damn snake. How will you keep your head cool when you're face to face with a jaguar?"

"I freaked out once," I say through gritted teeth.

"Once is all it takes to make the difference between life and death. Are you actually fighting with me over going into the forest on your own? You're afraid of it."

"That's why I always try to stay close to the plane," I spit back.

"It’s not up for discussion. If there's an emergency that requires just one of us to go into the forest I will go, and you wait inside the plane."

"Oh so you can go on your own, but I can't? Last time I checked, you didn't have superpowers." I try to control myself. What on earth brought on the temper? It’s not because he thinks I can’t defend myself. I know I can’t. I take a deep breath, poking around my mind for an answer, replaying this conversation. The second the word
jaguar
pops up, I realize what brought this on. I’m just terrified—petrified that something might happen to him. It terrifies me more than the idea that something bad might happen to me. And the fact that he takes his own safety more lightly than mine furthers my apprehension.