Withering Hope (18 page)

I
wake up as light leaks into the plane. I jolt into a sitting position, remembering the events of last night. Tristan is still sleeping in his reclined seat. I get dressed and quickly run out of the plane. Once outside, I don't stop. I keep running, my feet sinking deep into the mud formed by the rain last night. Making a run for it, yes, that's what I need. But where? There's nowhere to run.

No matter.

I keep going, keep moving. If I run fast enough—far enough—this suffocating bubble in my throat must fade, maybe even vanish. And with it, my guilt too. But something inexplicable happens. Instead of diminishing, the bubble grows in size, until even the tiniest of breaths become unbearable. I can't leave the guilt behind. Because it's not Tristan I want to run away from.

It's myself.

So I stop, resting my hands on my knees, nauseous from my sprint. The sight of my diamond ring brings tears to my eyes. I close them, desperately trying to conjure an image of Chris. But the months I've trained myself not to think of him render my efforts useless. My memories of Chris are fond, but distant. They pale in comparison to the ones I've collected here, their intensity molded by the danger of the forest and the presence of a man who smothers me with kindness and awakes a fire I never knew existed. A man whose pain I can feel as if it's my own. Every memory, every experience before this, before
him
, pales. But the guilt doesn't pale.

What have I done? How did I allow things to come to this? Why did I give in last night? The answer slings itself through my mind, cutting and unforgiving: because I wanted it so much. Needed it, even. Shaking, I dig in my memories, trying to make sense of this, searching for signs I should have seen this coming.

Once I start remembering, the signs are everywhere.

All those times I wanted to comfort him, when I unintentionally questioned him about things that were painful for him to remember.

My elation at seeing him happy.

The terror I felt—still do—at the thought that something bad may happen to him. Friendship may have prompted these feelings once, but not anymore. When exactly I crossed that barrier, I do not know. But I certainly crossed it, because what I feel is so much more powerful. Shatteringly so. The guilt strangling me is a confirmation of the nature of my feelings.

Suddenly I can't bear being out here by myself. I straighten up. Where the hell am I? I don't recognize the trees around me. I'm certain I haven't been here before. How long have I been running? My heart hammers against my ribcage. I grab at my waistband for my pocketknife, but I don't have it with me. Damn it. This was stupid. I didn't take the spear or my bow, either. I look around, searching for something that looks familiar through the trees. Nothing. I break out in a sweat, trying to ignore the panic and find my way back. I swallow hard, willing to calm myself. I came down the hill, so as long as I go back up, I should at least be going in the right direction. I lower my eyes to the forest floor and see my own footprints in front of me. I follow the trail, grateful for the rain last night. It takes me a long time to get back. I try to walk on my tiptoes, stopping now and again to look around for any signs that a beast might be following me. I feel vulnerable without my knife. After a while, I pick up a fallen branch. If worst come to worst, I’ll defend myself with it. Some of the leaves freckling the ground aren't covered in mud, and I see them in more detail. The rich colors and shapes put a smile on my face. Nature paints more vividly and inventively than any man's imagination ever will.

Something catches my eye: a pack of white, beautiful flowers. Orchids. An irrational joy overcomes me seeing the familiar flower, as if the florist back in L.A. has sprung from behind a tree, asking me if I want them packed in silver or pink paper. I pick as many as I can, using my T-shirt as a holder. I also pick up some wood to use as an excuse for being away in case Tristan is already up when I return. I hope he isn't… he'll throw a fit because I left on my own.

But he isn't awake.

So I start my daily routine, showering, setting up the signal fire, and digging for some roots to eat for breakfast. I also search for fruit. Heavy dew mantles everything outside, draping the bark of trees, making the climb for fruit more difficult. The drops of water seem to bring out a plethora of tiny neon-blue lizards with orange striped backs that scamper up and down the bark. I have to be careful not to touch them while I climb. I touched one my first week here, and developed an annoying rash. After a lecture from Tristan on being more careful because even frogs can be poisonous in the rainforest, I'm not taking any chances.

I stay close to the fence in my search. This kind of physical work is what I need right now, keeping busy enough to not drown in guilt. It doesn't exhaust me, so I can contemplate how to handle the situation. The cleverest thing I come up with is acting as if nothing happened. I hope he'll play along.

I'm in front of the fire, about to roast the roots, when Tristan says, "Why didn't you wake me up?" I twist the ring on my finger, like I've done all morning. Tristan has an uncharacteristic grin on his face, then his gaze drops to my ring and his grin dissipates. I turn away from him, concentrating on the roots. For a long time he doesn't say anything. The silence becomes unbearable, so I make the process of roasting the roots as loud as possible. After they are done, I put two on a folded leaf for him, and keep two for myself. I hand him the leaf without looking at him and make a point of staring at the fire while we eat.

"Are those
orchids
by the shelter?"

"Yes. I found them by a tree farther away from here. They're beautiful."

"You went out alone today, didn't you?" he asks briskly. "Don't you understand how dangerous this is, Aimee?"

I swallow hard, looking away. He's right, of course. In hindsight, my flight this morning seems even more idiotic given we could be surrounded by jaguars. The fact that we haven't found fresh paw prints doesn't mean they have left.

"I needed time alone." The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them. Tristan turns pale. I hold my breath.

"No problem," he says, fixing me with his gaze. The intensity of his eyes spears me like a flaming arrow. I lose myself in his gaze. The same need from last night burns in them. And something else, too. Pain. This is an opportunity to discuss last night. He wants to. Like the coward I am, I choose to remain silent. When Tristan speaks again, the pain in his voice is devastating. "The next time you want to be alone, stay in the plane and tell me to get lost. If it comes to that, I can handle myself better out here than you can. I'm going to check the fence for any holes and strengthen it."

I remain seated on the trunk, too stunned for words. I just hurt him—really hurt him—and all he can worry about is my safety. A new feeling spreads its wings inside me. Shame.

I spring to my feet, following him to the fence.

"No. I'll do this." His tone is cutting. His dismissal hurts me, but I deserve it. Maybe he needs time alone too. Or maybe he just can't stand being close to me.

I stay out of his sight, wondering what he’s doing at the fence. He hasn't found any holes in it during his daily inspections, so there isn't anything to fix. He must be trying to stay away from me. When I can't stand being alone anymore, I go searching and find Tristan on the other side of the plane, hunched over a portion of the fence. I don't see what he's doing, but when he steps back, my heart stops. There is a giant hole in the fence.

"When did this appear?" I ask.

He straightens up without looking at me. "It must have been in the night. It wasn't here yesterday."

The paw prints in front of the hole clarify what kind of animal caused the hole. A jaguar.

"I don't understand, there haven't been any new holes in the fence for a few days…" When Tristan doesn't say anything, a somber doubt creeps in. "Or have there been, Tristan?"

"There have been two holes in the last two days, though no paw prints have been inside the fence."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Sighing, he says, "Because I didn't want to worry you."

His answer melts me. I place my hand on his shoulder. He winces, but I don't remove it. "Don't keep things away from me, okay? We’re a team."

"A team," he repeats.

"Yes. A team. What do we do now?"

Tristan purses his lips, lost in thought. "Strengthen the entire fence. Let's put another row of branches and leaves all around it, doubling it."

"And that will keep them at bay?" I ask.

"It'll be better than what we have now."

"Can we put some plants with spines on the outside?" An idea strikes me. "Sort of mimicking a barbed-wire fence?"

"That's a good idea. Except they'll dry off quickly and won't be as useful anymore."

"Not if we uproot them and replant them here."

"It'll take a lot of time."

"I don't have a better idea."

Tristan considers my words for a few moments. "We'll double it with branches today. That will take us the whole day. We'll start to plant spine plants tomorrow."

"Sounds like a plan."

We venture into the forest to gather branches. We have a hefty reserve of wood for fire, but that's not good enough for the fence.

Tristan was right, doubling the fence does take up the entire day. It's hard work and we do it more meticulously than the first time. I remember the day we first put the fence up, the day I decided to get closer to Tristan, and started firing my never-ending list of questions. Neither of us speaks now. The silence is heavy, the unspoken words and memories from last night floating like an invisible, choking mist. Something broke between us last night. I don't know how to repair it. Or if I want to repair it. I catch Tristan looking at me a couple times, but he looks away when I meet his eyes.

I steal glances at him too. His capable arms fortify the fence, the muscles on them flexing with effort. I used to look at his strong, defined body with admiration—thinking how well he can protect us. Now my thoughts are far from being so innocent. All I can think of is how those same arms enveloped me last night, holding me against him, caressing me with a fervor I’ve never experienced before. As his lips move, gasping for air—the hot, humid air that's never enough to satiate our need for fresh air—our kiss flashes right before my eyes. His lips over mine, coaxing me, setting me ablaze. His tongue and its desperate dance with mine.

It was passionate.

Raw.

Impossible to forget.

But over the next few days I try to do the impossible. Cold silence hangs between us as we plant spine plants in front of fence, building our little fort. Tristan goes back to sleeping in the cockpit at night. I don't do anything to stop him, telling myself it's for the best, convincing myself he won't have nightmares again. He doesn't need me anymore.

All of which proves to be a lie. Maybe it's because I’m now intimately aware of his nightmares, but in addition to hearing him thrash around in his sleep, I make out the words he mumbles, despite the closed door. I break down after three nights and go to him in the cockpit. I wake him up, his horror-filled eyes finding their focus and peace when he sees me. He opens his mouth, but I put my thumb on it, shaking my head. I lead him to the cabin, on my seat. He puts his head on my chest, entwining his fingers with mine, his breath rapid at first, then more shallow until he falls in a restful sleep.

T
he next afternoon, I head straight to the shower, exhausted after a trip to check the water level at the bottom of the hill. The water receded some more, and Tristan predicts we should be able to leave this place in about one month. One month! After having spent almost three months here, that shouldn't seem like such a long time. But with the threat of two or more jaguars looming over us, it seems like an eternity. Hopefully the spine bushes we planted around the outside of the fence will keep them away. I spend an inordinate amount of time in the shower, rubbing my skin, cleaning myself. I ran too close to one of the spine bushes near the entrance and scratched my right shoulder. The spines must contain some kind of coloring sap, because my scratch is a jet black that doesn't go away no matter how hard I rub it. Hopefully it will go away in a few days. I'm almost done showering when I hear Tristan’s voice.