Page 22 of Wild About You

Burke and Seb both raise their sporks—because hard-core backpackers can’t spare the space for even one unnecessary utensil—and dig in with gusto.

Finn must sense my nerves, because he gently bumps his hip to my side. If I were him from two days ago, my limbs would dramatically flail as I jumped a foot away from him in shock. But the me of right now must be truly desperate for comfort, whatever meager form it takes, as I follow when he leans away so my side just barely brushes against his and stays there.

I don’t know if Burke Forrester has been making these same moan-adjacent sounds with every dish he’s tasted, but I do know I’ll never unhear them. Seb, fortunately, uses words to express his thoughts, which I know shouldn’t make me love him more, but the bar for men remains ever on the ground.

“This is really great, Natalie,” he says, gently dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a napkin before offering me a smile, and I don’t even ask him to say my name again so I can record it. “I love the saltiness, and you cooked the noodles to perfection. Thanks for sharing!”

We get no further feedback from Judge McMouthNoises at the other end of the table, but I feel more at ease returning to the edge of the circle. Maybe I should record Seb saying a handful of nice things, so I can replay them any time I feel myself spiraling, like an audible shot of serotonin. I’m even soothed by listening to his feedback for the remaining teams, no matter the fact that he compliments literally everyone and says nothing negative.

We’re sent to the other side of the clearing while Seb and Burke confer over their rankings. Finn paces in small circles while I give Harper and Evan the hug attacks I internally promised them. Harper squirms and grumbles protests about how she’s “not a hugger” and she “didn’t even do anything,” but her arms wrap limply around me all the same.

And in the end, the good guys win this one—Seb awards a pair of shiny golden sporks and the earliest go time for tomorrow to my carbonara comrades, Harper and Evan.

* * *

Unfortunately, the gratification of earning a respectable second place in a challenge is like having candy for dinner rather than a well-rounded, nutritious meal. It may fill you up and make you happy in the short-term, but your stomach will be grumbling again before bedtime.

It’s not like I expected Finn to kiss my feet.

For one thing, they’ve been sweating in my hiking boots for three days now, and still have some healing blisters. I wouldn’t let Enemi go near them right now, not even after she judgily told me in front of everyone around the fire circle last night that putting a purple streak in my hair was “brave.”

So no, Finn needn’t show his gratitude for my saving our asses, despite his best attempts to take us down in camp stove burner flames, in that way. But my stomach is grumbling for some kind of acknowledgment that he wasn’t at his best today. A simple “sorry” would go a long way.

Hip bumps of solidarity are nearly forgotten, the tension between us as thick as ever while we hike the quick quarter mile to our campsite for the night. Finn silently begins setting up the tent, and I don’t have it in me to put up a fight about letting me help. Honestly, he should be setting up the tent for me. Laying out my sleeping bag inside, putting a chocolate on my pillow.

I know it shouldn’t be that big of a deal. But as I dig through my pack for all the stuff I need for the night, the pride in my accomplishment has worn off, and I just feel deflated.

I’m tired of not being recognized for what I can do—by my parents, by everyone at Oliver. Not being taken seriously can be motivating to a point, in a fuck-the-haters way. But spite is like an adrenaline rush for me—it wears off, and I’m left tired, trying to catch my breath, and looking around for someone to say, “Hey. You’re good now. You can stop pushing so hard,” and maybe most of all, “I’m proud of you.”

Finn’s known me for three days, and it isn’t fair to pin all my baggage on him. But the way he’s been treating me isn’t fair either, and I don’t have to be this constant sunshine, trying to give off enough light to make up for all his darkness. He can make an effort to be pleasant for a change.

I wander off to go through my nightly routine, the anxious energy building within me, the buzzing under my skin even stronger than that of my toothbrush. My mind wanders even further. Maybe I never get others’ affirmation or pride because I don’t actually deserve it. I’m not impressive or talented; I have a lot of dumb luck, like Harper and Evan helping me out today because they’re nice people who felt bad for me. That’s what really kept us in the game, isn’t it?

The thought sets me off down darker mental paths as I finish cleaning myself up and changing into pajamas, my hands shaking, breath coming more erratically as I tumble through all the ways I’m not good enough to be here, at Oliver, any of it. By the time I’m crawling into my tent, my mind has run wild—fear of all the ways I’m on the brink of failing getting muddled with the fear of my current environment. I’m panting when I collapse onto my sleeping bag, and I bring a hand up to my chest as if I can slow the pounding of my heart. Why this? Why now? I’m not in any imminent danger. I know that. But also, do I? I don’t have night vision or any other ability to see what all’s out there, lying in wait beyond the flimsy tent fabric that offers no real protection. Shit, should I have brought the bear spray in here? But since Finn’s sleeping outside, he should have it—he’s the first line of defense. Is he aware of that, ready for it?

It all feels paralyzing—I’m not safe here, I know it. But I’m not any safer if I burrow into my sleeping bag, nor if I get up and leave the tent. What am I gonna do, run through the dark woods in my tiny pajama shorts until I reach civilization? It’s all I can manage to lie flat and press my palms into the slick material of my sleeping bag, feeling the layers of stuffing and my sleeping pad beneath it. I try to breathe deeply, in and out, a lot like what we did earlier today. But my breath hitches at every noise coming from outside. I don’t even feel able to discern which ones are just Finn moving around, or the wind in the trees; all of it sounds equally menacing, terrifying.

I wonder if…No, that wouldn’t help anything.

Wouldn’t it?

If I felt any more in control right now, I might worry about this giving Finn more ammunition against me. Not only will he think I’m useless, but that I’m mentally unstable, to boot. But when I was at school and having the worst of my doom spirals about my life and future, and everything felt so terrible I wanted to do nothing but lie on the floor and cry, one thing stopped me.

My roommate. We weren’t exactly friends or anything, but something about the presence of another living, breathing human in the room, one who seemingly did not think life as she knew it was ending, was calming to me. Let alone the social pressure of “there’s another person here and she doesn’t know you that well, so you cannot be an inconsolable ball of feelings right now, get your shit together, Natalie Hart!”

I can do it. I should do it.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I call out shakily, “Finn?”

There’s a long pause, during which I grab fistfuls of sleeping bag and release them a couple times, willing myself not to startle at every little noise. Is he out there? Did something happen to him between when I hightailed it to the tent and now? God, if I wasn’t in here losing it, I could have listened for—

A throat clears. “Uh, yes?”

Of course, he’s fine. I’m being ridiculous, I know I am. I think about saying “never mind,” feeling my pulse slow a little already at the sound of his voice.

Not because it’s his or anything. Any voice would do.

I squeeze my eyes shut and bite the bullet. “Do you think…could you maybe, ah, sleep in here tonight?”

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