Page 22 of When Glitter Meets Gold

He pats around his back pockets, and, for a second, I believe he really has lost his mind because isn’t that where he put the knife?

“You know what?” He continues to pat fiercely. “Take the damn radio and go nuts. You want to go out there, be my—Ahh!”

His roar rumbles through the enclosed space.

“What? What happened?” I’m craning my neck to see why he’s twisting away from me, clutching his hand tightly.

That’s when I spy the blood.

It’s dripping down the side of his hand, a crimson trail spiraling down his wrist.

“Shit,” I whisper, realizing what just happened. He was so consumed with finding the radio, he neglected toconsider the knife in the other pocket. He must have sliced his hand in two.

My eyes dart around the tent until I see a small, relatively clean looking towel poking from inside his bag. Without hesitation, I reach for it.

“Give me your hand.”

“I’m fine,” he snaps, pulling away. “If I wasn’t so distracted…”

“Save it.” I roll my eyes. “Just let me see how bad it is.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“AndIsaid, stop being a baby and let me see.” I ignore his protests, grab his hand, and when I see the cut is deeper than I thought, I force the towel on top of the wound.

Right when I’m sure he’s going to shove me away, he freezes instead, body rigid, expression perplexed.

And then, an odd shift occurs, and he does something truly bizarre. He relaxes.

He allows me to turn over his hand, so I can inspect the wound. His fingers, much like the rest of him, are huge. They’re masculine and swollen looking, but oddly not as beat up and tattered as I’d imagined for someone who spends so much time outdoors. I take a quick peek at the wound while I readjust the towel. It’s sticky beneath my fingers, but I manage to force a neutral expression.

“You’ll live.” I blink up at him, smirking. I note the cut from the base of his index finger to the center of his palm. “Just keep this here. Apply pressure, like this.”

I press into the wound, triggering his fingers to curl over my hand as I hit a pressure point. He releases them immediately, shocked by the involuntary contact.

We’re silent for a few beats. I’m stunned he hasn’t passed a comment about knowing exactly how to apply pressure toa wound or rolling his eyes and telling me I’m doing it all wrong.

Instead, he watches me silently, curiosity dancing behind his sea-foam eyes. So many shades of blue. Am I staring too long? Maybe. I don’t look away, however. Instead, I watch as he studies different parts of my face, his eyes lingering on my cheeks, my eyes, my lips.

“Thanks,” he says with a furrowed brow, like it’s strange that he’s using the word and, stranger still, that he’s directing it at me.

And even though he’s only looking at my face, I can’t help but feel exposed. I forget about that stupid brave face I force on so the rest of the world can’t witness my internal heartbreak. I forget about the daily struggle of fighting for my life in a boardroom in front of my boss.

All I can think about is this moment where I finally feel like a version of myself that I like.

11

SARA

Amakeshift cushion, formed from a fluffed-up blanket, brings a small degree of comfort to my corner of the tent. I hug my legs into my chest while I wrap my sweater tighter around my shoulders. The temperature’s dropped a few degrees in the hour we’ve been out here, but despite that, the tent seems to be withstanding the harsh winds and cooler air the storm has brought with it.

Jack continues to extract gadgets and appliances from his bag. When he’s satisfied with the arrangement, he produces a container packed with energy bars, jerky, and dried fruit that looks like its withered beyond human consumption. He sets it in front of me, a hesitant offering, before casting his attention back to the radio.

I peek at the contents, inspecting the miserable selection before reaching for something that looks like it could either be dried mango…or a thick shaving of hard skin; the distinction is impossible to decipher. My nose wrinkles as I try to keep a neutral expression.

“What? No smart-ass comment about the snacks?” Heseats himself opposite me. Even when sitting down, his enormous frame demonstrates how this tent is not made for two people. There’s little room to do anything, especially when it comes to concealing disgusted facial expressions.

I chew on what indeed turns out to be mango before swallowing tightly. “I’m trying not to be…what was it you called me earlier…entirely ungrateful?”

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