Page 26 of Wild Life

Chapter 14

Two Lost Souls; One Shared Memory

Maris

Spoiler alert: I didn’t find the beach.

As a matter of fact, I’d wound up in the same empty bed, completely naked.

Déjà vu all over again.

Except I knew exactly where I was. And I knew who had carried me there and cleaned the mud off my skin. And who had left me a tattered T-shirt that was about three sizes too large to wear instead of my wet, soiled clothes.

It had been the man who was sitting next to me, teaching me, the least crafty person ever, how to weave baskets.

I was never getting out of here. I was destined to stay and watch Mr. Silence complete an entire inspiration board of crafts without ever looking me in the eye again.

Last night had made him uncomfortable.

That made two of us.

Tension wasn’t new between us—we irritated the hell out of each other—but last night in the hut, with him naked in his bed and my heart bleeding out before him, that tension had gone to my head. I had almost done something that I would have regretted.

This had to stop. I couldn’t go around sleeping my way through beds to be whole. I was weak, and if I stayed here any longer, I would just cover up my issue with another Band-Aid instead of exposing it and allowing it to heal once and for all.

I needed to get home and fix my head. The first person I was calling when I set foot in Washington was a therapist because I was certifiably fucked up.

I tucked my legs under me, and the hem of my worn-out tan T-shirt flared out like a dress. My guess was that it had been white a long time ago. The screen print had nearly faded away, but I could still make out the block lettering that spelled out “Bob Marley and the Wailers.” At least it was a legendary artist, although I didn’t think Cryptid even knew who Bob Marley was.

Underwear was no longer necessary under such a billowy shirt. It only got in the way and chafed more than anything. Soggy, tight clothing wasn’t practical in this tropical environment. Plus, he was always staring at my boobs anyway, so modesty was pointless.

My craft tutor deposited the basket he had started onto my lap. Long, waxy leaf tails poked out of the circumference of the frame, made of dried straw-like twigs. He already had another one started for himself and lifted it for me to watch his method. His fingers worked more quickly than expected, catching leaf tails and weaving them over and under through the straw frame he had fashioned. He must have weaved hundreds of baskets to work as expertly as he did. His movements were far too skilled for me to follow. Or, rather, my mind was far too cluttered to pay attention.

I lifted a tail and stabbed it between the grates of straw, but the leaf bent, creating a kink I could no longer thread through. I tugged the tail, undoing the weave, and the leaf remained disfigured.

I can’t even thread a fucking leaf over and under. How could I survive here? I’m fucking helpless.

“Fuck!” I screamed, throwing the basket skeleton over the unlit fire pit, nearly hitting the pig, who was flopping on his back in a puddle of mud. He scrambled to his feet and let out a haughty snort at me, rivaling my scream.

“I can’t do this!” I clutched my head in my hands, bringing my knees to my chest as I huddled into a ball on my ass. Hot tears pricked at my vision. I rocked back and forth, anxiety bubbling to the surface and overflowing out of me as sobs.

Cryptid remained seated and placed his basket on the ground, watching me fall apart.

“I want to go home.” My voice shook and the tears poured out. I wanted my old life back… It had been far from perfect, but it had been mine. And the normalcy of it was the only thing that had kept me from flying off the deep end from my longing for affection.

Here, nothing was normal. Every smell, sight, and sound was new, constantly triggering my nervous system and overstimulating me. This place was driving me mad.

Cryptid rubbed circles on my back, his palm taking up a large surface area to radiate warmth through my shirt. His strokes were gentle and soothing, far from his tough exterior. I closed my eyes, falling into his surprising touch.

My sobs slowed after seemingly a lifetime, and still, he patiently waited them out with me. He didn’t have to console me. He could’ve just given me his infamous side-eye and grunt and trudged off in search of another jungle craft, but he had stayed and given me the space to pour out my frustration.

His hand left my back, and my spine rolled, as if searching for his tenderness again. Cryptid retrieved a basket that he’d already completed and filled it with random items like he was shopping at the grocery and checking off a mental list.

Slabs of firewood. Small rocks. Black rubber tubing.

Oh God, he’s going to make me build something else. I swear I will lose my shit if he makes me build a water fountain.

“Listen,” I said, my voice hoarse from crying, “as fascinating as I think it is that you’re a closet engineer, I’m not very crafty. I don’t think I’m the right person to be your intern.”

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