Page 8 of Trapped with the Mountain Man

“Well, imagine that’sallyou had for three days then try not to get excited about a hamburger. I don’t care if it’s cooked on the dashboard of a hot car and served with nothing but pickles at this point.”

“Don’t like pickles?”

“Absolutely fucking not,” I repeat.

Then something amazing happens – his shoulders heave and he lets out a quiet laugh. His white teeth flash and the corners of his eyes pinch together. It’s a little crack in his grizzly bear façade and suddenly I feel a little less annoyed over being trapped here with him.

As predicted, the hamburgers are delicious. I cram the first one down in two minutes flat and assemble another, which I only manage to take one bite of before my brain cautions my greedy stomach to slow down. Hunter is eyeing me with amusement between mouthfuls of his burger. We stacked all the papers and boxes into even bigger piles on the table to make room for exactly two plates.

“Where are you from?” Hunter asks eventually between bites. He doesn’t look up at me when he talks.

“Portland, Oregon.”

“You’re a long way from home. What brought you out here?”

“Besides the book?”

“Seems like everybody who reads that thing is going through something – a bad break-up, job problems, family shit…which one are you?”

I take another bite to delay answering, chewing slowly. “Job problems.” Before he can ask any follow-up questions, I ask, “What about you? Why are you out here?”

“I work here,” he shrugs dismissively.

“Right, but you wouldn’t choose this type of work if everything was going great back in the real world, right?”

Hunter stands abruptly and carries his plate over to the counter, where he slaps together another burger. His posture is stiff, his eyes fixed downwards as he moves. He’s avoiding the topic, too. “Family shit,” he finally says as he takes a seat beside me again.

Neither of us asks anything else.

The rain pours loudly. Thunder rolls over us in deafening waves. We’re not leaving here tonight – that’s obvious. I glance around the cabin again and take a quick inventory of the furniture. It’s the same table, desk, dresser, and bed as it was earlier. No second bed or comfy sofa has miraculously materialized. Since it’s his place, I’m waiting for Hunter to take the lead on the inevitable conversation about sleeping arrangements. He’s either oblivious or unconcerned by the situation, it seems. He’s chowing down that second hamburger like someone who knows they’re about to get a good night’s sleep. I can only hope a cot or blow-up mattress is hiding somewhere in this cabin.

After dinner, I can hardly stay awake. After my first day of hiking, I assumed I would sleep great, but that was only because I was blissfully unfamiliar with hiking shelters. The wind always seems to align precisely with the one open side of the shelter, whipping through the night loudly and unapologetically. The mice, with the endless miles of forest where they could frolic, always seem to choose to run across sleeping hiker’s faces instead…or straight into their sleeping bags. The floorboards creak. The other hikers snore. I’m not complaining. I’m sure I would have gotten used to it eventually, but by the third night, the rain had started and all hope was lost.

I hang up some clothes to dry in the bathroom but hold little hope that they’ll actually be dry by morning. Walking back out to the main room, I find Hunter kneeling next to the fireplace adding more wood. He stands and clasps a hand around the back of his neck before looking up at me.

“Tired?” he asks.

“Extremely.”

“Listen, I know I should be a gentleman and offer to sleep on the floor and whatnot, but it’s fucking cold tonight. You okay with sharing the bed if we keep to our own sides?”

I look at the massive man standing in front of me and then at the queen-sized bed. It’s not exactly small, but it sure seems like it will be once he’s in it. Maybe I should offer to sleep on the floor instead? I glance down at the wooden floor, feeling its chill up to my ankles.

Part of me wonders if it’s a cheap ploy, if there’s actually a cot tucked away in some closet that could save us both from this awkward decision. After all, he says that he rescues women all the time. Maybe this is part of his less-than-charming mating dance. Instead of a bird with bright feathers and fancy dance moves, he’s a man with only one bed and an ‘oh shucks’ speech.

Then I examine his face. Whatever passing thoughts he may have had earlier when he was staring at me seem to be completely gone. His expression is pure annoyance with a hint of exhaustion. He looks like he wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole.

“Um, sure, I guess. Honestly, I’m so tired I don’t think I really care where I sleep,” I say.

Both of our eyes are fixed on the bed between us. Hunter finally steps forward and throws the corner of the blankets back. He waits for me to do the same then crawl inside before he busies himself with undoing the fly of his jeans. I sneak a glance at his black boxer briefs as he slides his jeans off into a puddle next to the bed. His hands find the hem of his shirt automatically, but he pauses and seems to change his mind about taking it off before crawling into bed.

Everything that follows is an awkward shuffle. Shifting blankets, adjusting pillows. There’s an extra pillow, so I grab it and shove it lengthwise underneath the blanket between us, suddenly very aware of my lack of underwear as I move around in the bed beside a strange man.

“What’s that?” he asks as the pillow pushes against his shoulder.

“A chastity pillow.”

This time his laugh is harder than the first. The bed bounces a little as his heavy chest rises and falls. I curse the dark room for making me miss the accompanying visual. I think he has dimples, but further research is required.

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