Page 29 of Here for a Good Time
His smirk lasts for a few seconds before he settles back into Serious Zwe. “All of the trails start at the same point,” he explains. “From the reception area, we have to walk approximately half a mile east. Now, the trails all take you to different viewpoints around the island, but I’m guessing the longest one will take you to thehighestmountain. That’s the one that also has a lunch break factored into the overall round-trip time, and I’m assuming we’d be having lunch at the village. That’s the trail we want.”
“Are you certain it’s the longest one? Counterpoint: What if it’s the shortest one?” I’m trying to lighten the situation with some terrible humor, but Zwe’s reaction (or lack thereof) makes it clear that nothing is going to make him laugh right now.
“It’s the longest trail,” he states blankly. He’s about to push down on the door handle but pauses, and turns back to me. “Ready?”
This is when it hits me.
“No,” I answer honestly. I reach out and steady myself against the wall, although what I actually want to do is sit down and cry, ideally for a few hours. The adrenaline is still pumping through me, but the gravity of the situation is starting to settle in.
He nods, like he knew already. “I know,” he says. His voice is soft but steady, a far contrast from my own shaking physique. “This is all fucking terrifying.I’mscared as fuck right now. But Poe… I need you to be. Ready, I mean.”
A small sniffle escapes me. “You really don’t know how to lie, do you? Not even some light sugarcoating? No sweet coaxing to get me out the door?”
He gives me a half smile, but even that is visibly weighed down by fear. Heisscared, too, I realize.
“Those people have guns,” I say.
“I know.”
“Do you think they’ve—” I swallow. “—shot anyone?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think they’ll shoot at… us?”
He lifts one shoulder. “I don’t know.”
“I don’t want to die,” I whisper. Despite my incessant blinking, the prickling in my eyes doesn’t abate. I can feel the wetness trailing down my cheeks, my chest getting tighter with each word. “I don’t want to die, not here, not like this. I want to die when I’m seventy-five, and ideally in a nice little cottage on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, and you’re sitting beside my bed and singing me Taylor Swift covers while playing your ukulele.”
“When did I learn to play the ukulele?” he snorts.
“When I vetoed the guitar because we had no space in our living room. Do you know how small cottages are?”
“We’re still living together when we’re seventy-five?”
I recoil in pretend shock. “Of course we’re still living together when we’re seventy-five. Do you know what a hassle it’d be to find a new roommate I’ll vibe with? And it’s not like I’m going to get tall enough to change the light bulbs myself.”
“How are you cracking jokes right now?” he asks with an incredulous laugh.
“Is the fact that I use humor to deal with uncomfortable situations news to you?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Then you’re going to have a whole stand-up routine by the time we’re done with all of this. Now—” He tilts his head at the door. “Shall we?”
“I don’t know if I can.” My voice is a croak, the terror constricting my throat and my chest so that I can’t breathe. My knees are trembling, and my heart is beating so fast, I’m convinced it’s going to give out any second now. This cannot be happening to me. This happens in movies, or to strangers that you read about in a news article that makes you go,That poor woman, thank god that wasn’t me.“What if we just waited?” I offer, desperately clutching at straws. “Why can’t we do that? Why can’t we just lock ourselves in here and wait for someone to come help us? Even if they find us, I bet they’d take pity on us. I bet they’d look at us and be like,Yeah, those two aren’t going to give us any trouble. The small one just keeps yelling, ‘Tell Taylor Swift I love her!’”
That makes Zwe laugh again. He lets go of the door handle, takes the two strides to close the gap between us, lifts one of my hands in each of his, and gives them a good squeeze. I shut my eyes, focusing on the weighty feeling of his fingertips pushing into mypalms. “Because we will be sitting ducks, and theywillfind us, and we won’t have a shot at getting away.”
I sniff in a disgusting trail of snot. He snatches a tissue off the table and hands it to me. “I hate hiking,” I hiccup out.
“I’m aware,” he replies instantly. “But we have to do this. And we have to do this now.”
I try to blow my nose as quietly as possible, which results in a drawn-out low-pitchedeeeeesound that makes Zwe want to laugh so hard he has to bury his face in his arm. “Is my pain providing humorous relief for you?” I ask.
Rolling in his lips, all he does is nod.
I shake out my shoulders, and take a deep breath. “All right, let’s do this. You lead, I’ll follow.”
He gives a small salute, and this time, opens the door in one swoop. We both freeze for a few seconds, as though waiting for two gunmen who were idling outside this whole time to reveal themselves. Instead, we’re met with the cold, still air. It feels like a sickening joke opening your door to paradise when you’re about to run for your lives. Zwe points at himself, then out the door, and I give a thumbs-up.
