Page 21 of My Favorite Bad Decision
Let it go. I’ve told myself this a million times since this trip began. It hasn’t helped my anxiety to date, so I’m not sure why I’m still saying it.
I watch a couple of shows and then close my eyes, but sleep doesn’t come. Because anything could happen to her. She could fall harder than she did today; she could get altitude sickness. It’s colder tonight than it’s been since the trip began—there’s already ice forming inside my tent. I should have told her to wear a hat, even if it annoyed her.
I lie awake for a full hour, listening to the sounds outside, wondering if the footsteps I hear belong to someone sneaking her way. She’s an incredibly attractive female sleeping alone in a tent—one she can’t secure. All she has to do is fix her ponytail and at least two of the men on this expedition are watching her like she’s a show they’ve paid good money for.
I like the porters and I like the other guys well enough, aside from Gerald, but I don’t trust any of them where she is concerned.
I can’t deal with four more nights of this bullshit.
I really can’t.
8
KIT
DAY 4: SHIRA 2 TO BARRANCO
12,800 feet to 13,600 feet
Ilie awake, thinking about a conversation I had with Maren not long before I left. Harvey was traveling and she’d said she was relieved. “At least now I don’t have to pretend he’s someone else in bed,” she’d said.
I was surprised by that. She wasmoresurprised that I didn’t do it too.
“So when you’re with Blake, it’s always him?” she asked. “Youneverpretend he’s another guy?”
I blinked, uncertain. “Okay, sure. But not somerealguy. He’s, you know, faceless.”
“Faceless?” she gasped.
The faceless thing—my absolute go-to fantasy—had seemed so innocuous before she asked that question. Suddenly, there was this tug of discomfort in my chest, as if it was a bad thing. Or perhaps something I just shouldn’t discuss with her.
I was intentionally vague when I answered. I told her it was at the beach house, minus all the titillating detail: me, sitting on a kitchen counter arguing with someone; him, stalking across the room, stepping between my legs.
He doesn’t ask permission; he doesn’t even seem tolikeme, but as he rips my bikini top off—I realize…hereallylikes me.
Maren said her favorite fantasy was at the beach house too, but then that’s probably because that was the last place she ever saw Miller.
And with her, it’salwaysabout Miller.
Which I guess I sort of understand.
* * *
It’s pitch black—themiddle of the night—when I wake to the sound of my tent being unzipped.Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.My heart hammers. I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out.
The intruder’s headlamp shines down on me as a bag is thrown inside.
“Move over, Fischer.” Miller grunts, squeezing in beside me and throwing a sleeping pad down.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I demand.
“My tent collapsed,” he says, irritated by the question. “I think it was the weight of the ice. Move the fuck over.”
He slings a sleeping bag and pillow half on top of me, and commences to zip us both in.
“What?”
“I’m not sure how I can make this more clear to you,” he replies. “We’ve all got ice inside our tents and for some reason, mine collapsed under its weight.”
