She holds it close to the chest, scribbling furiously in its pages. It’s a soggy old pad, made crumpled by its swim in Tennessee waters. It’s barely worth salvaging, and yet she holds it humbly in her hands, protecting it fervently like a secret in solid form.
I squint senselessly at it, focusing intently on its cover –as if staring harder will give me x-ray vision.
I’d like to get a peek at it. She probably thinks she’s hiding it well from me.
She isn’t.
I’ve noticed it on several occasions, choosing not to say anything. I know she’s trying to keep it unseen; I just don’t know why. And the more Kat tries to hide from me, the more I want to know.
And what kills me is… I’m not usually this person. Ever. Around her, I’m this hunkering, over-attentive, makeshift-guardian. I’m no better than a nosy neighbor or overprotective parent, meddling in the name of love and the greater-good.
Not that I’m in love or anything…
It’s just… Ah, fuck. I want something: something from Kat. More insight. More depth. I’d like to know more about her, touch more of her. I just want… more.
And yet, she has no idea. I mean, if she only knew how much I…
Ouch. Son of a bitch.
I push away from the tree I’ve stumbled into, using my good arm to propel my gait in a separate direction. Dammit. Even just daydreaming about Kat is a health hazard. Every time I do, I land in more danger than I began with.
I pull my bag tighter across my chest, watching Kat close her book and stand from her sitting position. Her curvy, petite body looks amazing in her tight jeans, and right now, I’d follow her anywhere just to get a better look.
Despite my earlier self-warnings, I can’t quite… stay away. God help me, I know I need to.
The only time that Kat lets me near her now is when we transform a strewn limb into a staff for her ankle. I stifle a laugh as I watch her wobble at first and eventually gain enough composure to support her immovable ankle.
She asks for no assistance… and I know better than to offer.
We cover ground amazingly well, making significant strides over the luscious forest. We pass a wild turkey: a family of deer, then two.
Over hills. Through hills. Around. Up and down. We stay at lower altitudes, avoiding paths to higher elevations. We roller coast over the lay of the land, and our optimism follows suit. Waxing. Waning. High… then low.
And we are as a river cutting through the earth, crafting a path: creating a way. Lush fields. Rich soils. A hiker’s dream… in any other circumstance.
We follow the path of a breeze, pleasant and cool: carrying with it the smell of the woods. A little pine, some spreading avens, and a hint of Kat.
I turn an eye to her in my periphery, remembering the scent of her hair. She’s as much a wildflower as any surrounding bloom.
Beautiful… untamed… but beware of its thorns. It’s the very danger of it all that draws me in: the risk of the prick. Too breathtaking not to touch, but much too painful to hold onto.
I shake my head at myself. Hmph. I was a goner right from the start. My thrill-seeking nature. I always knew one day it’d bite me in the ass. Just didn’t think the teeth would come from five-foot three inches of brunette moxie.
But it isn’t just the pull and push of my attraction to Kat that is driving me crazy. It’s this: this exodus. Every day we cover more ground, and yet it almost seems as if we make no real progress. Every hour, I tell myself: We’re getting closer and closer… but closer to what, exactly?
We’ve seen no people, witnessed no man-made landmarks. How is that possible? No hikers, no hunters… nothing?
We’re achieving very little at this rate, and the few times I have mentioned it to Kat, she’s waved it off, reaffirming me that “we were doing the right thing, following the path that we talked about.”
Assurance after assurance after assurance. We discussed this. We went over this. This was our plan, but…
But what if we were wrong?
I know tonight is going to be another long night of lost sleep. Kat and I are back to keeping a respective distance, of course, and I almost wish the temperature would plummet to get another invitation into the sleeping bag.
She’s fighting the attraction between us, as am I. If I grit my teeth any harder out of frustration, I’m going to leave Tennessee with nubs. I suddenly feel an ice-cold stab of fear.
What if we never make it out of Tennessee?
Kat seems optimistic about our escape, and in the meantime, I grow more and more concerned. The supplies we have on hand are not meant to last forever. I packed enough for several days, two weeks tops.
We can fish, maybe even hunt. But then what?
How long we will be out here?
How long?
***
Kat
Trevor’s anxiety is palpable.
Within the confines of this small tent, it’s almost stifling. It’s infecting the air with a tangible tension that is slowly wrapping around my neck, choking the life out of me.
It’s been this way since mid-afternoon and has lasted up until this very moment as we start to get settled for the night: well, actually, as I start to get settled for the night.
Trevor is doubled over in the tent, his face buried in his map of Tennessee. I watch him scan the map with his fingers, his glare tightening as his eyes skim the surface of the large sheet before him.
He’s focused obsessively on it, and me? I’m focused intently on him. What is he thinking? What is he seeing?
What’s wrong?
Minutes roll by without a word… or sound. The silence is heavy. Even I can’t take it anymore. I’m the first to break it.
“What? What is it?” I ask him.
“I… it’s nothing.”
“It doesn’t seem like ‘nothing’; it feels like ‘something.’ Something is on your mind. Tell me what it is...” I hesitate, feeling nervous. “Please.”
He hangs his head, running a hand across his face. His hesitation seems interminable.
“I wasn’t sure if I should say it. Scaring you is the last thing I wanted, but…” He sighs. “We should’ve stayed where we were.”
“I fucked this up, Kat. Me. I should’ve known better,” he declares, shaking his head. “How many times have I hiked this type of terrain? There’s always a chance of extreme danger. And now I’ve dragged you into this. Someone would’ve come. They would have noticed the missing bus. We should’ve hung tight. It was me: me… and my fucking impatience. My father was right. I really am a fuck-up.”
His statement is final: concluding. He’s given up: thrown in the towel. And he’s right. It does frighten me.
Because fear and uncertainty… they’ve now set into his soul.
It reverberates through his voice. It’s reflected in his eyes. They’re surprisingly sad: unsure, and I’m window watching through them like an expectant spectator. Look what I’ve done.
Doubt is a deadly disease. It spreads from the core outward, infecting you piece-by-piece, poisoning each part like a gangrenous invasion. And Trevor is sick with it. It kills the spirit in his café eyes.
This is an illness that I know all too well. I was afflicted with it the second that I stepped foot onto Foxxhole property. As a sickly little “Nemo” in a big publishing pond, I became chum for the sharks, and with the exception of my direct supervisor, I was eaten alive by ravenous carnivores, some of whom I once swam beside.
I hate to see the flicker of that version of me reflected in Trevor’s face. It actually breaks what little heart I have left. I can’t let him do this to himself. I won’t let him do it.
“Trevor,” I say at last, speaking to the crown of his downturned head. “Trevor, look at me… LOOK AT ME!”
The volume of my voice shocks him into responding. His head snaps upward: his expression stony. With his earthy eyes on mine, I lose all sense of myself. I wasn’t quite prepared for what I’d say next, but now the spotligh
t is on me, and it’s my chance to take the podium.
To stand where before I would have cowered.
To say and do what no one else would or could for me.
“Don’t… don’t you dare blame yourself.” I raise a finger to stress my point, but the finger quivers with the intensity of my emotion, the fire of my sudden passion. I’m indignant, emotional… outraged.
“Don’t let fear grip you… and for God’s sake, do not let doubt rule you. You are… what you say you are. No one else. And you are not a fuck-up.” My eyes are wet; my voice is shockingly unsteady. I’m uncharacteristically… unquestionably… and irrationally offended on his behalf.
Regardless of what I’ve said or done to Trevor, this is unacceptable. This is the man who’s been by my side through this whole ordeal. This is the man who saved me. And I won’t let anyone try to debase that man in that manner. Not even himself.
“A fuck-up couldn’t have done what you did out there in that lake. A fuck-up couldn’t have kept us alive when all odds pointed to the contrary. You… you are the very opposite of whatever that it is. To hell with your dad… and anyone like him. It’s all on you, Trevor. You are the master of your fate… the captain of your soul.”
Awareness dawns in his dull eyes, livening them with a light that had recently gone dim. Something in my little sentimental speech resonates with us both because we grow quiet, staring at each other.
He blinks, and I find appreciation lying humbly in the depth of his dark scrutiny. “Invictus,” he states, acknowledging the origin of my final words.
I nod, never breaking eye contact. And how could I? With Trevor looking at me like that, there’s no chance that I can move, let alone breathe.
Every time our gazes cross, a shift takes place. It moves the air around us: swirling and circling, interlacing and enclosing. It weaves through us, wrapping us to each other: binding us… with this… need.
I can see in Trevor’s eyes all that I feel.
The apprehension. The latent confusion. That undeniable… need.
And there it is again: that needling… annoying… disturbing and somehow strangely consuming sentiment that we need each other. I don’t want to need Trevor. I don’t need him to need me, either.
Whatever it is that exists between the two of us is inescapable: invisible but potent. We’re two stars on a collision course, orbiting each other, dancing around another… until the inevitable happens.
A cosmic boom that threatens to rain destruction... or beautiful stardust, and I’m not sure which it will be, so… I make a decision right then and right there.
The decision… to get out.
Get out while I still can: while I can spare us both the explosion that is bound to happen. While I can avoid the disappointment that will ultimately follow.
While I can spare myself Trevor’s discovery of my deceit.
I don’t want to see the look in his eyes; I can’t bear to witness the disgrace on my own face. I already cannot handle the despair that I’m causing, the insecurity that I’m wreaking in him. And it’s all because of me.
Because of my fraudulence. Because of my fakery. And I could have lived with that… except for one minor setback.
I like Trevor.
I actually like Trevor. And when the hell did this happen? Somewhere between gratitude and annoyance, I found appreciation: respect. I could have dealt with simple attraction, could’ve handled animalistic lust.
Hell, I’ll even take a healthy dose of mutual disdain. Anything… but this. This mental connection. This emotional relation. This physical craving.
Trevor and I are so alike that it’s scary. Whatever I give out, he dishes right back. Whatever I seem to lack, he picks up the slack.
I want to hate him.
I’ve wanted to hate him… from the moment I laid eyes on him. I somehow sensed that he was different, that he held the secret to something special. And it terrified me.
It still does…. because he’s already under my skin… and it’s been less than ninety-six hours.
My defense mechanisms really did kick in; I can honestly say that I tried. But he’s made his way under there, and now I just want him out.
And this… this is the only way that I know how to do it.
I gambled with this plan like never before. I took a huge risk. It was bad enough to put my own life in jeopardy but should I have done this to Trevor…?
I thought I would be alone: that my decisions would impact me and me alone. I took my fate in my own hands. And now I’m afraid that I may have signed both of our death certificates.
I tell myself that this is for the best: best for me, best for Trevor. I do a pretty good job at it, too; I convince myself fairly easy.
I was wrong back on the bus about making a change. Nothing’s changed. Katarina Lexington is still a coward.
Trevor
A branch digs into the fleshy part of my forearm, dragging its claws into me so deeply that it draws blood that drips down to my elbow.
I notice the cut… but I don’t even feel the pain.
I grab the branch, gripping it hard, letting the bark bite into my palm before I snap it violently, cracking it in half and throwing it to the ground. In the time it takes to do this, it begins to feel real. Like somebody’s throat.
Like Kat’s throat.
I could strangle the life out of her right now. But that’s not possible.
Because she’s gone. Long gone.
I woke up around dawn to find her missing from the tent. I initially assumed that she had walked away to attend to some “natural business,” but when I checked my toiletries bag, there was no tissue missing.
Nothing was missing… except for a sizeable chunk of candy bars. I checked the rest of our belongings and realized that all of hers were gone. I examined my own and saw that she took nothing, changed nothing… save for one thing.
My map.
It’s open, where last night it was closed. Scribbled on the front in faint black pen are two circles… and a note.
This is where you are. This is where you need to be. I’m sorry.
I sat, staring at the writing: confused, until comprehension finally sunk its teeth into me. According to Kat’s markers, the “right” location is directly east.
We’ve been heading northeast this entire time. We’ve been heading away from civilization. Not towards it.
Kat did this. She’s responsible. It’s all been a trick.
At her insistence, we’ve been traveling in one direction for most of our trip. I’ve deferred to her expertise, to her understanding of the land. And she’s abused it. She’s been leading us down the wrong route for the past three days out of the four that we’ve been here.
Seventy-two hours.
Of traveling… sleeping… kissing.
With me. And she never said one word.
I crumple the map still in my hands, remembering the anger that seared into my chest this morning. If I wasn’t so fucking pissed off, I might have laughed.
What an awful, sadistic pair we make. It’s almost one of those poorly written clichéd jokes… you know… how two people meet in a bar or something…?
Two liars walk onto a bus on the road to “Nowhere”… A manipulator meets a deceiver on the road and…
The interesting part about it all is that I know. I know where she’s going.
I suspected it from the moment she told me her name. I guess she’s decided to head there alone: part ways with me while she goes gallivanting.
The sick, twisted part of all of this? I was heading to the same, exact place… well, before the bus crashed, and everything went to shit.
But the kicker is… I don’t actually know where this place is. I thought I’d just travel as close as possible, throw some questions (and a little money) around and eventually get some answers. The crash was a derailment, however; after that, my only focus was getting home... and keeping my hands off of Kat.
Guess that wasn’t in Kat
’s plans. Not the “getting home” part, at least.
Argh. I run a tired hand down my face, ignoring the sticky blood still sitting on my arm. I’ve never felt so frustrated in my entire life… and I’ve had some humdingers. I’ve been a giant ball of tension since I packed up the tent this morning and set out. I’m not too far from the second “correct” circle, as luck would have it.
I could be in an actual bed by suppertime tonight.
I stood there this morning, outside of my campsite, stuffing the rest of my things into my bag while I considered the two choices being presented to me:
One… Leave Kat. Travel to nearby Cherokee National. Forget she exists.
Two… Travel deeper into the wild. Risk everything. Find Kat.
I finally look down on the cut on my arm, feeling entranced by its sting. It suddenly hurts. It took a while but there it is. The pain. It always comes. Eventually…
Fuck. I pause, swinging at another low-lying branch that threatens to dig into me: a mere preface of the obstacles to come. It is another warning sign, another alarm flagging me to go back the way I came: to make the other choice.
But it’s too late. I’ve already chosen my fate. And dammit, I made that decision far too easily.
***
Kat
It’s been about ten hours.
Ten hours of heading in the “wrong” direction.
Ten hours… without Trevor.
Ten hours… of worrying. Worrying every minute that he may not be all right. Worrying that he won’t find his way out.
He’s a big boy, Kat, I tell myself. He’ll be just fine. But I almost can’t do it. I can’t stop thinking about it.
I had to leave when I did; I had to leave the site last night. That was the closest we would’ve ever gotten to society… and the charade had to end some time, right? Yeah, don’t answer that: my subconscious screams.
I should be worried about myself. I should be more concerned with my journey. I have no tent, no sleeping bag, little food. My Swiss army knife is a joke, and half of the matches in my bag are duds.
If I don’t find this place by tonight, I’m fucked.
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