The Liar's Guide to the Night Sky

by Brianna R. Shrum

  That maybe he’ll slip into a coma, and I’ll have to make the executive decision to stay with his body and starve or leave and halfway murder him.

  That . . . that . . .

  I can’t.

  I can’t think about that.

  All I can allow myself to focus on is the cave up ahead and the burn in my exhausted, freezing muscles. All I can think about is the cave being freedom, being home, just like the river was yesterday.

  If I think more than a single step ahead, I’ll fucking lose it.

  And we will fucking die.

  So I drag him.

  It’s horrible outside—so cold and arid that my skin feels freeze-dried. I can barely suck the thin air into my throat. I don’t want to touch my own skin; I’m afraid it will feel like paper. As soon as we get to that cave, it will all be better.

  We are fifty yards from the mouth.

  Twenty.

  Ten.

  At five, fatigue sets in, swallowing me and gashing my skin with its sharp, aching teeth.

  I summon one final burst of mother-pulling-a-car-off-her-babies strength, and yank.

  We’re there.

  Nothing sparkles, there’s no WELCOME HOME mat rolled out, no end-of-the-level music that says, “Congrats! You won.”

  No.

  The princess is in another castle.

  But goddammit, we are in THIS one.

  The cave isn’t huge, but it’s big enough; and the outside opens wide then just kind of carves back into the mountain. I don’t think it exactly tunnels in, but it’s big enough to provide some kind of shelter from the wind, the snowflakes falling from the black sky.

  I leave Jonah lying by the entrance and realize how hard I’m shaking when I go for the bag. I miss the zipper once, twice, close my finger and thumb on it the third go-round.

  Jonah stirs and groans and I say, “It’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

  There’s a little indent in the rock, a shallow scoop, and the ceiling above it is black. We are not the first ones to shelter here, and we won’t be the last.

  Something about that is comforting. Unifying or something—which I just . . . desperately need right now. To be connected to humanity.

  At this frostbitten, terrible second, I feel so utterly, wholly alone.

  “Fuck,” Jonah whispers. His teeth are chattering. “I have—I have—t-to get. These . . .” He sucks in a breath; his words are hoarse and desperate and shallow.

  I slide a quick look over to him and say, “Just hold on. Hold on.”

  I run out of the cave and gather some nearby pine needles in my fists, scooping them in my shirt, then pour them on the ground. But . . . shit. Shit, there’s no lighter, not one that’s not empty.

  GODDAMMIT. We’re going to die out here. For no reason, we’re going to freeze.

  “H—Hallie. I just—”

  Wait. I know this. I know how to do this! My cousins taught me, oh my god.

  I yank my cellphone out of my pocket, because for some reason I’m still instinctively keeping it there, and pull out the battery. Then I shove a stick of gum in my mouth and hold the battery to the foil wrapper—rest in peace, you currently useless piece of technology.

  I wait, Jonah chattering and crawling inside the cave.

  I’m so focused I barely hear him.

  I’m just . . . waiting.

  Then it ignites.

  Oh god, it ignites.

  I could cry.

  I think I’m kind of already crying.

  I hold the little orange flame to the pine needles and they go up. YES. FUCK YES.

  “HALLIE.” I can hear the yell in his tone even though it’s barely hissed.

  “Jonah—”

  “Get”—a gasp—“me out”—another sharp intake of air. He squeezes his eyes shut, lips blue. “Of these clothes.”

  “Oh shit. Shit I’m so sorry, I was focused on—” Even with the dim register in his eyes, I can see the flash of frustration. I cut myself off and strip his freezing, soaked shirt off his head and then his boots, his socks, his pants, his boxers. I’m in total EMT mode.

  He’s a patient and I’m taking care of him and he will survive this night.

  He will survive it.

  I can’t even feel the cold on my own skin—not now. It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter.

  I leave him there by the little fire and busy myself gathering kindling—aspen leaves and sticks and more pine needles and armfuls of things that will keep this going through the night.

  I form a pile near the back of the cave and shove more kindling on the little fire so that it grows.

  So that in a few minutes, we can actually feel warmth.

  Tears sting my eyes again; I’m so relieved I can feel myself shaking.

  This fire means that maybe, maybe it’s okay. Maybe we are going to make it.

  Maybe Jonah isn’t going to freeze to death because a rogue moose basically shoved him into a river.

  Maybe it’s the comedown from all the adrenaline, maybe it’s that I’m starving, maybe dehydrated, maybe the cold. And maybe it’s because a rogue moose attack is just . . . fucking funny. But I start laughing.

  Hysterically.

  It is only when I turn to look at Jonah and see him shivering, hands around his knees, rich golden brown color back, that I realize he’s naked.

  My own laughter is cut off by my throat closing up.

  He blows out a breath; he’s not even looking at me. He’s staring at the fire.

  And I’m just absolutely pervily staring at him.

  Of course I am. The adrenaline from the chase is still coursing through me at mach speed and there’s this whole AFFIRM LIFE instinct pummeling my brain and god he’s sexy as hell apart from all that.

  Who am I kidding? Like I wouldn’t take a look at the shadows playing over his musculature, the cut of his arms and the V leading down past his hips to a piece of him that rests in the dark, his arms looped around his knees . . . like I wouldn’t look at that, look at him, under normal, regular circumstances, and feel my mouth go dry.

  Like I didn’t do that at the bonfire what must have been months ago but I guess was a lot less than that. Jesus, it feels like it’s been an eternity. Like we never lived off this mountain. But four days ago, I wanted him up against a tree.

  And now, a nightmare and a half later, I want him up against a cave wall.

  I’m hungry and exhausted and cold and so calorie deprived I don’t know how my brain can function beyond it. But I’m singlehandedly debunking Maslow’s hierarchy of needs—all I can think is, “Touch me. Touch me. Please touch me. I’m so glad I’ve been brushing my teeth every day.”

  I clear my throat, and Jonah glances up at me as I move toward the center of the cave and carefully begin laying his clothes out by the fire.

  I empty his bag. There’s not much in here, not much that a fire could help anyway. An empty lighter, some gloves, which I lay out. A beanie he should probably have been wearing already. It goes with everything else. Oh hey, some spent boxes of granola and jerky (because even dying up here in the Rockies, I guess neither of us can get past the instinct not to litter?). Those, we can burn.

  A baggie of weed, which I smirk at. Thankfully, it’s alright. Good ol’ waterproof Ziplocs.

  “Hallie,” he says. His voice is hoarse and quiet.

  “Mmhmm.” I can’t look at him. God, I’m dying to look at him.

  “Look at me.”

  I bite down on my tongue. I’m shaking, I guess.

  I look at him.

  “How you doing?”

  My eyebrows hit my hairline. “How am I doing? How are you doing?” My voice squeaks, which is kind of embarrassing, but we just survived like fourteen deadly things and this absolutely stupid hot boy is naked under my blanket in front of the fire and it might be our last night on Earth and how dare he even ask me how I’m doing when maybe he’s about to die of hypothermia?

  I blow out a breath.

 
He laughs and says, “I’m fine.”

  His voice still isn’t even approaching full force; it’s still quiet and broken by the cold.

  I say, “No you’re not.”

  He shrugs and shudders.

  “You’re freezing.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  I blink at him. He’s cold. He’s approaching hypothermic.

  I approach the fire and unzip my coat.

  I shut my eyes. I pull off my shirt.

  He doesn’t say anything.

  When I take off my pants, my bra, my underwear—he doesn’t say anything.

  I take off everything and he doesn’t. Say anything.

  We are the only people on this mountain and we are the only people in this cave and he is naked and I am naked and he can see all of me.

  There’s nothing else he could be looking at but the fire and the fat snowflakes blowing outside in the dark.

  I say, my eyes still closed, “Body heat.”

  Then I can open them.

  His eyes are dark and huge, like he’s never seen a naked girl before, and I know he has. It’s not a big deal.

  It’s survival.

  I shiver as I slip under that blanket, wrap it around us, and press into him, each ridge of my spine pushing into the skin on his stomach. He wraps his arms around me and I can feel every shift of his muscles, the strength in his arms and in his chest and in his jaw pressed against my head. I shudder, and it’s not because of the cool of his skin.

  “Is that . . . better?” I say.

  He laughs—the husky smoker’s laugh I’ve grown accustomed to up here. “Yeah,” he says. “Jesus.”

  I shift against him and he sucks in a breath.

  I feel his fingers clench into my waist, and then they loosen.

  Slowly.

  One by one.

  Like each release is a massive effort.

  “Sorry,” he says.

  “Why?”

  “Nothing. Sorry. Fuck.”

  I raise an eyebrow, not that he can see it. And shift again, shoulders slipping over his chest, god, my skin is on fire.

  I’m on fire.

  I can feel my heart in my throat when he exhales and it shakes against my neck.

  I push back into him and it’s suddenly extremely physically clear why he’s sorry.

  “Oh,” I say. I can’t help it. I laugh. I don’t know if it’s all that funny or if it’s just a release of tension, but if it’s the second, it didn’t work.

  My muscles are all bunched and coiled and my skin is so hot, even in this winter cold, that I almost want to dive into the snow.

  Just for a second.

  If it weren’t for the fact that touching this much of Jonah Ramirez’s skin is fucking delicious, I would.

  “Sorry,” he says again. “I can’t, uh . . . god, do you want to go back-to-back or something?”

  Do I want to go back-to-back or something, Jesus Christ no. No I do not.

  My pulse is pounding all the way in my feet and he’s so fucking nervous and JONAH RAMIREZ HAS A FREAKING BONER PRESSED UP AGAINST MY ASS.

  I. ME. I. Have JONAH EFFING RAMIREZ so nervous he can’t think straight, so turned on his breath is hitching, and this could be it. This could be the end of all of it—it’s that “We only have this one night!” trope that shows up every time a soldier is trying to get laid and in every third good fanfic on the internet and now I’m in it and I can’t even think clearly.

  How could I.

  How could I possibly.

  I say, “No.”

  He just clears his throat and whispers, “Okay.”

  It takes me a full minute of quiet, nothing but the cool, starry silence outside and the fire popping inside, all of his skin stealing the heat from mine under this blanket, both of us just breathing, waiting—for me to say, “This is stupid.”

  He says, “What’s stupi—”

  And I roll over and kiss him.

  He sucks in a breath and doesn’t kiss me back.

  Until he does.

  Until his fingers press into my back, and his other hand curls around the back of my neck and he kisses me like he’s starving, like he’s going to die tomorrow. He kisses me the same way I kiss him.

  His teeth hit my teeth but not clumsy, not like the high school guys I’ve kissed. When his teeth hit mine and move to my lips, dragging across them, trapping my lower lip hard and fast enough that I gasp, it’s on purpose.

  It’s all on purpose.

  I’m on fire.

  I’m electric.

  Every nerve lights up like an angry sky and I drag my hands down his back.

  He shifts his weight so he’s on top of me and my back is on the ground. I’m acclimated to the hardness of the earth at this point, I guess, because it doesn’t hurt.

  “That alright?” he says, nodding to the floor.

  “Yeah,” I say. I could be embarrassed at the breathlessness in my voice, but his eyes light up and so why would I waste time on that?

  “Cool,” he says, because he’s just so smooth.

  It’s like he hears himself say it; he briefly frowns, then rolls his eyes and shakes it off and I don’t have the time to laugh because he’s kissing me again, like he’s practiced (I’m sure he is), like he means it (I . . . I really don’t know how to calculate the truth of that), like it matters. Where exactly his tongue fits into my mouth, the precise slowness and strength and deliberateness every time his jaw moves when he kisses me.

  I could actually melt from what he’s doing to my mouth.

  All he’s doing is kissing me and I’m about to lose my freaking mind.

  It’s not like I’ve never fucked before.

  I have.

  But I’ve never fucked at the end of the world, and I’ve never fucked Jonah Ramirez, and all of these things make me feel young. So keyed up that it’s like I’ve never touched another human.

  God.

  I want to ruin him.

  I say, “Christ,” and arch so that my stomach, my hips, my everything, brush up against him and he hisses and clamps his hand around the biceps of my right arm. He braces his weight on his hand, pressing me into the cave floor and my arm against my ribs and runs his other hand up my chest, pressure of imbalance following it where it trails.

  He presses his thumb into my throat and moves to kiss me again, and I’m so turned on I can barely breathe.

  I move my arm, just to test him, just to fuck him up a little, and it throws his balance off in exactly the way I intended, and he has to slip his hand from my throat to slam it on the ground, and this time when he sucks air between his teeth, it sounds a little pained.

  I say, “Jonah?”

  He says, “Ribs,” and slides his knee between my legs to support his weight better, grabbing at his side. “I’m fine.”

  “Do you want to st—”

  “Jesus fuck, no.”

  He’s actually bleeding a little; I can feel it on my shin when his leg rubs against it, and I think maybe I am, too? Because his mouth comes away from mine stained red in two small places.

  But I don’t care, god, I don’t care.

  He flips me over so I’m on top of him—very considerate, really, taking my place on the cave floor.

  He says, “Body heat?” and smirks up at me.

  I say, “Ramirez.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Last night on Earth. I’m shipping off to war tomorrow. The zombies have taken the fort. The virus has spread. Soon, the nuclear radiation will leak into the bunkers. Goddammit, fuck me or regret it forever.”

  The look on his face—I want to frame it. He says, “Jesus why did I let your parents hide you?” And slips his hand between my legs, teeth on my collarbone, and I come the hell apart.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  AFTER, WE LIE THERE curled up under the blanket, watching the fire. I’m trying not to think about when it will die, and that’s easy to be distracted from when Jonah’s fingers are running up and down my back l
ike that, giving me goosebumps. It’s easy not to think about being trapped without any food when his strong legs are pressed against mine and he’s smiling against my neck.

  He bites my shoulder and I yelp.

  “Ass,” I say, but I’m smiling. He can’t see it, but I bet he can hear it.

  “You like it,” he says.

  “Your ass?”

  “Sure.”

  “Ugh,” I say. “Conceded.”

  Jonah laughs and pulls me closer into him. His hands feels absolutely massive against my torso. I can’t help the most private little smile. They make me feel utterly, completely small.

  I don’t think it’s the first time I’ve felt this way in the last few days. But it’s the first time I’ve really allowed myself to acknowledge it: I am not just glad to be here with another human. I am glad that the person I am here with is Jonah Ramirez.

  He is not scary.

  He is not a threat.

  He is not this rebellious, edgy figure my parents have been wrestling me away from my whole life.

  He is a boy. Just a boy. Just the boy who has forced me to rest while he built a fire, the boy who has kept me safe from wolves in a treehouse, the boy who lies to me about the stars when I’m scared, the boy who helped me survive a freaking moose attack.

  He is the boy who is keeping me alive on this mountain.

  I’m not foolish enough to think I’m in love with him. I’ve only known him, like really known him, for a few days.

  But I know that I do love him. In a way.

  Jonah Ramirez is my friend.

  Like, really, truly my friend. In a way that almost no one I’ve ever known has been.

  And he’s absolutely stellar in the sack, which doesn’t hurt as far as things to build on.

  We will make it off this mountain or we will stay, but we will do it together.

  As real, honest-to-goodness friends.

  We are in this as a unit, and that matters.

  I physically feel it—warmth spreading through my limbs, letting me relax into him.

  Giving me five full seconds not to worry, not to be afraid.

  Jonah says into my hair, “You gonna fall asleep?”