Withering Hope (7 page)

"Sure you do. Why do you keep building that fire everyday if not for hoping someone will see it and rescue us?"

"So I don't go crazy," I admit. "I know no one will come."

"Even if no one comes, as soon as the water subsides, we'll be able to walk away from here."

“That will take months. And who knows if we’ll make it out of the forest alive anyway?” I shake my head, trying to forget I ever said that. I am a positive person, but apparently allowing one dark thought in opened the door to all of them, tormenting me. Tristan puts his arms around me comfortingly, and I sink into them, taking in his wonderful strength.

Each night during this second week I try to think of anything but Chris. I forbid myself to cry. The first few days I fail. When I manage to stop crying, I forbid myself to think of him at all. Memories of Chris—of us—don't belong in this alien place. They belong in our splendid apartment in L.A. and our favorite restaurant on the beach. Or in my old apartment and car. But not here. I can't keep the memories safe here. I can't allow myself to miss him. Missing him is debilitating. And I need all my strength to be able to survive.

The third week, my conscious efforts to distract myself from thinking of Chris pay off, and I find myself thinking of him less often. My constant reminder is my beautiful engagement ring, but I can't bring myself to take it off. There is one moment when the thought of Chris is inevitable. In the morning, when I make the signal fire and look up at the sky. Though there has been no sign of a plane, I still hold the dwindling hope that we will be rescued. Since the chance of that happening is near zero, we walk down the hill regularly to check the water level. It's as high as ever. Tristan says it'll be a little over three months before it recedes enough to try to walk back to civilization. We have to survive until then.

It’s also in this third week that I insist we build a fence around our plane. Just the idea of having a perimeter—s
omething—s
eparating our space from the forest makes me feel better. Tristan doesn't see the point of a fence, since we can't make one strong enough to keep big predators out in case they decide we're interesting, but eventually he gives in, and we start building one from the bamboo-like tree. The process is arduous and tiring. I'm not used to physical work, nor skilled at it.

Tristan becomes a bit more talkative, but his answers remain mostly monosyllabic. I want to respect his privacy. I really do. Unfortunately, at this point, I am too starved for human interaction that doesn't consist of working together for food procuring or wood gathering not to push him for more. So while building the fence, I make another attempt. "What did you do before working for Chris? Were you an airline pilot?"

Tristan sighs, and I brace myself for a yes or no answer.

"You should concentrate on what you're doing with that knife. You could cut yourself, Aimee."

I wince at the sound of my name.

"Are you all right?" Tristan asks with concern, his eyes darting to the knife in my hand.

"Yeah, perfect. It's just… it's weird, but when you called my name right now, I realized I haven't heard it in the three weeks we've been here." Goes to show just
how
starved for human interaction I am. "It feels good."

"I can do it more often if you like," he says, shrugging.

Tristan and I jump as a sound splinters the air. It sounds like thunder. That is usually a sure sign a storm will follow.

Usually, when that happens the canopy protects us, and even when the sky explodes in thunders, we have enough time to make a run to the plane before the rain soaks us. The first wave of raindrops floats on the leaves in the canopy, only small ribbons of water trickling down to the floor of the forest. But as more water falls, its weight bends the leaves, and everything gets soaked. That’s the usual course.

But this time, there is no rain. We listen for a while—no other thunder sounds.

"I'd like that, you saying my name."

"It's a nice name, by the way. It means
loved
in French, right?"

"Yeah. My mom spent some time in France and loved it. She spelled my name the French way."

"Aimee," Tristan says, in the same accent my mom did. I wince again.

"Yep, you nailed it."

He grins. "I'll call you like that if you stop pestering me to talk."

I grin too. "No deal. We need to talk, or I'll go insane. I'm used to being surrounded by people all day in the office. And talking to them."

"I'm used to being on my own either in the cockpit flying Chris all over the country, or in the driver's seat in the car. I'm used to silence, so I’m good."

I blush, ashamed that I didn't try to talk to him more often when he was driving me. But he always seemed so unapproachable, so preoccupied with his own thoughts.

"Well, you're stuck here with me. Unless you want me to go berserk, which wouldn't be in your best interest, you'd better put some effort into talking to me. I promise you I'm not as boring as you think."

"I don't think you're boring," he says, stunned.

"Excellent. There's no impediment then."

"Except for the fact that lengthy discussions can break your concentration and distract you."

"I'll take my chances."

Tristan shakes his head. "You must be a damn good lawyer."

"What makes you say that?"

"You just don't give up."

"A spot-on assessment of my skills. I was dyslexic as a kid. My therapist told me I should get a job that didn't require much reading or writing, because I'd have a hard time keeping up." Tristan's eyes widen. "But I always wanted to be a lawyer, like my mom. So I worked hard and became one."

"That's impressive."

"Thanks. It helps that I only need about four hours sleep at night. Lots of time to practice the exercises my therapist gave me. Your turn."

"My turn to what?" he asks a little too innocently.

I scowl, elbowing him. "Where did you grow up?"

"Washington." There it is, the predicted one-word answer.

"Do you have brothers, sisters… did you have a dog growing up?"

He throws his hands up; I've defeated him. I smile and so does he. I finally broke the ice wall—or whatever that was between us. I find out he doesn’t have brothers and sisters, and he had two dogs growing up. His parents moved to Florida after they retired, and he visits them a few times a year. From that moment on, whenever we're doing a task that doesn't leave us out of breath, I start a new round of questions. To my surprise, he answers every time, unless I ask about his private life or employment before he started working for Chris. I learn fast to steer clear of those topics and rejoice at every little piece of information he reveals about himself, no matter how unimportant.

Discovering more becomes a sort of guilty pleasure. The process of gradually discovering things about someone is fascinating. I've known most of my friends forever. I went to college in L.A, where I grew up, so college wasn't much of a discovery experience either. Even my relationship with Chris… well, there wasn't much room for discovery. I felt like I'd known everything about him forever, too. There weren't many surprises or secrets between us. I'd secretly been jealous hearing my friends talk about a first date or the beginning of a relationship, as they learned more about their partner. Of course, when said partner turned out to have a second girlfriend, or was a drug dealer instead of a vet, I'd been grateful there was no unchartered territory between Chris and me. Still, I can't deny the thrill of discovery. Now I have the privilege of experiencing it in snippets the size of teardrops every day.

I
wipe my forehead as I scrub one of my two T-shirts on one of the washboards Tristan made two weeks ago. Next to me, Tristan's doing the same with his shirt. We're sitting on one of the massive, fallen tree trunks we use as a bench, each with a washboard between our legs. We’ve been here a little over a month, and I swear washing clothes is one of the best workouts there is. I glance at my pile of clothing—underwear, two dresses, one pair of jeans and one T-shirt—waiting for me to wash them and curse. I've started wearing some of my dresses, impractical as they may be, because the thin fabric works well in this humid heat. Now I’m wearing a long, red dress with short, wavy sleeves. There’s still one dress, aside from my wedding dress, that I didn't touch. The white chiffon dress with navy lace. It's just too long and impractical to wear. It's at the bottom of my suitcase along with other useless things such as my makeup bag.

Tristan pours a few drops of shower gel over my board and then over his. It's not enough to clean the clothes, but it makes them smell better. That's as high as we can hope given our circumstances, and we're very careful to waste as little shower gel as possible.

"What's your favorite color?" Tristan asks. At last he's enjoying our little questioning game and initiates it almost as often as I do.

"White."

"That's a non-color," Tristan says with a smile, tsk-tsking.

"Well, it's the one I like most," I say defensively.

"That's why you have so much white clothing?"

"Yeah," I say, surprised he noticed that. I wore white a lot in L.A.

He nods, as if considering something. "You look good in white."

I blush slightly. One of the wavy short sleeves of the dress I’m wearing falls off my shoulder. I raise my hand to put it back in place as Tristan does the same. Our hands meet mid-way, and when our fingers touch, electricity zips through us. It’s so intense, I feel a burning sensation in my fingers even after we break contact. The warmth spreads from my fingers, rising to my cheeks, and I blush, confused, even more so when I realize Tristan is avoiding my gaze.

"You look good in everything you wear,” he says, “Aimee."

I flinch a bit at the sound of my name. I usually do when he says it. And he says it often, ever since I asked him to. I can’t pinpoint how or why, but it sounds different now.

After a few minutes I ask, "What's your favorite meal?"

He doesn't miss a beat. "Omelette."

I snicker. "That doesn't qualify as a meal," I say, seizing the chance to get back at him for mocking my favorite color. "No one dreams about an omelette. That's a last resort food anyone can cook. Pick something else."

"Well, that's what I like. I love an omelette for breakfast. It's a privilege to be able to eat one while sitting in a comfortable chair, reading the newspaper."

That's a bit weird, but I let it go. Every day here must be a privilege for him since we eat eggs almost every morning, though boiled, not an omelette. Maybe it's his guilty pleasure. Like coffee is for me.

I would understand much later that the privilege is not about the eggs at all, but something else entirely.

"I don't know about omelettes, but I like my coffee in the morning."

"I know," he says, smiling even wider. "At 7:00 a.m. sharp. With one spoon of sugar."

"You're perceptive," I say. "What else did you notice about me?"

"You like to change your haircut every six months and—”

"Wow. You'd make a perfect boyfriend," I say, stunned. "Most men don't notice things like that."

His expression hardens, and I bite my lip. Stepping into forbidden territory again.

"I meant it as a compliment," I add, though I have the feeling that won't help.

"I just like to observe… the little things," he says, clipping out the words. I mull them over for a few seconds in silence.

"Your hands are almost bleeding, Aimee," he says, alarmed. "I'll wash the rest of your things too."

I look at my hands and notice the skin has peeled off. If I continue rubbing clothes on the washboard, they'll be bloody in no time. My eyes dart to Tristan's hands. They are flushed, but in much better shape than mine.

"Thanks," I say. The tension in his posture ebbs away, and I sigh in relief, glad to be out of the forbidden territory. Why is he so sensitive about his personal life? Maybe he'll open up. A week ago I couldn’t get him to talk at all, and now he's asking almost as many questions as I am. But he changes when I accidentally step into his forbidden territory with my questions. His eyes widen, while something I never associated with him creeps into his dark, vivid eyes: vulnerability. So much vulnerability that I want nothing more than to hug him and find a way to lead him to a place of safety. I can’t stand the torment in his eyes, the tension that suddenly claims him. Tristan grows on me more and more every day, with every kind thing he does to make things bearable for me, and every soothing word he speaks.