by Hagen, Layla
The recognition pumps life in my limp legs. I drop the bow and pick up my spear again. And then I dart toward them, passing by Tristan's bow. I don't have a plan other than spearing the beast. I don't know if that'll help much or not. I'll throw myself between them if need be. All I care about is distracting the beast. When I'm less than a foot away from them, I draw in a sharp breath and lunge forward with all my weight, spearing the jaguar in one side. It jerks back, the brusque movement unbalancing me. I fall flat on my face in the mud, a numbing pain spreading over the side of my face. I turn around at the sound of a riveting grunt behind me. Tristan's on his feet, clutching his arrows. I don't understand what he's doing, or why he's walking backward, until I see the bow on the ground. He's trying to reach the bow. But he won't make it in time. He won't. The jaguar is already poised to attack. One leap forward and Tristan will be beneath him. Beyond saving. I try to push myself up, and hurt my palm on a pointy stone.
That's when it hits me.
Stones.
The sound of my heart slamming against my ribcage pounds in my ears as I frantically scratch to remove the half-buried stone from the earth. It's huge. That's good. It will do some damage. I hurt my fingers in the process of digging the stone out. I throw it in the direction of the animal with both hands, aiming for its head, but it hits his side, where my spear wounded him earlier. The cat roars in confusion, his head snapping in my direction. His predatory gaze lands on me. Pain pierces my chest, stopping any air from coming in. Every inch of my clammy skin twitches. My mind is too clenched by fear to formulate a plan. My body seems to have a will of its own and starts crawling backward. But the beast is advancing toward me already. I can't outrun it. I can't beat it. I close my eyes, crossing my arms in front of me as Tristan did earlier. I grind my teeth, my body shaking like a leaf. I wait for the attack, bracing myself for excruciating pain. When a howl resounds, I'm surprised it doesn't come from my own lips. Still shaking, I open my eyes. Through my crossed arms I see the animal howling, still heading my way, though its steps are slower. An arrow is sticking out of the side of its neck. When the second arrow pierces him, the animal sways, collapsing a few inches from my feet. Its passing isn't as quick as the small animals Tristan tested the arrows on, but no more than a few seconds go by before the beast dies.
I become aware of pain in every part of my body. On the side of my face where I hit the ground when I fell, in my fingers from digging for the stone. But I couldn't care less. All I care about is that Tristan is alive and walking. His sleeves have quite a few blood stains, but somehow there aren’t as many as I imagined earlier. He doesn’t seem hurt. He's smeared with mud, just like me.
He kneels next to me. Unable to say anything, I sling my arms around him, tears streaming down my cheeks as I press my ear against the soaked fabric on his chest.
"Aimee, are you hurt?" Tristan murmurs in my ear. Apprehension colors his voice.
"No. But you are."
Through the shredded sleeves of his shirt I can see his skin and it sickens me. "Let me take your shirt off," I say with a trembling voice.
"Let's get away from this first," he says, motioning toward the dead jaguar cub. Fear courses through me as I realize that what we just did will bring the fury of the jaguar mother upon us. I’m certain there will be a retaliation. I dearly hope she does not have any other cubs, because I don’t know how we will defend ourselves if she does.
"What are we going to do with it?" I ask.
"I'll take care of it later."
I make Tristan sit on the airstairs, and I remove his shirt, careful not to hurt him. When I see his arms, every muscle in my body relaxes a notch. His scratches are not as deep as I thought, though they run along both his arms, and certainly need cleaning and disinfecting. I run inside the plane and rip a strip of fabric from my wedding dress, then grab the first aid kit. My diamond rings slips off my finger, falling with a hollow sound on the floor next to my suitcase. In my haste to get back to Tristan, I don't even think of stopping to retrieve it.
Outside, I dip the fabric in water, then run it along his arms, cleaning the long scratches. Though the scratches aren’t deep, blood trickles from a few of them. I start shaking, the sight of blood mingling with the white of the fabric too much for me to bear. No matter how much I grit my teeth and bite my lips, I can't stop fresh tears from rolling down my cheeks.
"Aimee," Tristan says tenderly, tilting my chin to meet his gaze, "it doesn't hurt that bad, I promise."
"I don't…" I take a deep breath. I need to pull myself together. But my voice is undependable when I continue. "I was so afraid something would happen to you."
I realize I can't talk about this. At least not right now. The terror is still too fresh, the fear of losing him still has an iron grip on me.
He takes my bloody fingers in his palms, cleaning them with water, just as I did with his arms. Then he bends forward, kissing my hands, in a gesture so tender, so pure, that I'd like nothing better than to steal this moment and encase it in a glass bubble, a haven safe from the forest. Safe from the world and its judgement. Safe from my own judgement. Tristan stays like this for a few seconds, then pulls me in a tight hug, his forehead buried in my hair, his lips touching my neck. "I've never been more afraid of anything than I was of losing you today, Aimee." His voice trembles, yet the words tumble out fast, as if he's afraid I will stop him. "All I could think of was you'd be taken away from me before I got to tell you how much you mean to me."
"I know," I whisper, pulling him up, resting my forehead against his. "I know. I—” I stop when I notice blood trickling again from the scratches on his arms. "I have to bandage your arms. On second thought, take a shower and wash all the mud away. I'll bandage your arms afterward."
Tristan doesn't question me, but his eyes probe me with worry, which is ridiculous, because I am fine.
I stay just outside the shower while he's inside, unable to bring myself to move from this spot, shaken by the irrational fear that something may happen to him if I stray too far, that something will take him away from me. He walks out wearing the fresh pair of pants I put there for him earlier. He didn’t put on the shirt I also put there. He looks as strong as ever, as long as I keep my eyes away from his arms and on his steel chest and broad shoulders. But then blood trickles from one of his scratches again, and all my fears are back. I take the bandages, rubbing alcohol, and what's left of the antibiotic cream out of the first aid kit when we return to the airstairs.
"No, don't use the antibiotic cream," Tristan says.
"Why? The scratches can become infected."
"We shouldn't waste it."
"Waste it? Tristan, your arms need it."
"Maybe we'll need it more later. We could get attacked again, and if you get hurt…" He drops his eyes to his hands, his tone apologetic.
Always thinking of me first. Always.
"Let me be the one who worries about you for once, okay?" I say. "Just let me apply it. Please. You need it."
I sense that he'd like to argue further, but I shake my head and he gives in, allowing me to take care of him. After I'm done bandaging his arms I tell him, "Go inside the plane and rest. It's almost dark anyway. I'll take a shower and then come inside."
"No, I'll wait for you here," he says. "Just in case. I want to keep an eye out."
I nod, understanding his apprehension. I felt the same before.
Showering usually calms me, and I never hurry the process, but now I can't wait to get out. Being separated from Tristan, even if he's just a few feet away, causes me to shudder with fear that something might happen to him.
When I get out, Tristan takes my hand, leading me inside the plane. The warmth of his palm spreads through me, making my nerve endings tingle. I allow myself to give in to the sense of security he brings to everything
I don't pull my hand away. I don't ever want to pull it away.
When we enter the plane, Tristan hovers in front of the door to the cockpit.
&
nbsp; "Sleep next to me tonight, Tristan."
Turning toward me he asks, "Are you sure?"
"Yes." I run my hand from one shoulder blade to the other, and I feel goose bumps forming on his skin. "Tonight. Every night."
I don't know if he was expecting us to sleep separately, but I wedge myself next to him. After what happened today, nothing feels close enough. I cocoon myself against him, resting my head on his shoulder. "I feel fine. Relax, Aimee."
I can't. The jaguar’s growl still rings in my ears. It brings back the paralyzing fear of losing Tristan. I inch closer to him, the warmth of his naked torso doing wonders for my stiff posture. He presses his fingers on the back of my neck, and I moan as some of the tension built up inside releases. Tristan's fingers freeze on my neck.
"Aimee…"
My name on his lips undoes me again. It awakens something dangerous inside me. He's said it before, but now it sounds different. I turn my head so I can look him in the eyes. He shifts his arm under my head, his fingers reaching to stroke my cheek. He's trapped me in his half embrace, and I don't want him to let go. Here, in the safety of his arms, I find the strength to talk about the fear of losing him.
"I was so scared, you have no idea."
"I do," he says softly. "After I came back from Afghanistan, I was certain I would never fear anything again. But now I'm afraid every time I see a new hole in the fence, terrified that something might happen to you. I never dared to hope you felt that way too."
My breath hitches, but I don't pull away. My relief is so overwhelming I don't want to separate from him even one inch. So I don't. Not even when he leans in closer. His lips feather mine with a gentle touch, and a slight shudder shakes me. He's expecting me to back out. I do no such thing. Instead, I beckon him to kiss me, and he does. His full lips coax mine, their softness filling me with warmth. And igniting something inside me I won't have the power to stop.
I don't want it to stop anymore. This tenderness surprises me. It's so different from our first kiss. Tristan moves slightly, taking his arm from underneath my head and pushing me into the chair as his kiss becomes more urgent. I cradle his head with my arms, forcing him to kiss me even deeper. I'm rewarded with a groan. With one swift move, he pulls me underneath him. His expansive chest pushes against my breasts, and a deep throb pulses low in my body. Desire takes a life of its own when he slams his hips against mine, and I feel his need for me—his hard length strained by the fabric of his pants. In a haze, he frees me of the straps on my shoulders and pushes my dress down to my hips, revealing my breasts. His lips dart to my neck, suckling their way to my collarbone and then to my breasts, leaving a trail of fire in their wake that burns away any ounce of control I still have.
"Tristan," I gasp, my fingers digging in his back, craving for more. I want him to kiss me again, yet I don't want his mouth to stop the sweet torture on my breasts. Need sears through me, and I buck my hips in an involuntary move, pressing hard against him. His hand shoots under my dress, up my thighs, and he begins to remove my underwear. I still. He must sense my hesitation, because his hand stops. His fingers brush my inner thigh so closely to my intimate spot my need turns into delirious craving.
"You want me to stop?" he asks in a low growl against my neck. I try to form words, but I’m unable to, the pulsing desire surging through every nerve ending. In response, I unzip his pants. I push them down with his underwear as he pushes down my dress and panties.
"You're so beautiful," he says in a breathy voice. In the moonlight, I see his heavy-lidded eyes raking over my naked body. I'm shaking with consuming need. His eyes meet mine, and my need is mirrored in his dark gaze. He cups my backside greedily with one hand and sinks into my core with abandon.
"Aimeeeeeeeeeee," he grits in the curve of my neck, the feral sound spearing through me.
His hands are everywhere. Grazing the skin on my thighs, cupping my breasts. His passion pushes me to the edge, until I'm brazen enough to let out without restraint the proof of my own passion. I buckle my hips with urgency, swooping my lips over his neck, digging my nails in his chest as he drives into me with more and more urgency, spurring tremors so intense, I feel like I will splinter apart. I’ve never been so desperate for release. But I’ve also never made love like this before. My inner flesh clenches around his hard length, and, as he feasts on my body, I revel in pleasure, discovering I can cause so much desire. I spiral into explosive bliss with an intense cry that wracks my body. I feel him pull out, and rest confused for a moment when he empties his own relief away from me, then remember we had no protection.
Afterward, he slumps next to me, burying his head in my neck, exhaling hot breaths over me. He puts one of his arms around me. I swallow hard and take a better look at his arm.
"Tristan, your arm is bleeding." Little red blotches have made their appearance on the stark white bandage.
"It's nothing. I strained the arm a little too much."
"Let me look at it." I try to get in a sitting position, but he holds me.
"No, please. I just want to hold you like this," he murmurs in my ear.
"I'm not going anywhere." I give in to his plea. I snuggle up with him, closing my eyes, tracing my fingers on his back, feeling at peace with myself for once. When Tristan falls asleep, I stare at the night outside the window, waiting for the guilt to overcome me.
It doesn't.
I remember the burdensome guilt I felt over having feelings for Tristan. I remember how suffocating it weighed on me after we kissed. I try to recall the intensity of it all, but I can't.
Compared to the horrible fear I experienced today, and the devastating possibility of losing Tristan, nothing feels as intense. Or as important. Not the guilt. And nothing that came before we crashed here. That's how I know I made the right decision by giving myself to him tonight, and there is no going back. Tristan slipped into my soul the way mist travels in the forest after the rain: unseen, unstoppable, and ubiquitous. Our feelings resemble the mist in a way, too. When you’re surrounded by the mist you don’t see it clearly, though you feel it in the thickness of the air. You know it’s there, but you can’t touch it or know for sure if it is real. But if you take a step back, or look at it from above, it’s as clear as if it were snow.
Mist perhaps isn’t the best comparison, because it disappears after a while, though it returns with every rain. My feelings for him are not going to disappear.
Smiling, I climb out of the chair, careful not to wake him up, and walk to the back of the plane. In the darkness, I grope the floor where I lost my ring today, until I find it. I clasp my fingers around the cold metal. The diamond scratching my palm used to embody almost everything for me. Hope, love, happiness. And lately, guilt.
But as I unzip an outer pocket of my suitcase and drop the ring inside it, an exhilarating sense of freedom overtakes me. A twinge of guilt remains, of course, because no matter how I put it, I'm betraying the man who once meant a lot to me, but whom I can now think of as nothing more than my best friend. That in itself is a betrayal. But, I won't cling to the feeling of remorse any longer.
Being on the brink of losing everything had the remarkable power of setting me free.
I’ve decided what I will tell Chris and how I will set things right if I ever see him again. After today's events, the probability of that happening seem slim. Until now, marching through the forest after the water level sunk, back to civilization, seemed like a certainty. A plan that wasn't without its faults, but a plan. We just had to wait for the right time, and we'd go home. I believed we would get there. Even lighting up the signal fire every day… I've been doing it in the hope that maybe we'd get lucky and get rescued after all. That possibly a stray plane would fly above this region and see our signal. In any case, I never doubted we would get home, eventually, either by a plane or going back on foot. Today, I had a taste of how real the possibility of not making it out of the jungle is.
The nightmares disturbing my sleep tonight are my own. In them,
the jaguar isn't dead. Instead, it rips Tristan's flesh apart while all the arrows I shoot miss their target.
The bow vibrates in my hands as I release arrow after arrow. I don't know how long I have been shooting, and I don't care. I won't stop until every damn arrow hits the target. Judging by the pile of arrows huddled at the roots of the tree—the proof of my ineptitude—I’ll be at it a long time. My fingers don't even hurt anymore, though they felt as if they were on fire at some point. Now they're numb.
When I woke up this morning, the bloody bandage on Tristan's arm and the realization of how close the beast came to killing him overwhelmed me again.
I left him asleep and came outside, trying to clear my head. Seeing the dead jaguar's body had the opposite effect, and I ended up with the bow between my fingers. I shoot again and again, tears of desperation rolling down my cheeks. Shoot. Miss. Shoot. Miss. Shoot. Hit.
"Aimee." Tristan's voice sounds desperate, if distant. "Aimee, stop."
But I don't stop. I can't. Tristan grips both my wrists, forcing me to stop. He steps in front of me. "Aimee, what are you doing?"
"I don't know," I whisper. The events of yesterday afternoon play in my mind like a bad movie. The jaguar jumping forward. Tristan falling backward. My utter ineptitude to shoot the animal. The magnitude of it all hits me in one giant wave and my knees tremble. All I manage to blabber before I burst into an ugly cry is, "I don't want you to die because of my incompetency."
"I won't—Aimee, you are hurting yourself. Let the bow go." When I don't react he raises his voice, desperation piercing it. "Aimee."
