by Hagen, Layla
He unclenches my fingers from the bow, taking it away. That's when I see my fingers. They're worse than yesterday. The skin is shredded where they touched the bow.
"I am so sorry," I say through sobs.
"Shhh, you're having a meltdown."
Tristan drops the bow, putting an arm around my waist, patting me on the back. "Calm down, Aimee. I'm all right. It barely hurts anymore."
I sob even harder. "But you could have died. I could have lost you."
"Please don't say that." His voice is soothing, and I find myself relaxing in his tender embrace. "Let's go inside the plane and take care of your fingers."
"No, I'm fine." Ashamed of my meltdown, I try to pull myself together. "We have lots to do and I—“
Tristan scoops me up in his injured arms, but I don't protest or ask him to put me down. I rest my head on his shoulder, enjoying the rhythmic beat of his heart. Somehow, it has the power to drive away any thought. When he puts me down in my seat, I draw my knees up to my chest, feeling cold without his arms on me.
"I'll be back in a sec," he says.
He brings the bottle of alcohol and a strip from my wedding dress then kneels in front of me, tending to my callused fingers. I try to be brave, like he was yesterday, but I start whimpering as soon as the cloth touches my skin.
"Aimee, what did you feel last night?" His voice has a strained quality to it, as if he's bracing himself for my answer.
I don't answer, considering my words for a long time. Too long.
He begins to turn away, but I grip his wrist and his head snaps back toward me. He caresses my cheek with the back of his fingers, sending tendrils of sparks through me. "I don't regret what happened between us, Tristan."
He kisses my forehead, murmuring, "It's the most beautiful thing that’s happened to me."
Something flutters in my chest at his words. They're so pure, so heartfelt that I almost liquefy. "Let me change the bandage on your arm," I say.
"I've looked at it this morning. It's fine, no need to change it. We have to be careful not to waste the bandages."
I run my fingers over his bandaged arm, as if that would help me find out if he's telling the truth. He doesn't wince at my touch, so he's not in pain. All of a sudden he grabs my wrist, looking down at my fingers.
"You're not wearing your ring."
"No… I don't feel the need to wear it anymore."
He raises his eyes to mine. Slowly—as if he doesn't dare to believe what I said.
"Do you mean that?" he asks in a low voice.
I nod, not quite able to say the words out loud. But there's no sense denying this. There are many things you can hide in the rainforest. But not lies. Or love.
I lean in and kiss him.
His lips part in surprise, but then his mouth settles over mine in a soft kiss. Before long, the heat that only he can stir to life starts building inside me. I deepen the kiss with urgency, both my hands darting at the crook of his neck.
"Slow down, Aimee," he says, gasping for breath, "why are you in so much of a rush?"
I bite my lip, ashamed. "I thought you liked it this way."
"I love it." He pushes a strand of hair behind my ear. "But I don't want to rush this today. Last night, I didn't have enough self-restraint to give myself to you and make love to you the way you deserve."
I frown in confusion. "And which way is that?"
"Completely."
My breath stumbles as I climb in his lap, hitching my legs around his waist. Tristan unbuttons my shirt with exquisite slowness, placing a kiss on my skin after he pops each button open. I revel in the feeling; the brush of his lips on my skin sending hot and cold shivers down my spine, prompting a painful ache deep down in my body.
"I meant to ask you, what's this?" He points to the scratch on my shoulder. The one I got by running into the spine bush outside the fence at the entrance. The scratch is just as black as it was when I got it.
"Yesterday I scratched myself with some of those spines I planted near the entrance. The black doesn't wash off. Will it be permanent?"
"I doubt it." He resumes taking off my shirt. My job is easier, since he has no shirt on. I take in the rippled muscles of his stomach, the strong, hard-as-steel shoulders, and after I yank down his pants, I delight in his muscled legs. He lays me on my back, stripping me and then covering my body in kisses.
"I want to memorize every single part of your body," he says in a breathy voice as he feasts on my inner thighs and then the valley between my breasts. Each kiss fuels the passion brewing between my thighs, pushing me further down the slope of consuming need.
When I can't tolerate the ache anymore, I pull him to me, kissing him, and rocking my hips against his. He plunges inside me, filling me, ripping whimper after whimper out of me. His mouth dusts my arms, calling my name in deep, guttural sounds that unhinge me. He increases the pace of his moves, thrusting so deep my thighs wobble. Eagerness swirls up inside me as wave after wave of pleasure engulf me, my body surging forward when my release shatters me.
We lie in each other's arms for a long time afterward. I trace my fingers along the expanse of his chest while he plays with my hair.
"You didn't sleep well last night," Tristan says.
"I had bad dreams. But you didn't have any."
"No. They tend to stay away when I'm with you. I was searching for peace in my nightmares. But when I'm with you, I don't have to search for anything. I already have everything. I feel whole.” I catch my breath as he continues. “I need you in a way I never thought I could need anything. It's like air. You don't notice how much you need it until you don't have it. I love you, Aimee. For being selfless and giving me your strength. For giving me the things I never knew I needed. If there's something I learned in war, it's that no one is unimportant. Every person means the world to someone. That makes us vulnerable, but it also makes life a gift. I had no one who could give me that gift. Now I do."
When you find the person who sees you clearer than you see yourself, you know you've found true love. "I love you too," I whisper.
"Can I tell you something very selfish?" he asks.
"Can't wait to hear it."
"A small part of me wishes we could stay here forever."
"How can you say that?" I snap my head up, raising my eyebrows.
He takes a deep breath, cupping my cheek with his hand, his thumb caressing my lips. "Because I've found something here I’ve never had before. Hope. You gave it to me. And I have you here. You’re more than I’ve ever had, and more than I'll ever wish for." He stops, as if what he planned to say next is too painful to express. But I don't pull my eyes away from him. "If we go back, things will be like they were before… and I can't bear losing you."
"Nothing will be the same as before," I say, sitting up, affronted. "You think I’ll go back to Chris? Marry him? Of course I won't." His eyes search me, doubt reflected in them. "You're not the only one who found hope here, Tristan." He pulls me into a long, heartfelt kiss and doesn't let go until my stomach growls, reminding both of us that my meltdown and our lovemaking kept us away from food.
"We'd better go search for some fruit," I say, pushing him away. "Unless you can shoot something with your hurt arms."
"I might."
As we both dress I say, "I still want us to be found. Even if it means facing Chris and telling him everything."
"How do you imagine he’ll take it?" he asks in a clipped tone.
"He’ll forgive us." Chris has always been that kind of person. Which makes hurting him so much crueller. "I am not sure if I was truly in love with him," I whisper, voicing the doubts that have plagued me since I first acknowledged Tristan’s effect on me. "I cared about him a lot. I still do. But… what I feel for you is so intense, so different… I've never felt that way about him." I never had with him the kind of connection I have with Tristan, one that runs so deep, it seems to run through my veins. Chris didn’t understand me in that profound way Tristan does, even whe
n I thoroughly explained things to him, like how I feel about my parents. Tristan understands with just a few words, and sometimes, with no words at all.
Tristan's expression brightens and I realize this is something that has weighed on him a lot.
"That was a common theme among the employees at the Moore’s mansion," he says as we exit the plane.
"What was?"
"That the two of you seemed more like best friends; you lacked a spark."
I groan. "How would you know what the employees at the mansion said? You work for Chris, not his parents."
He raises an eyebrow. "I drove you to the mansion on a number of occasions, and waited for you there until you were ready to go. That gave Maggie and the rest of the staff plenty of time to fill me in on… things."
"People talked about us?"
"Yeah… Maggie said she always thought of you as siblings, didn't expect the two of you to be a couple."
"I wish Maggie had told me that." Many people told me that, but Maggie is someone I listen to, having raised Chris and me. I wonder if she ever told Chris. I wonder if he had second thoughts about us when his friends told him what my friends told me: that we seem to love each other like a brother and sister. And most of all I wonder if, in the months I've been gone, he may have found someone else.
I pray that he did.
"Plenty of birds flying around." I point to the sky as Tristan flexes the string of the bow, indicating that he can shoot. Shy sunrays garland the trees, making the green appear so vivid it ricochets from the shiny texture. Tatters of light hang on the lower branches, guiding our steps as we venture outside. "Won't have to wait long for our meal. Use your perfect aim on one of those unsuspecting birds, and then while I cook it, you can get rid of the jaguar body."
Tristan grins, looking up at the multitude of birds. "Guess we're lucky today."
But the last of our luck evaporates less than two weeks later. Weeks in which we fall blissfully into each other's arms every night. I love him with a scintillating intensity that grows every day. I never knew love could be like this. But I suppose this only happens when you connect at a level so deep and powerful it casts everything before it into meaninglessness. A connection built with spoken and unspoken words alike.
During these weeks, we fight the jungle during daylight. It seems more determined than ever to defeat us. Fresh holes appear in the fence every day, and our water baskets and wood supply are trashed each night—all signs the female jaguar has more than the one cub we killed. Judging by the paw prints, she has three others. There is a light at the end of the tunnel, though. The water has receded to a level where we can almost walk through it, and Tristan has started making serious plans about our trip into the wild in search of civilization. We stop our daily poem exchange. Survival requires our full attention. Every free minute we brainstorm about potential dangers on the trip back, and what we can do to prepare for them. We're practicing building basic shelters. We've been lucky with the plane, but when we leave, we'll have to build every night a shelter strong enough to keep us safe from beasts. We also try to collect as much animal fat as we can. Torches will be indispensable out there. At the same time, we double our efforts to secure the fence, and even set poison food traps for the jaguars, but they are too smart to touch them. We just need to fend them off for another few weeks, then we'll be ready to go.
However, our downfall doesn't come, as we feared, from the jaguars.
"You haven't eaten anything," I exclaim after I finish devouring my bird leg and two roots. I was starving today, and my portion hasn't done much to satisfy my hunger. I lean back, propping my elbows on the rough bark of the trunk that serves as our eating place. My muscles are sore from building shelter after shelter today. We've set a new record, building the simplest shelter in about ten minutes. It's an emergency shelter in case it rains unexpectedly. Tristan hasn't touched his food at all. He's staring at it as if the mere sight makes him sick.
"No, I'm not hungry."
"But we haven't eaten all day. You need your strength."
"I don't feel like eating. I guess I'm just exhausted. You can have my portion, you're still hungry."
He pushes his leaf plate in my direction. I catch his hand, and squeeze it. It feels cold and weak, and that scares me. "Go to sleep. I'll be next to you in a minute. You'll get better tomorrow." I watch him drag himself up the airstairs and inside the plane. I'm not hungry anymore.
He doesn't get better. First thing in the morning, he throws up. His body has a slight tremor to it as I help him sit on the steps. He's covered in cold sweat.
"Can it be from something you ate the day before yesterday? No, it can't be. We've been eating the same food."
"I don't know." He presses his palms on the sides of his head, his elbows resting on his knees. "I was throwing up yesterday, too."
"What?" I ask, alarmed. "When? Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't want to worry you."
I hug him to my chest, tasting bile at the back of my throat. This close, I feel like every tremor of his is mine, and they fill me with a debilitating fear.
"What do you think it is?"
"Some kind of disease. Maybe from mosquitoes, maybe from some kind of bacteria in the food or water."
"That can't be," I say, almost like a plea. "Why I am not sick then?"
"Our immune systems aren't identical. Even if what we eat and drink is."
Something inside me crumbles—with the speed of the lightning. And its intensity too. But I force my voice to stay steady when I say, "Stay inside today and rest, okay?" He doesn't even attempt to argue; that worries me like nothing else. The moment he's out of sight, tears spill down my cheeks. This can't be happening. Not now. Not when we're so close to leaving this place. Not when we're so close to being safe. Though I have a million things to do, I go inside every half hour to help him drink water and check on him. He's sleeping most of the time, his body temperature higher every time I put my hand to his forehead. As the sun is about to set I grill some roots. When I walk inside the plane to take some to Tristan, he's gone.
I blink, spinning around, taking in every inch of the cabin. The muscles in my legs tighten as I make my way to the cockpit. He isn't there, either. I stand on the edge of the door, gripping the edges, my knuckles white. I was less than ten feet away from the bottom of the airstairs. I should have heard him leave. But did he leave? His pocketknife, bow, and arrows are still propped on the airstairs, where they've been the whole day, which means he's unarmed. The thought of him wandering in the rainforest without anything to defend himself gives me chest pains. I stand on my toes, scanning the space outside the fence. Not very far from the makeshift gate of the fence, I see Tristan, crawling more than walking. Stumbling. I run toward him, picking up my own bow and arrows in the process.
When I reach him I stand in front of him, blocking his way. "Tristan, what are you doing?"
His skin pale and sweaty, he answers, "I need to stay away from you. You might get sick too."
"No, I won't."
His unfocused gaze and the creases of confusion on his forehead tell me he isn't thinking clearly. As I watch him I remember a particularly worrisome piece of information Chris once shared: some animals hide to be alone when they are about to die.
"Tristan, please stop arguing with me." My voice shakes. "Let me take you back to the plane."
"No, you don't understand. The mosquitoes… I may have malaria, or yellow fever. I could give what I have to you too," he mumbles. His knees buckle and I put his arm over my shoulders, grabbing him by the waist to support him. He tries to fight me off, but he's too weak.
"You're not being reasonable. Those are diseases that are transmitted by mosquito bites only." When I put my hand on his forehead I can see why he isn't being reasonable. His skin burns with a fever so high I'm certain his mind must be foggy. Fever is a symptom of a truckload of tropical diseases. Which one does he have and what is the mortality rate?
"Let's wa
lk back; come on." He's so weak he can't fight, and starts putting one foot in front of the other. There are maybe a hundred feet until the plane, but we're going so slow, it'll take us half an hour to get there. I keep my ears tuned for danger, clutching my bow for dear life. I feel vulnerable now, even though I'm better with the bow than I've ever been. If something attacks us now, I can't react fast enough. There's no way I can protect Tristan, who seems to be on the verge of collapse. Those words play in my mind again and again. Mortality rate. I shake my head, tightening my grasp on the bow. I need to get him to safety first, and then I'll worry about the mortality rate.
I'm drenched in sweat by the time I lay Tristan on his seat in the plane. Tristan’s fever has soaked through his shirt so I help him change into a new one. I light a torch with some shreds of my wedding dress and go outside for a basket of water. I intend to use it for compresses to bring down his fever, but since the water isn't cold… What is effective against tropical diseases? I don't even know which one he's got, so I focus on what I do know. He has a fever. He needs to keep hydrated. I breathe in, refusing to cry.
When I'm back inside, I secure the torch and soak one of my shirts in water, then charge toward Tristan.
I freeze in my steps when I see him. He's curled in a fetal position, shaking, his teeth chattering, his eyes unfocused. I drop the shirt, rushing to him, kneeling by his side. He's mumbling something I can't make out, so I put my ear as close to his lips as possible. I realize I can't understand what he's saying because my heart is thumping in my ears. Pull yourself together Aimee; you can't help him if you lose it. Come on.
But when he interlaces his burning fingers with mine, I do lose it, and the tears I've been holding back start rolling down my cheeks. I wipe them away. I don't want him to see me crying.
"Cold," he says through his chattering teeth. His eyes are unfocused.
"You're cold, of course." I slap my forehead. "That's why you’re shaking. I'll bring you blankets." I try to untangle his fingers from mine, but he doesn't let go. "Tristan, I'll get some blankets. I'll be back in a second." My voice undependable, I continue, "You have to let go of my fingers, my love. Please."
