“Not yet. But we will be when the sun sets and the lions come out. Don’t worry,” he said, when the color drained from my face. “We’ll take turns keeping a look out. I’ll keep watch on the roof while you sleep, and then you can do the same for me. Here.” He tore off a branch from the tree, stripped the leaves, and handed it to me. “Start whittling. A long, sharp point is best.”
I held the stick, speechless, as he ducked into the car to get a knife. It took a moment before I caught on.
There are no lions prowling about here.
Sure enough, when I marched over and swung the door open, there he was, doubled over. Laughing. The sound of it was like ripples in a still pond, after a stone has been thrown into it. It radiated outward, enveloping me, until I couldn’t help but join in.
It was in that state of intoxication, that release from self-consciousness, between peals of laughter, that I realized I was totally, completely in love with Jack Warden. It hit me like a ton of bricks, that you could feel so alive, even though your heart was nowhere in your possession, and you knew that you were going to walk around without it for the rest of your life. I stepped away from him, the laughter dying on my lips like he had speared my chest with the stick I was holding. I dropped it and turned on my heel, but my shoe was entrenched in the mud and I lurched, face forward, into the ground.
My downfall was complete. Quite literally. Absolute embarrassment. Absolute humiliation. Because Jack could read me like an open book—mywhys,ifs, andbuts; my starts, stops, twists, and turns. It was exhilarating because it was effortless—no explanations needed. It was terrifying because it left me transparent, with no blanket of pretense. There was no way to hide my feelings for him.
When Jack helped me up, I avoided his gaze. When he wiped the mud away from my face, I kept my eyes on the ground. When he sat me down and poured water over my palms, I watched the dirt wash away.
“Rodel.”
Damn him. Damn his voice. Damn the way he said my name.
He lifted my chin so I had no choice but to meet his gaze. He wasn’t smiling or laughing. It wasn’t the face of a man who was amused. He was looking at me with a mix of such intense tenderness and yearning, I choked back a sob, because beneath it all was an apology. For the things he stirred up in me, for the things I stirred up in him, for the bittersweet journey that had brought us together, and for the parting that was yet to come. And then very softly, very gently, with one finger still under my chin, he kissed me—once, twice, three times—like he was picking a bouquet of flowers from my mouth.
“Your hair is a mess,” he said, running his fingers over my mud-coated tresses
“I’ma mess.” I took stock of myself—my feet, my clothes, my nails.
“It’s an easy fix. Stay right here.”
He got a kerosene stove out of the trunk, and before long, he had heated up two big pots of water, set up soap, a bucket, and a folding chair.
“Welcome to Jungle Jack’s Salon.” He bowed with flourish. “Sit. Lean back.”
“What are you doing?” I asked, settling into the chair.
“Washing your hair.” He adjusted the angle, so my head was hanging over the edge of the chair.
“Shouldn’t we be figuring out what we’re going to do next?”
“Shhh.” His breath fanned against my forehead, sending little shivers down my spine.
And there, on the road to Magesa, beside a car stuck in the mud, Jack Warden washed my hair with a bar of blue soap, as I sat on an old chair that he carted around in his trunk. When he poured warm water over my hair, I closed my eyes and thought how there really ought to be a word to describe the sensation when your lungs fill up with the sweetest air, and yet you’re left completely breathless.
It was more intimate than a kiss, Jack’s hands trailing through my hair, the rough pads of his fingers massaging my scalp, making slow, steady circles as he worked the lather from my roots to my tips. He started at my temples, moved on to my head, and down to my nape. Massaging the back of my neck, he kneaded the muscles until my head fell back, relaxing into the cup of his palm. My skin tingled from his touch, from the sensual rhythm of his strokes, from the deliciousness of an unexpectedly submissive moment.
I don’t know how long we spent in that clearing, Jack washing my hair like it was the only thing he wanted to do, the sun on my face, little peeks of his body silhouetted over me. When he was done, he poured more water, pulling his fingers through my hair until all the soap had been rinsed out. And then again, just because. I was ready to get up when he grabbed my hair with both hands and gathered it at the crown of my head. Then he twisted it and squeezed out the water. The sensation of rough after soft sent a tingling to the pit of my stomach. I shuddered as little rivulets trickled down my neck and back, but it wasn’t from the water. It was because I could feel Jack’s eyes on the back of my ears, my nape, the curve of my exposed jawline. Then he let my hair go, and watched it tumble over my shoulders.
“Towel,” he said, handing it to me. He strung up a sheet between two trees and heated some more water. “You can finish off over here.”
“Nice.” I stepped behind the barrier and peeled off my clothes. “Jungle Jack’s is a full-service salon. A gal could get used to this.”
“A rhino attack, car trouble, face planting in mud, and a bucket shower?” He laughed. “You’re a strange one, Rodel Emerson.”
It was strange when I thought about it—that I’d be okay with things that were so far removed from my comfort zone. But things didn’t always have to make sense. The most profound, most memorable moments of life are the ones that make you feel. And that’s what I’d been missing. That feeling of being alive. I had come with a heart full of grief for my sister, never expecting to find love or life budding out of it. It was like Mo was showing me the possible in the impossible.
I wish you could see the world through my eyes,her words echoed in my mind.
I’m starting to see, Mo. I’m starting to see.
I peered over the sheet. Jack was dragging the tent out of the truck. It struck me then that I would be all right, no matter what. Sometimes you come across a rainbow story—one that spans your heart. You might not be able to grasp it or hold on to it, but you can never be sorry for the color and magic it brought.
NIGHT DESCENDED AROUNDus with flat and complete blackness. The moon hung above, but not a single dot of light flickered on the horizon. Yellow-winged bats flitted off to meet the darkness as Jack stoked the fire.
