Cash scoots closer to me on the couch. Not close enough to touch, but closer. “No.”
“How do you know?”
“Bears avoid humans. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll shove furniture in front of both of the doors.”
“And the windows?”
“They’re too lazy to try to climb through a window. Besides, it got everything it needed last night.”
“You’re an expert on anonymous bears’ eating habits?”
“It wasn’t hungry enough to eat everything in the car.”
Oh.
That makes some kind of logical sense. “Did it get into my rental too?”
“Nope. Yours is fine. Just mine. Probably have to buy my brother a new car now though.”
I stare at him for a moment, fully digest what he’s just said, and then, despite myself, I start laughing.
We’re stranded in a cabin, miles from civilization, in a snowstorm on top of an ice storm, where a bear broke into his car last night, with no idea how long we’ll be unable to get out, and he’s cracking jokes about buying his brother a new car.
“It’s his,” he adds. “And the bear’s worse than some of the kids he’s nannied for. Bigger fingerprints. More capacity to toss shit everywhere.”
It shouldn’t be this funny.
Is this what it feels like when you laugh because you’re panicking? Or is it actually that funny?
“Is it that bad inside the car?”
“Probably worse.”
His deadpan delivery makes me laugh harder.
He drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But that’s not even the worst part.”
“What is?”
I’m anticipating him telling me the bear relieved itself all over the car.
That’s not at all where he goes though.
“The worst part is that all of the food came from Beck’s place. I cleaned him out of every last bag or box of Christmas food that he had stashed to get him through until New Year’s.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t know you hated the holidays, thought apology food was necessary and themed apology food was better. Not like I can hit the warehouse store by myself a week before Christmas. I would’ve been mobbed. So I took Beck’s stash. Dude eats like it’s his full-time job. He’s gonna be so pissed.”
I don’t know if he’s being completely serious or merely acting completely serious, but it’s working.
For a split second, I’m convinced that the very worst part of our situation is that his friend, the rich-as-sin former-boy-bander-turned-underwear-model, will have to send his housekeeper or assistant to the store to get more red-and-green Hershey’s Kisses so he doesn’t starve to death.
And that makes me laugh even harder.
Cash glances at me again, smiles a soft smile, and shakes his head before looking back at the fire while I let myself giggle through the half panic, half gratitude, until I can breathe normally again.
Finally, I suck in a big breath, then let it out while my shoulders sag.
