Am I going to have to go through the rest of my life without that grin? Without hearing her reference blow jobs in the worst possible place? God, I hope not.
We each get to work on a raft. Thanks to the run, it’s harder than it otherwise would be. Neither of us has the energy.
“Maybe I’m not so good at blowing things,” she wheezes.
I cover my valve just long enough to raise a brow. She’sincrediblygood at blowing things, and she knowsit.
Eventually, I finish mine and then finish hers for her. She uses the cord wrapped along their edges and the plastic packaging to lash them together.
“Look at how clever I am,” she says as she climbs to her feet. “I’d be the perfect person to be shipwrecked with. Although Bronwyn would be better. I got kicked out of the Girl Scouts in the fifth grade but she did it until high school. She knew allkinds of outdoor shit. I only know how to make a papier-mâché snowman.”
I’ve noticed this before. Every time she does something well or toots her own horn, even in jest, she backtracks to insist Bronwyn would have done it better.
“Let me guess,” I say as we pull off the mics and battery packs. “You threatened the troop leader? Or corrected her when she was wrong about some wilderness fact?”
“Ididwant to correct her, frequently,” Bex says. “But no. I was selling Girl Scout cookies at a significant markup, which is apparently frowned upon.”
A year ago, Jessie would have told a story like this to prove Bex was always bad, and I’d have believed her. Now I hear it and all it proves to me is that Bex has always been strong, has always had some fight in her, even if she can’t see it herself.
I follow her into the water, and we carefully climb onto the raft. I exhale in relief as my eyes close, and I brush my hand against hers. They’re still filming, but they can’t hear a fucking word we exchange.
It’s the perfect time to say, “This may be about to turn bad; let me explain.”
“This seems like it’s halfway between the Maldives and Primrose Hill,” I say instead. “We could settle here rather than Iraq.”
Throw out your phone, Bex. Don’t read the news; don’t watch TV. We’ll hunker down here and leave the world behind because it’s the only way I can avoid what’s coming.
She smiles. “I’m pretty sure we’re a solid three thousand miles from the midpoint, but I’m okay with that.”
I slide my hand over hers. “We could blow off the show and never return to civilization. Buy a little place in the mountains, go for a run every morning, milk our own cows, and grow our own vegetables…”
She raises her sunglasses and turns her head toward me. “You know I’m too lazy to do those things,” she says with a sad smile. “You’d be better off with Bronwyn for almost all of that.”
She’s doing it again. And it’s insane. Did Jessie condition her to be like this, or did Bex choose it for herself?
“Bex, do you realize how often you tell me that Bronwyn was superior to you? If it was possible, I’d think you were trying to set me up withher.Why?”
She blows out through her nose, her body sagging into the raft. “Bronwyn had this crush on you. I know it sounds silly, but sometimes it still feels as if you’re hers, as if I’m borrowing you but need to remind us both that she’s the better choice.”
“I wasn’t hers. We met in passing, five minutes max, and I know based on that alone that she wasn’t the better choice. Just once, I want to hear you name one significant thingyou’rebetter at than her.”
“Being alive?”
I laugh. “Rebecca.Aside from that.”
“In terms of significant skills, I can’t come up with anything else,” she replies. “I’m assuming that you wouldn’t consider holding my liquor a significant skill?”
“I would not. Also, you’re not that good at it.”
“You didn’t say I had to be good compared to the general population,” she argues, “only relative to Bronwyn. And Bronwyn was a terrible drinker.”
Lars is waving us in. She playfully gives him the finger, and he grins and shakes his head. They all adore her—Lars lights up when she speaks, and Paula fights a smile even as she’s scolding her. Katrina races to her side when she’s not occupied, and the guys treat her like she’s one of their own. Does Bex see that at all? Does she understand that it’s rare, her ability to charm and seduce everyone who meets her? Does she understand that the way she’s rebounded after what she’s suffered is rarer still?
“You are, you know,” I tell her, as we wade toward the shore. “You’re good at being alive.”
She smirks. “I’m actually just good at missing flights, but I’ll take the compliment.”
“That’s not what I meant. I meant you’re good at living. You’re good at finding a way to make the most of your life, whether or not the chips are down.”
