“You’re pretty brave, coming out here all by yourself,” he says, an abrupt subject change, not at all what I was expecting.
“You think?” I ask after another bite, as if it hadn’t even occurred to me. In all honesty, I’ve been thinking it myself—but it’s validating to hear it from him.
He gives a deep nod. “I do.”
I take it in, waiting for another joke aboutEat Pray LoveorWild—bothof which are in my pack as we speak, by the way, but I will not be admitting that anytime soon.
The joke never comes. Instead, there’s a thoughtful look on his face as he studies me. Like he’s looking for the real answers to the questionhe asked earlier on the trail: What made me want to sign up for something like this?
I got broken up with for being too high-maintenance!a voice shrieks through my head, so loud I fear I’ve actually bared my soul to this entire campsite full of strangers.I signed up out of spite to prove something to my ex, but he flaked, and now I’m here on this miserable adventure alone!
“All of this is new to me,” I tell him instead, something vulnerable and honest that doesn’t feel like too much. Caden always closed up whenever I started sharing the depths of my feelings, said I should save that stuff for my conversations with Abby. “Obviously. But that was my goal, I guess—to put myself in a situation where I can only prepare so much for whatever’s going to happen.” And then, because even that much feels a littletooraw for the moment, I twist it into a joke: “I packed my whole house for this trip, though, so I think we’ll be good if an apocalypse hits while we’re out here.”
He laughs, throaty and deep. “Yes, I can see how a sleep mask and a satin pillowcase would come in handy for that,” he quips.
“Being well rested during an apocalypse does sound optimal,” I reply, and now we’re both laughing.
“And the coffee?”
“That’s for beingalertduring the apocalypse.”
“And your lip gloss?”
“If our apocalyptic oppressors are easily distracted by the idea of kissing shiny lips that taste like vanilla, well—that could also be useful.”
His gaze flicks down to my lips, just for a split second, then back up to my eyes. Instinctively, I look down at his lips, too. They look soft: it’s a very good thing I’m not a distractible apocalyptic oppressor, honestly.
“I’m guessing you could justify every single thing you brought,” he says, grinning.
“Andevery single thing my best friend made me leave at home.”
“You do know an apocalypse is unlikely, yes?”
“We’re out in the woods for almost two weeks,” I say, only a little overdramatic. “No electricity. No refrigeration. No reliable internet signal. No mattresses or plush duvets. It’sbasicallythe same thing.”
He shakes his head, then finally finishes the last of his s’more in one huge bite. I finish mine, too, the marshmallow now pleasantly warm instead of blisteringly hot.
“Let me ask you this,” Thorn says after a moment. “Did you happen to bring a journal with you?”
“It was either a journal orEat Pray Love,” I can’t help but admit. “I’ll let you guess which one I chose.”
He cracks the widest, brightest smile. “I knew it! You actually brought it with you?”
“No comment,” I say, but of course I don’t have to confirm it. “Why do you ask about the journal?”
“I recommend it every now and then when someone’s brand-new at this—you’d be surprised to go back and read how your thoughts change from the first day to the last. People like you tend to get a lot out of it.”
“People like me,” I repeat. “People who aren’t quite at rock bottom but need an emotional cleanse?”
If I say it first, it won’t sting as much as it would to hear it from him.
But he just furrows his brows, gaze unfocused and fixed on the fire—until he turns and looks me straight in the eye.
“People like you,” he says again. “Brave people who try something new, all alone, even though they know it will make them uncomfortable. People like me are used to this, but you—it’s stillnewfor you. You should write down what you notice, the good and the bad and the beautiful, and the things that scare you, and the things you miss from home. If you do it first thing in the morning and right before bed every night, I think you’d be surprised to read back over it after the trip ends.”
I expected a lot of things out of this trip, but “wilderness guide who is in touch with his emotions and recommends daily journaling so I can process mine” was not on my radar—especially since my first impression after we got out on the trail was that he had a stick up his ass.
I have to say, I’m pleasantly surprised.
