Grant, of course, could not. He’s miserable and jumpy and hates this, which I know because he keeps saying so.
“I hate this,” he mutters for the thousandth time as flames engulf his skewer.
“Cheer up,” I say, hoisting the marshmallows. “We have a whole other bag.”
“I meanthis,” he says, gesturing widely around us. “Being bait. Sitting around helplessly until some psycho decides to kill us.”
“We are not helpless. Between the two of us, we now have seven years and a couple days of self-defense training under our belts. We could very well hold our own.” That’s what I’m choosing to think, anyway, since it’s not like we have another option.
In any case, I don’t think this was the rousing pep talk I meant it to be. Grant is gazing longingly at the fire as if he’d like to beat the Terror to the punch and throw himself in.
I try again. “Don’t you think it’s too early in the story for everything to gohorribly, horribly wrong? We screwed up our first assignment. Doesn’t it just kind of make sense that this one works out better?”
“I think you’re confusing me with a clairvoyant,” he says. “I know crime novels, and I know story structure. That doesn’t mean I can exactly predict things. That’s kind of the whole point of reading, you know. Finding out what happens, because you don’t know it yet.”
I pop a gooey marshmallow into my mouth, speaking around it as I dig in the bag for another. “I disagree. Sometimes knowing how the story’s going to go is the charm.”
Grant’s frown deepens, which I didn’t think was possible. “Explain.”
I could tell him about my favorite books, how they’re predictable in the best way. How you know the awkward chance encounter is really a meet-cute, the third-act breakup just a temporary misunderstanding. The smooth-talking blond guy is usually the douchebag, and the rugged badass is the hero. All the warm fuzzies of a real-life love affair, none of the heartbreak.
But if there’s one thing I don’t need tonight, it’s a debate over the merits of the romance genre.
I skewer a marshmallow and set it over the flames. “I’m just saying, not every genre is doom and gloom. Sometimes you read a book for a guaranteed happy ending. To know it’s all going to be okay, in a way you never can in real life.”
He’s quiet for a moment, looking at me like I’m a sudoku puzzle and he’s trying to place a number. “Unfortunately for us,” he says, “I don’t think this is one of those books.”
“Don’t I know it.”
It’s almost funny, actually, comparing this to an Anna Matthews romance. They tend to have a much lower body count, at least in the literal corpse sense of the phrase. And the man I dragged along is lessrugged badassand moreanxiety on legs.
But maybe that’s a little harsh, I think, watching Grant absently rub his jaw. I’m sure he’ssomeone’sidea of a romance hero. I’d bet more than a few of his students have crushes on him. That concerned look of his—in better times, I imagine it trends more toward inquisitive. He seems like a good listener, someone who cares what other people have to say. Sure, his wit may be more self-deprecating than the standard hero’s snark, and he may have an actual physiological allergy to excitement. But he’s a good guy, I can tell that much. Maybe even the best person to ever kill a man with a skillet.
The inferno where my marshmallow used to be interrupts my musing, and I let the whole thing drop into the fire. Grant wordlessly reaches into the marshmallow bag and hands me another.
It’s too bad, actually. I think I’d like to read about him, if he were in fact a fictional character. If he were in a different kind of book.
He rolls his shoulders. “Interesting that you saidwescrewed up our first assignment.”
“Yeah, well. I was feeling generous.”
He gives me a leveling look that melts away my ability to bullshit him.
“Fine,” I say, trying not to let any amusement show. “I could have been slightly more prepared on the alias front. I will keep that in mind next time.”
He nods. “And I’ll try not to obliterate the plan.” He says it in a way that makes me think, if I squinted, I could almost convince myself there’s a hint of a smile tucked away in the corner of his mouth.
“We have a deal,” I say.
He extends a fire-warmed hand, and I shake it. As the flames slowly dwindle, we lapse into a silence that no sane person would call comfortable, but maybe a little more companionable than before. After we’ve roasted our last marshmallows to cinders, Grant’s phone beeps our warning.
“I think it’s go-time,” I say.
“Ugh,” he replies.
He follows me to our tent and I zip it closed behind us. There’s nothing inside, just an eerie darkness and a thick air of suspense. Now the real waiting game begins. This might be the hardest part: a full hour of silence, pretending we’re asleep and unaware.
While Grant parks himself in the corner, I shake out my arms and stretch my legs, trying to stay loose and warm. A familiar wave of anticipation radiates from deep in my chest, a feeling I’ve learned to savor. Of course, it usually comes before a jungle zip line or a cliff dive—things I do for fun. This is more than slightly different. But my body doesn’t seem to know that.
