Page 48

Jax

I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm starting to get past the maze of spikey walls Tea has around her heart, but I think I’m making progress in understanding how to. And really, Linus nailed it: just be kind, considerate, and patient. There's a lot more to it than that, obviously, but understanding that what most people interpret as bitchiness, "attitude", or coldness is really just self-protection goes a long way to understanding her.

Like right now, I can tell she's feeling things she just doesn't know what to do with.

What those feelings are remains opaque, but I can tell she's dealing with something internally that's making her uncomfortable.

I don't think I've really processed fully that I've been mauled by a bear. That I'm going to…bear*….some pretty gnarly scars for the rest of my life.

*Sorry, couldn’t help it.*

I haven’t really processed that I could have died.

That I fought off a goddamn grizzly bear with no more than a stick and some rocks.

I lay there, my wounds throbbing, and watched Tea clean the salmon she caught. She's got steady hands, obviously, and an eye for details, so it's no surprise that she did a remarkable job for her first time gutting a fish. She was certainly not squeamish, that's for sure.

I had her put the innards and other unwanted bits on a piece of rock, and when she finished cleaning the fish, she took them to the river and tossed them in so as not to attract any more fucking bears.

I was trying to build the fire up when she returned, sitting upright with my right arm hugging myself, instinctively protecting my injured left side. When Tea appeared from the trees and saw me sitting up, in the act of reaching for a thick branch just out of reach, she huffed in irritation. "You just can't help yourself, huh?"

I gave a chagrined grimace. "Not really, no."

"Well, try. Please."

I sighed, but it turned into a groan as I reclined once more. "Fine."

I was feeling pretty fucking rough, to be honest. I've had a few pretty gnarly owies in my life—I broke my ankle playing kickball in fourth grade, my arm playing football my freshman year, and I got jumped by half a dozen assholes the summer after I graduated—for my vintage Air Jordans, Apple Watch, and some cash. That one was pretty shitty. They knocked the mess out of me, those cock-nuggets did: broken ribs, cracked orbital socket, a bunch of other fun stuff.

This, though? Hard to compare, but this whole clawed-by-a-bear thing is a real bitch. It's a new kind of pain. Not the localized throb of a broken bone or the all-over suckage of having been beaten up. It's…I don't even know. It just sucks.

It wasn’t even noon, and I felt weak, and moving at all hurt. I really did need to listen to Tea and take it easy, but it's just not my nature to sit around while someone else, particularly a woman, does all the hard stuff. Not sure how much of a choice I have, however.

She baked the fish on a hot stone, and we devoured it in minutes; the only thing that slowed either of us down was burned fingers.

Finished and perhaps not full but grateful for solid food, I forced myself to lie down. All too soon, my eyes grew heavy, and I drifted off.

When I woke up, I was disoriented. The sun was high, but I couldn't tell its exact position from here, so I had no idea how long I’d slept. I felt groggy enough that it could very well have been hours, or mere minutes; it’s hard to tell with naps.

Tea was sitting cross-legged a few feet away, a spare shirt spread out in the opening of her crossed legs, and she was making a godawful mess trying to roll up a joint. I watched her for a couple of minutes, because it was a rare opportunity to watch her when she wasn’t aware of my attention. Her tongue was poking out the corner of her mouth, occasionally darting across to the opposite corner before sliding back as she concentrated.

She was frustrated, I could tell. She was trying to be patient, though. I watched her mess up, nearly smash the crooked, wobbly thing with her fist, stop herself, and carefully, precisely open it back up and start over.

She managed a pretty decent little pinner and gave an adorable little silent fist pump.

"Good one, Tea," I said, and she startled so bad she gave a little screech, tossed the thing into the air and caught it again, clapping a hand to her chest, panting.

"Jesus H Christ on a crumbly cracker, Jax." She rolled her lips in, daring me to comment on her accidental play on words.

Cracker…Jax? You get it. If you don't, ask someone whose birthdate starts with a nineteen. I only know because Papa Lucas is weirdly obsessed with Cracker Jack, and as a kid, I used to love going over to his and Mama Livvie’s because he always had some on hand. I fucking love that shit.

"Well shit, now I want some goddamn Cracker Jack," I said.

She frowned. "Isn't it Crackerjacks? It's plural, isn't it?"

"Nope," I answered. "Cracker Jack, two words, singular."

"You seem pretty certain.”