I grab the dry jeans and repeat the whole process in reverse. When I’m done, I put dry wool socks on both of us.
I watch Paul pull down the bottom of his jeans over his socks with clumsy, swollen hands. I have an impulse to touch them, which is unexpected because they look gross. I don’t act on it. Instead, I look up into his eyes, and he’s staring down at me.
“Hey,” I say.
“Thank you,” he says. “We should sleep together.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry, in the sleeping bag, I mean. This is decent shelter, but our warmth is our greatest asset; we’ll maximize it in the bag. We’ll figure something else out when it’s light again.”
“Right,” I say nonchalantly. Inside, I’m shouting, Holy shit, holy shit.
Then I add, “Yeah, makes total sense.”
We both step into the bag, and I slowly zip it up. It is really snug, and the front of his body presses against my back. We fit like crescent moons lying side by side. His body, despite being dressed in dry clothes, emits a coldness I can only imagine is painful to bear. His hands are right in front of me to study. His right hand is red and cold, but his left is bruised and cut. They both look angry and swollen. Then, as though he can see me staring at them, he speaks: “I’m going to put my hands on you, okay? I need the warmth.”
Slowly his hands move under my jacket and my sweater, his long arms circling me, and then he tucks his hands under my arms. Blood rushes to my cheeks and my stomach drops with unexpected excitement. I’ve never been touched like this before, and though it’s probably just platonic, I feel a pulse of electricity shoot through my body.
“Is that too awful?” he asks. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I say. But his body heat is good, much better than being in the bag alone. Instinctively, I cross my arms and place my hands over his. He grunts from the pain.
“Your hands aren’t as soft as I remember,” he whispers in my ear.
I smile, thinking of our first conversation.
“I can’t believe we’re here,” I say.
“I can’t believe you’re sleeping with me after one day.”
“Yeah, but I can’t believe you let me know your little secret,” I say.
“What secret is that, my philosopher friend?”
“You make jokes when you’re nervous, so I guess sharing a sleeping bag with me makes you nervous?”
I know he’s smiling-I can feel it in my heart. He says nothing for a long time. We just lie there on our sides, listening to the wind and our breathing. Our feet press against the wall beside the toilet and our heads lie softly on our coats.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“I’m not a philosopher,” I whisper back. “I mean, I’m not a philosophy major. I lied before, so you can stop calling me that. Please.”
There’s a pause in the darkness. I don’t know where all the courage is coming from, but I do know I feel an uncontrollable urge not to lie. Not to lie going forward, not to lie period.
“Right,” he says. And then he adds an aside a few moments later: “But I can tell you think too much. Sometimes doing is better than thinking, you know?”
“Not really,” I say.
Suddenly, he kisses the top of my head, in a brotherly way, nothing further.
“See, I wanted to do that, but I was thinking about it too much.”
“Clever,” I say.
“Night,” he whispers.
I sit for a moment in the dark, thinking about the day. It’s been endless and utterly exhausting-like a lifetime lived in twenty-four hours. I can hear a soft snore coming from Paul. I wonder what tomorrow will bring.
Chapter 18
I wake. Light splinters in from under the door. Paul’s arms are draped around me: his right arm snakes around my body, and his left circles above and around, cupping my waist, his hand gripping my side just above the hip bone.
I’ve read about the wilderness and I know that you can experience hallucinations in extreme cold. Because there’s a twenty-ish guy spooning me, I question whether this is indeed a hallucination. Am I losing my mind? I consider the possibility that I am actually dead and that this is the beginning of an unexpected afterlife. Could I have conjured up a more conventional scenario than to wake up in the arms of a beautiful boy?
I don’t want to move, for fear of waking him. I listen to his breathing, which is full and deep. His breath is warm on my neck. Maybe somebody will come today and find us and it will all be over. I wish I had a close friend I could tell. There’s nobody at the institution but the Old Doctor. He’d love it. I can imagine him saying, “Jane, don’t you see now? You were alive up there, face-to-face with death. Things happen when you’re alive in the world.”
“Are you awake?” Paul’s voice is deep and rusty.
“Yes, why?”
“You were talking to yourself. I thought maybe you were dreaming.” He shifts around a bit, moving his right arm up to stretch it.
“What was I saying?” I ask.
“You don’t want to know.”
Oh my God.
“Tell me, please,” I say.
“I’m kidding.”
Thank you, God.
“My hands feel better,” he remarks as he flexes his bruised left fingers. “But my head is killing me.
“Mine hurts too,” I say.
“We’re dehydrated. A headache is the first sign from the body. We need to find water.”
That’s true, no doubt, but what I’m thinking is I really have to pee badly. The bizarre nature of this situation dawns on me. I’m sharing a bathroom, literally, with a guy I met, in real time, maybe three hundred words ago. Sure, we survived an airplane crash together and I saved his life and I guess we have slept together, which may have created a bond so profound it will transcend time, but the thought of peeing in front of him still feels way out of the question.
“I hate to break this up,” he whispers.
“Why are you whispering?”
“What do you mean?” he says.
“You’re whispering and we’re alone in the middle of nowhere, in a bathroom.”
“Right,” he agrees, and then shouts loudly: “Nobody can hear us, can they?”
Not a hallucination: he’s just as annoying now as he was when I first met him. But I can’t help finding some of his antics charming.
He reaches over and pulls the zipper down on the sleeping bag.
“We need to do some investigating. And I actually need to use the toilet,” he confides.
“Me too. The bathroom.”
We both stand, he hunched over and me leaning against the sink, and look at each other for a minute.
“I’m not peeing in front of you,” I say.
“Right.”
He steps into his boots and laces them up. He pulls the door open and looks back out at me. “Don’t take too long; it’s freezing out here.”
He steps out into the light and pulls the door shut. I know he can still hear me and hearing is almost worse than seeing. Either way I have stage fright, so to speak.
“Start singing,” I shout.
“What?”
“I said start singing so you can’t hear me pee.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Start singing or I won’t pee.” I start kicking the door with my foot. “And I won’t let you in.”
He clears his throat and then breaks into song. “Every cheap hood strikes a bargain with the world, ends up making love to a sofa or girl… Death or glory, just another story.”
I immediately let go, which is the most glorious sense of relief I’ve ever felt in my life. When I’m done, I move my foot and stand up and adjust. Then I pull the door slightly in to indicate I’m finished. Paul quickly jumps in and pushes the door shut. We are standing face-to-face. The top of my head only reaches his chin, which is black and stubbly.
I look up into his blue eyes.
“It’s very cold,” he says.