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Ugly? Gah! That is never a word you want to hear from a hot guy you can’t stop fantasizing about. “Yeah, well, you’re the one who started it,” I say, sounding like I’m about eight years old.
“Me?”
“You were making fun of me about the radio equipment … and … and lumping me in with the ghost busters. The Spirit Sensor 5000? Come on.”
“I was teasing you—which you deserved by the way, after implying I’m a total fraidy cat this morning.”
“Fraidy cat?”
“Aren’t we pretending to be in middle school right now, Miss You Started It?”
I let a tiny grin escape. “More like elementary.”
“Right, elementary. But the point is, what I was doing was gently mocking you. You, however, decided to disprove their entire life’s work over tapas.”
“But what they do is ridiculous.”
“True, but you don’t have to be the one to tell them. That is not your job.”
He’s right. I didn’t have to do that. I felt like I had to, but I really didn’t. “I have trouble holding back, especially when the stakes are high.”
“What stakes?” he asks, looking genuinely confused.
“I didn’t want you to lump me in with them,” I say with a sigh. “Just in case you’ll agree to fund one project, I want you to know that ours is the one to back.”
“But I’m not going to fund one project. I’m going to fund none of them,” he says, his tone filled with irritation. “For someone so smart, you really seem to have trouble grasping that concept.”
Ouch. That stung. My first reaction is to snap back, but I know I have to over-ride the system right now. Stay calm, Gwen. Do not react to that. Let it roll off your back. I say nothing and keep my eyes forward, stewing away in my sense of shame and humiliation. He as good as told me I’m being stupid, oh, and that my behavior was ugly. You know what? I don’t care how hot Ty Sterling is. I was right all along. He is an asshole.
19
Beam Me Up Scotty…
Gwen
Longest fishbowl flight ever. Apparently we were on some special chopper that flies faster and farther than the rest of them, meaning we’ve been up in the air for three whole hours. Three hours of me sitting in the back corner with only Dr. Napper’s urn and my nervous bladder to keep me company while the rest of the group chatted and laughed together—including Ty, who seems to be more than willing to let Savannah and Karen flirt away with him. In fact, he seems to be enjoying it, while I sit here alone, disliked and seething with jealousy every time Savannah touches his forearm while she laughs (which is a lot). I started counting and we’re up to twenty-four times already.
Oh, there she goes again. What could possibly be so damn funny? I mean, I get that the guy is witty, but he’s no Nate Bargatze.
I sit back and close my eyes, wishing I could press a transporter button on my poncho and be instantly beamed back home where people don’t hate me. Oh, to be sitting at my desk in my cozy office with Allie right now. Hell, I’d even take a full shift in the server room with Chad because this sucks moldy fur balls. I’ve alienated everyone on this trip—Thiago because I’m ‘a problem,’ Rohan because I scared off half the group, Ty for showing my ‘ugly’ side and for pestering him for money, and everyone else for shitting on what they do. So, yeah, sign me up for four more days of this fun!
The worst bit (besides the guilt at hurting Karen, Niles, and Savannah’s feelings) is that Ty is never going to look at me the same way again. I’ve totally blown it with him. Not that there was anything to blow. It’s not like we were ever going to end up together, but somehow, I desperately want him to like me. And the crazy part is, it’s got nothing to do with the funding. I want him to like me because I just do. He’s a good man hiding out as a hardened, closed off one, and I need him to know I’m a good person too. Underneath the arguing and the defensiveness. And yes, what he said to me hurt, but if I put myself in his shoes, I can see why he’d be irked.
The fact that he thinks so much less of me now is killing me. I can tell he wants to be as far away from me as possible (given the fact that we’re on an aircraft together), and all I want to do is get closer to him. He’s like a black hole—he’s got a gravitational pull so strong, I don’t have the energy to fight getting sucked all the way in. Only now, he’s repelling me. Or perhaps more accurately, he’s repelled by me.
What I need is a plan. A good plan always makes me feel better. New goal: Keep my effing mouth shut and don’t offend anyone for the rest of the trip. Shouldn’t be a problem, now that I literally have nothing left to lose. There’s no way I’m going home victorious, which removes the stakes, which means instead of feeling like I have to fight for every penny I might be able to get, I can just let that go and show the rest of the group I actually am an empathetic, kind human. I can do that. I won’t correct anyone. I won’t roll my eyes or scoff. When someone says something grossly inaccurate, I’ll take a page out of Keenan’s book, and say, “That’s interesting.”
Yes, that ought to work. And maybe, just maybe, after a couple days of that, Ty will see who I really am. Not that it matters, because when we leave here, I’ll never see him again. But still, the thought of him being out in the world thinking so poorly of me isn’t something I’m willing to live with.
Finally, the helicopter lands in a clearing just at the edge of the jungle. It’s already getting dark and I’m really hoping that just inside those trees is a nice hotel so I can go to my room, take a long hot bath, and sleep for twelve solid hours.
I pick up my golden seat mate and make my way to the exit where the humidity and heat slap me across the face. When I get off, I hand the urn to Rohan, who is already wearing the Baby Bjorn. I tug off my poncho and shove it in my backpack while Savannah asks Ty to help her adjust her straps. “It’s riding a little too low and when I try to fix it, I keep over or under-correcting it.”
‘Sure, thing little lady,’ is what I expect him to say, followed by, ‘we should get married and have babies who can move their sippy cups with their minds.’
But he doesn’t say that. Instead, he fiddles with the straps on the lower part of her bag—which is about a tenth of an inch from her perky ass. “How’s that?”
“Much better.”
