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“Yeah, well, don’t start thinking you’re going to turn me into some sort of believer or something because that is not about to happen. You and I are going to spend the rest of the day and most likely the night out here, where we will figure out how to start a fire, set up a tent, and make ourselves something to eat. And tomorrow morning, I shall resume my regularly scheduled program of being a total cynic.”
Shrugging, I say, “We’ll see about that.”
24
The Other Way to a Man’s Heart…
Ty
“Have you ever seen a show called Swiss Family Robinson?” I ask.
“Is it about a family from Switzerland?” Gwen says, stepping back to look at the tiny tent we just managed to erect.
“How’d you guess?” I ask, grabbing the now-dry sleeping bag off the branch it was hanging from and shaking it off.
“I’m psychic. Now tell me about the show,” she says, taking the sleeping bag from me and crouching at the entrance of the tent. She crawls inside (still dressed in her bikini) while I watch, suddenly every bit as erect as that tent. Thank God I’m wearing my cargo pants again because those swim trunks do nothing to hide even the slightest show of appreciation.
A second later she pokes her head out. “Hello? You were going to tell me about some show with some Swiss people.”
Oh right, I was talking about something. “It was before our time, but somehow my brother, Michael, came across it on YouTube and got totally obsessed for a while. It was about a family of handsome blonds that got stranded on an island. They made the world’s best tree house with all sorts of inventions for getting water to the top floor and washing clothes and crushing things. Mostly out of coconuts.”
Gwen laughs and disappears into the tent again. “Sounds very wholesome.”
“Oh, it was the height of wholesomeness,” I tell her. “Anyway, I was thinking if we don’t get rescued, we should follow their lead. Make a proper house, dig a well, fashion machines that can crush stuff … that sort of thing.”
She pokes her head out of the tent. “How about we take it one step at a time? Maybe see if we can get a fire going first?”
“Sure, I suppose that’s a good idea too,” I say, looking around and realizing that it’s going to be dark soon. I check the palm leaves and pieces of wood we gathered earlier this afternoon and find they’re finally dry. Picking up the kindling, I carry it over to a spot near the tent, then set to work digging a shallow hole and setting up what I hope will be the base for a good fire.
Luckily our survival kit included some chemical fire starter and a box of waterproof matches, because otherwise, we’d be screwed. Just as I’ve got the fire going, Gwen crawls out of the tent, fully dressed again, much to my disappointment.
“Hey, not bad,” she tells me, pointing to the fire.
“It’s small, but it’s got potential,” I say.
She gives me a smirk that says her mind went to a dirty place just now, and I roll my eyes at her. “That wasn’t a metaphor or anything. I’m literally talking about the fire.”
“Right, good to know,” she says, unpacking the food from the plastic storage bags. “Okay, so on tonight’s menu, we’ve got freeze-dried Spanish paella that our chef will serve to you in our upscale brown bag. I suggest pairing that with some lukewarm river water that has been treated with water purification tablets. We will follow that with some delicious chocolate freeze-dried ice cream popular at planetariums around the globe.”
“Ooh, sounds amazing. You can count on a five-star review later.”
“That’s what I was hoping to hear,” she says, grabbing the small pot.
The sky grows dark and the fire grows hotter and bigger. Soon, Gwen is pouring the boiling water into the packet, and a few minutes later, we’re sitting side-by-side on a towel, taking turns dipping our forks into the bag. It’s a strangely intimate thing to be doing—to share food like this, with our arms touching as we eat. The warmth of her skin against mine does more to fill me up than the food.
“Not bad,” I tell her.
“Thanks, it’s actually my first time making paella.”
“You must be very talented in the kitchen because I’ve heard it’s a difficult dish to master.”
She smiles up at me, and something pops into my mind about the way into a man’s heart being his stomach. I won’t say it though because my heart is now, and will forever, be off-limits. But the thought was there nonetheless.
I offer her the last bite, and she shakes her head. “No, thanks, I’m full.”
“It’s all yours.”
“You should have it. It takes a lot of calories to maintain all that muscle,” she says.
