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“Terrible, I’d imagine? Particularly because you’re a total moron?” Luca gave him a gentle kick with his bare feet, before reburying his toes into the rug. “You knew that a storm meant I couldn’t leave the tower, right? My boss back in Seattle said that you’ve been around fire watches before? And the way you laughed when the rain and the lightning came? You knew?”
Artair’s chomping slowed. “Yeah, I knew.”
“So why didn’t you come here sooner? And why were you going to disappear into the night rather than ask to stay?”
There was the slightest guilt in his glance. “Look, I’ve met my share of fire watches. The people who take this job aren’t looking for company. They like the isolation. They like their own space. And they definitely aren’t looking for some random to hang around a tiny room for days on end.”
“But you aren’t a random. You’re my fucking Red Bear.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you’ve got a duty to help me. Hikers this remote are expected to take care of themselves.”
“Seriously? You think I’d need a duty to help you?”
“I mean... yeah? Like you said, I’m just some idiot who couldn’t sort their shit out. I don’t deserve anyone’s help. Least of all yours.”
Luca paused at that. There was some bitterness there—not directed toward him, but internal. Artair’s big shoulders were hunched, defeated.
Luca glanced towards the wastepaper basket.
He knew the feeling all too well.
“Hey, don’t beat yourself up,” he said. “You were doing great until the storm came. I’d have starved weeks ago.”
Artair shrugged dismissively.
Luca leaned against the bench. “What was the original plan? How long did you think you’d last?”
Artair gave him a long look, and Luca remembered when they’d fished for trout by the cabin—how reluctant Artair had been to talk about what he did for work. What his plans were after the summer.
How reluctant he’d been to talk about anything real.
“I dunno,” said Artair, eventually. “Does it matter?”
“It matters to me.”
“Yeah, but . . . you won’t understand. Trust me.”
Luca give Artair another soft kick, smiling this time. “I’ll be nice, I promise. No matter what your story is, I’ve heard stranger. Trust me.”
Again, Artair stared at him. Still hunched. Still defeated. And in his stance was something of the storm. The cold and the wind and the rain. “I... can’t. I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ll just get mad.”
Luca cocked his head. He couldn’t imagine anything Artair might say to make him mad—beyond starving himself in the wild. “Why would I get mad?”
“Look, just promise you won’t get angry, okay? Please?”
That plea almost broke Luca’s heart.
It was so small.
So . . . desperate.
Artair’s gaze was heavy with a vulnerability that Luca hadn’t seen on him before. He didn’t understand what was happening. Why Artair seemed so affected. Why he was worried that telling his story would make Luca mad.
But he wanted to find out.
