The Lineup(60)

“Oh . . . shit.” I grip her hand, but not in the way I want to and slowly turn my head.

Standing about ten feet away is a black bear, sniffing his way to our snacks, having zero concern that there are two humans sitting like dead ducks in front of him.

“Oh Jesus. Oh God. Oh, I might shit myself,” I cry hysterically.

At that moment, Dottie turns her head as well. She stifles a screech and then starts digging around her bag, pulling out the box cutter with a shaky hand.

“Wh-what do we do?” she asks, looking terrified, almost as terrified as me, while holding the box cutter the wrong way.

“Scream bloody murder?”

“What about what you said to my dad? If the bear is black, fight back?”

I sarcastically laugh. “Okay, that was a fun rhyme to spout off to your dad, but never once did I mean it.” I slowly stand and pull Dottie up with me. I clutch her backpack in my hand like a metal shield, hold it out arm distance, and grasp her hand with mine, holding on tight.

“Are you gearing up to do something?” she asks, sounding panicked. “I feel like you’re building up for an attack. Is that what you’re doing? Jason, I need you to talk to me. Please don’t do anything rash—”

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhh, ya ya ya ya, eeeeeeeeeee,” I cry, my nerves so shocked by my high-pitched squeal, that I actually feel my penis crawl inside my balls, praying we don’t get attacked by this enormously large, teeth-baring, sharply clawed beast of a bear. I charge forward, swinging the backpack back and forth like a death-wielding machete. Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.

My vision tunnels in on itself as I make a beeline for safety. My legs move fast, hopping over logs, pushing past low-hanging branches with the backpack, all the while towing Dottie behind me. At some point, I’m moving so fast—my deathly cry still ringing in my ears—that I’m sure Dottie’s flapping in the wind like a flag behind me, holding on for dear life.

It isn’t until I can see the cabin—and I don’t feel like the bear has followed us—that I slow down to a steady walk. Dottie lets go of my hand and pauses to bend at the waist, her hands falling to her thighs.

“Jesus Christ, Jason. What the hell was that?”

“That was called saving your life. Did you see the look in that beast’s eyes? We were sitting ducks, his lunch. He was ready to bat around our bodies looking for the good meat. And trust me, my penis is good meat.”

“The bear barely reached my hips. It wasn’t big once we stood up. And it went scampering the other way the minute it heard your ear-piercing scream. You would have heard me telling you to stop if you’d turned down your vocal cords for one second.”

I shake my head. “No way was he hip height. I saw him point at me and make a chomping sound with his jowls. We were his dinner.”

“Bears don’t point.”

I thumb toward the woods. “That sadistic bastard back there did. Fucking singled me out. I had no choice but to save both of us with the sprint of our lives. Mind you, I’m incredibly slow, but I’ve never felt such wind below my feet before.” I jump a few times, adrenaline pumping through me. “Did you see my moves back there?” I wield the backpack like nunchaku and do some fancy footwork and end it on a spin. “That bear had no idea what to do with itself.”

“That bear ran off to get a hearing aid from your lady shriek.” Dottie pulls on her ear. “Dogs for miles heard your screaming.”

“More like war cry.” I cross my arms over my chest.

“More like your balls crawled up inside of you to hit such a high octave.”

More like balls shriveled up from pure terror.

“Are you saying you weren’t impressed with my display of heroism? I was a goddamn white knight back there.”

She looks back at me as she heads toward the cabin. “You were a petrified clown, but it was . . . cute.”

She turns away, continuing to the cabin.

Cute?

I’ll take cute. It’s a start. At least, it will be once my heart rate returns to normal. Fuck.





Chapter Seventeen





DOTTIE





Hours later, I still have Jason’s high-pitched squeal stuck in my head. It’s as if it’s on replay, constantly playing over and over again, and every time I hear it, I chuckle.

His attack on the bear and attempt to get us out of there unscathed was one of the most comical things I’ve ever seen.

The flail of his arms.

The use of the backpack as a sword.

The ear-piercing sound of an adolescent screeching for their life.

It was almost too much to handle.

When we got back to the house, I went to my room and laughed for a good five minutes, then I took a nap, but even at that, I dreamt of Jason running and screaming through the woods, his hand firmly gripping mine.

I can still feel the imprint of his hand, the way it clutched tightly, the way his fingers easily looped around mine.

I can’t remember the last time I held a man’s hand. Even though he was doing it to be my hero against a three-foot bear cub—yes, three feet, maybe—it still made me feel wild with excitement.

Now, we’re about to make dinner and instead of feeling that excitement, I’m feeling nervous, really nervous. Being close to him, cutting things—yes, I’m really good at cheffing—and mixing things, I’m not sure I’ll be able to hold it together. I’ve thought of at least twenty beary punny one-liners that I’m struggling to stop smiling about using. And I want . . . I want him to see me as more than a friend, but I’m not sure of the right time. Is there such a thing?