Wild is the Witch (24)

He looks up at me from where he’s sitting but doesn’t make any move to stand. “We’re not looking for the owl tonight.”

“Yes, we are,” I say.

“Iris, he’s going to start hunting soon. It will be dark by the time we even get to him. There’s no way we’ll find him, let alone capture him. We have to wait until morning.”

“I’m sick of waiting,” I say. “Why did we come up here today if we were just going to waste it?”

“To get prepared,” Pike says. “You can’t just go up to the owl and ask him politely to join us for dinner. It doesn’t work that way.”

“Oh, because you’re so knowledgeable about tracking owls through the forest?”

“It’s just common sense,” he says, exasperated. “He’ll hunt tonight. He’ll be calm tomorrow. We’ll go after him as soon as we get up. There’s nothing we can do when it’s this dark, so just relax a little.”

“God, I’m so sick of people telling me to relax all the time.” I say the words under my breath, more to myself than Pike, but he responds anyway.

“Maybe you should listen.”

“It’s that easy, huh? Just decide to relax.” I look away. “You don’t get it.” I’m too tired to argue, too tired to get into a sparring match where the person with the quickest wit wins. Pike is all sarcasm all the time, but I just want to think before I speak and say what I mean. I don’t want to have to be clever when I feel anything but.

“Am I supposed to?” he asks.

“Are you supposed to what?”

“‘Get it.’ Because I have the distinct impression that you’re not interested in me getting you.” The way he says it hints at something deeper, but I can’t pinpoint what it is.

“I don’t make a habit of explaining myself to people who seem set on misunderstanding me.”

He doesn’t respond to that, and after watching me for another breath, he shifts his attention to the fire.

“I won’t go tonight,” I finally say. The owl is safe and seems happy where he is. We’ll have a better shot of getting him in the morning.

“That’s a good choice.” I catch the satisfaction in Pike’s tone, but I don’t say anything. “Why don’t you let me make you a s’more instead?”

“You brought ingredients for s’mores?”

“Obviously.”

I sit down on the tarp and watch as he sticks a marshmallow on the end of a stick and roasts it over the fire. Tendrils of gray smoke blow into the trees and the dusty blue of twilight gives way to the darkness. I lean back on my hands and try to appreciate the majesty of this place, even though I’m here with a boy I tried to curse.

Pike concentrates on the marshmallow in the fire, and for a single moment, I feel guilty for what I did, guilty that Pike has no idea what’s at stake for him on this trip. But then I replay so many of the conversations we’ve had and I feel justified in it.

Of course, the owl stealing the curse wasn’t part of the plan, but I know why I wrote that curse in the first place. I wanted to give him to the earth, and I still want that.

Pike pulls the marshmallow out of the fire, and a tiny flame blazes from it. He blows it out, then sticks it between two graham crackers with some chocolate in the center.

“Dessert,” he says, handing it to me.

I take it from him and watch as he makes his own, and I can’t figure out why he’s doing this. Why he brought me food, why he intersperses his arrogance and patronizing comments with moments of kindness. It would be so much easier if he was awful all the time. But as it is, my stomach drops and a sick feeling rises in my throat when I think about him finding out what we’re really doing here. I try to stay calm, stay present in the moment I’m in, but it’s so hard.

That’s what people like Pike don’t understand. I don’t enjoy what’s happening in the present because I can’t. It feels impossible to enjoy these small moments when I know all the possibilities that await me on the horizon, and to be disliked for it feels particularly cruel. Suddenly, I don’t want to be sitting next to him anymore.

“I think I’m going to go to bed,” I say, standing.

Pike looks up at me. “You don’t want another s’more?” The question catches me off guard, as if he’s disappointed that I’m leaving. He says it so simply, and it does something weird to my stomach, this genuineness that’s so rarely there. I almost sit back down, but I stop myself. The last thing I need is to start ascribing meaning to things that have none.

“No, thanks.” I walk to my tent without another word, and I feel his eyes following me. An ache has lodged in my throat, making it difficult to swallow.

I turn on a flashlight and change into my sweats, then I slide into my sleeping bag and pull it all the way up to my chin. I can hear Pike in the campsite, cleaning up and getting rid of any traces of food or garbage. Then he douses the fire, zips up his tent, and the world goes still.

I keep my eyes open and stare at the ceiling of my tent, even though it’s so dark I can barely see anything. I wonder if Pike has fallen asleep or if he’s staring at the ceiling of his tent, too.

Tree branches whisper in the wind and a light rain starts, tapping on the nylon fabric. It sounds nice, calming, and I burrow into my sleeping bag.