Wild is the Witch (41)

“Pike?” I ask, my voice shaking. I’m not loud enough, though, and the words get lost in the wind.

“Pike?” I ask again, this time dragging myself out from under him. I scramble on the ground until my headlamp finally points right at him, and I’m horrified to see branches covering the full length of his body.

“Pike!” I rush over to him and he groans, the sound making me want to cry with relief.

He slowly crawls out from under the branches, covered in mud, his movements unsteady and sluggish. His glasses are sitting crookedly on his face, and he adjusts them before finally meeting my eyes.

“I want you to know,” he says, taking a jagged breath and wiping his forehead on his hand, “that I blame you entirely for what just happened.”

I’m shocked by how easily he can make a joke of this, how his mind isn’t running with all the ways this could have ended, images of our bodies buried beneath a tree, the life crushed out of us in an instant.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice trembling, trying so hard not to lose myself in what could have happened. I take several deep breaths and try to calm down, but the wind is still blowing and the rain is still falling and the world is still dark. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says. “But can you believe the audacity of that tree? It almost went right through us.”

I don’t know why but the words make me angry, and I fight to keep myself from screaming. “God, is everything a joke to you?”

I push myself off the ground and wipe the dirt from my clothes, even though it’s hopeless. I’m covered in mud, and I can feel it seeping through my pants and caked on my face.

“No,” Pike says, standing as well. He shifts his backpack and adjusts his headlamp, and I squint when he points it directly at me. “Most things aren’t.”

“Then why do you act like they are?”

“Because this world is fucking brutal, and laughing is the only way I know how to deal with it.” He sounds more upset than I’ve ever heard him, and he keeps his eyes on mine, daring me to respond.

I look down, mad at myself for shrinking beneath his gaze.

When I don’t say anything, he starts walking back the way we came, and I don’t have it in me to fight. I follow him in silence all the way back to our campsite, flinching every time a branch snaps or a pine cone falls to the earth.

Pike drops his pack under the tarp, and I do the same. I grab some dry clothes, then follow Pike to his small tent meant for one person. We climb inside, keeping our backs to each other so we can change.

I pull off my wet clothing and slip into dry pants. Before I put on my sweatshirt, I slowly turn. Pike pulls his shirt over his head, and I watch as his shoulder blades shift with the movement, his muscles stretching across his back in the dim lantern light. But Pike keeps his gaze on the wall of the tent, not once looking my way, not even after he’s fully dressed.

“Done,” I say quietly, pulling my sweatshirt over my head and turning back to face him.

Without a word, he lifts up the sleeping bag and waits for me to crawl in before he does the same. He rolls onto his side, facing away from me. Then he turns off the lantern.

The storm continues on, and I try to ignore it, try to remind myself that this is part of the owl’s natural environment and he’s better equipped for it than we are.

I roll onto my side, away from Pike. There are only inches between us, but it feels like so much more, an entire ocean of past hurts and secrets, of experiences and fears that the other knows nothing about.

So many unknowns.

“Good night, Iris.” Pike’s voice finds me in the dark, and even though he’s still upset, the sound of it eases some of the tightness in my chest.

“Good night, Pike,” I say, wondering what the sound of my voice does to him, if it has any effect at all.

He scoots just slightly, closing some of the distance between us, and I decide that it does.





Sixteen


When I wake up, a soft blue light filters in through the tent. The wind has died down, but the rain is still falling, tapping against the nylon in a way that makes me want to fall back asleep. Soft, rhythmic breathing comes from beside me, and I suddenly remember that I’m in this tent with Pike.

I slowly turn my head to look at him. He’s facing me now, a shift he must have made in the middle of the night. His right arm is stretched toward me, his hand resting against my hip, and his left is tucked under his head. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him without his glasses on, and the image does something weird to my insides. He looks vulnerable in a way, a vast difference from the confident, sarcastic person I’m used to.

A stray piece of hair has fallen down his forehead, and my hand reaches for it, acting entirely of its own volition. I gently tuck the hair behind his ear, lingering longer than I should. His skin is warm, and he stirs when my fingertips brush his face.

His words from last night reenter my mind. This world is fucking brutal. I watch him, wondering what secrets he keeps, what hurts and pains he carries inside him, hidden beneath easy laughs and constant jokes. Maybe our secrets could keep each other company.

But it’s a foolish thing to think. Secrets are secrets for a reason, and mine belong deep in my chest, far from the surface.

Pike’s eyes blink open, and I’m mortified to realize my hand is still hovering over his ear. I quickly pull it back, but it’s too late. Pike looks to the side, to the empty space my hand just occupied, then slowly turns to me.