Highly Suspicious and Unfairly Cute(69)
“Have you two packed up your tent yet?” Celine asks, louder this time.
Raj looks at her, then looks at our still very much upright tent. “What do you think?”
“You do realize we’re the last ones still here? Sophie’s gonna lose it.”
“Did someone say my name?” Sophie calls, trudging across the grass toward us with maps tucked under her arms and Aurora hurrying behind. “Guys, is that your tent still up? Come on. Have a word.”
“Brad was having a crisis,” Raj says, and my cheeks heat because I think he’s talking about my very minor and totally reasonable water-based freak-out. Then he says, “Couldn’t decide what to wear,” and my cheeks get even hotter. I didn’t think he’d noticed that. I’m just trying to look…you know, dateable! In walking boots! It’s harder than you think.
Celine looks me up and down, her long braids falling forward as she absorbs my forest-green tracksuit and white thermal shirt. It’s casual and practical because, duh, but coordinating colors seem more effortlessly put-together and green looks amazing on me. I am an autumn. Celine clearly agrees because she has the same look on her face that she gets when I put aside whatever book I’m reading and tackle her onto my bed. This look involves slightly vacant eyes and a small bite of the lower lip, and I like it very much.
I arch an eyebrow. “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” she murmurs under the sound of Sophie and Raj bickering.
“Liar.”
“Take your tent down before Soph has conniptions,” Celine says. “And don’t forget to bend from the waist. I read somewhere that crouching is bad for your knees.”
My snort is skeptical. “I am feeling very objectified right now.”
She grins. “I have no idea what you mean.”
CELINE
The aim of this expedition is to find as many Golden Compasses as possible while reaching your destination within the allotted time frame. So here’s our galaxy brain idea: we’ll work as a team to find the most compasses in the least amount of time.
Theoretically, I mean.
Of course, compasses aren’t the only thing that contribute to our scores this expedition. We have to show all the usual Breakspeare qualities while we’re camping under Zion’s, Rebecca’s, and Holly’s watchful eyes and have to illustrate them during our end-of-day interviews, and everything we say has to be backed up by the footage taken from the little cameras attached to our coats. Maybe that’s why the first two hours of our trek through the woods are quiet and awkward; we all feel super self-conscious.
Or maybe it’s because everyone is too busy panting at the grueling pace Sophie’s set. Honestly, that girl must have an engine where her lungs should be: she’s striding ahead like it’s nothing, even with her rucksack full to the brim with supplies.
We’re supposed to carry a third of our bodyweight while we trek, but I am a delicate flower, so Brad took most of mine, thank God. I slide a look at him out of the corner of my eye, partly to make sure he hasn’t collapsed under the strain and partly because he’s too gorgeous not to look at. This thing we’re doing, where we spend all our time together and sneak off to make out and talk about the future while carefully avoiding the distance that future will put between us—I thought it would make things easier.
Nothing about this is easy.
I know the texture of his skin. I know the way his breathing changes when I twist my fingers into his clothes and pull him closer. I also know the way he sighs when he’s thinking bad thoughts, I know he’s aware of exactly how handsome he is and enjoys it very much, I know he turns into a five-year-old when he’s around his little brother. And I love it. All of it.
I should put a stop to this, but every time I try, I learn the hard way that it’s impossible.
I am trapped by my own choices. Just take him or leave him. Except I’m pretty sure I lost my chance to take him like that in December, and I can never leave Brad again, so this halfway house is all we have left. My vision blurs for the barest second, turning the image of him wispy around the edges like he’s a ghost. Then I blink and everything’s clean and crisp and clear, the way it’s supposed to be.
“Hey.” Aurora’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts. I realize I’ve been staring blankly at Brad’s head for way too long and pin my gaze to the forest floor instead. It’s all mulchy, frosty moss and twigs almost as thick as my wrist. Glen Finglas, it turns out, is vast and twisty, with ancient trees that stand miles above me like sentinels.
I suck in a breath of cold, green-tasting air and face Aurora. “Yeah?”
“Is Brad…okay?” she asks, her voice a whisper.
There’s something in her tone, in the careful light of her wide, blue eyes, that makes my expression shutter and my voice harden. “He’s fine. Why?”
Some people know Brad has OCD. Some people don’t. It really doesn’t matter because it’s no one else’s business. The problem is when people notice there’s something different about him, don’t have a name for it, and make it a thing. Aurora is my friend, and I like her a lot, but if she turns out to be one of those people, I will rip out all her hair and knit a scarf with it.
She raises her hands like maybe she read the hair-scarf intent in my eyes and murmurs, “I just noticed he, um, is bothered by certain things, that’s all. And he’s staring at that log pretty hard and I was worried he might be—”