THE WILD SEASON

Chapter 13

The rain soaks me to the bone as thunder crashes over and over, waves on a shoreline. The first dagger of lightning illuminates the woods for a split second. It's long enough to see everything—the trees, the dirt, the vines snaking upward.

The emptiness.

I want that lazy cat here, right now.

Why won't the cat just show up?

A voice cuts through the storm, and I bolt to my feet, listening to be sure.

It comes again, louder, but still I don't utter a word. My entire body shakes from the chill, and from the gut-wrenching desire that the voice is real this time. I despise the doubt that rushes in, saying I don't hear what I hope I do. That it's another figment of my imagination. I shouldn't want to hear him. I shouldn't need him here.

"Molly!"

This time I'm sure. I run in the direction of his voice. "Here! I'm here!"

I'm afraid I've lost him when strong hands grab my shoulders, spinning me around to face him. I may not be able to see much in the dark, but I see the fear in his hazel eyes.

He searches my face before running those eyes over my body as if searching for harm. He looks frantic, his chest heaving, his muscles tensed as if ready to fight an invisible enemy. Then, like someone dousing a fire, the emotion in his features dwindles to quiet embers.

"Idiot," he says through the rain. "Follow me, now."

And I do, because I'm drenched and exhausted, and yeah, maybe a little relieved that he's here. But my relief switches to anger when we arrive in the clearing, and I find the tent erected to perfection.

I point at it through the falling rain. "Are you kidding me? You come back here and find me gone, and instead of going to look for me, you set up the tent? What, did you take a quick nap too?"

"Just get in," he orders.

"Screw you, Colt. You know, as much as I despise you being here, I would have looked for you right away."

Colt begins tossing my gear into the tent to dry. "I got here, and I knew it was going to rain. So I set the tent up. Figured you were taking a piss. What's the big deal?"

The big deal is I don't believe him. Maybe he suspected something happened to me, and at first he just didn't care.

I poke my head inside, and when I find Sloth in the back of the shelter my stomach does a happy somersault. Because the cat looks afraid, and I don't feel like arguing, I dive inside with my supplies, and unroll my sleeping bag. I press myself as far against one side as I possibly can.

For the first time, I grasp that we'll be sleeping inside this cramped space together. My blood warms anticipating this boy I've hated for so long being so dangerously close.

With shaking hands, I change out of my wet clothes and into dry ones, moving faster than I ever have in my whole life. Then I open the pet carrier and pull Sloth against my chest. The cat meows a complaint, but I don't care. This feline is going to serve as a buffer between the buffoon and me. When the tent flap is slapped aside, I jerk backward, trying to make more space where there is none.

Colt pokes his head in. He stares at me, his long blond hair sticking against his cheeks, his lashes thick with rainwater. I swallow a lump in my throat and hold his stare, my pulse racing though I refuse to let it show.

Colt grinds his teeth and grabs the blanket at my feet. I yelp with surprise as he disappears from view. When five minutes elapse, I peek out the entrance and see him sitting at the base of a tree, the blanket pulled tight around his body and over his head. I frown, because really, way to be dramatic.

You should go after him, a small voice says.

Eat me, I tell the voice.

Sloth does what she does best, and I crawl inside my sleeping bag and curl my body around hers. Twice I stick my head out to check on Colt's dead / alive status. I'm not sure if he's breathing, but he's still there. Alone. In the rain.

With an exasperated sigh, I zip up the entrance and rearrange my sleeping space. Then I rearrange it again. There, perfect.

Colt's backpack catches my eye.

I shouldn't snoop. It's gross. But I'm in the middle of the forest with a guy I know little about. And I'm here for two reasons, one of which is to find out what really happened the day my mom died.

I yank the bag into my lap. Inside I find two shirts—one with a hole in the armpit—a pair of grey cargo shorts, a pair of white(ish) socks, an elephant figurine that looks suspiciously like the one our teacher, Mr. Chapman, keeps on his desk, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a stick of deodorant. And cat food. In every single pocket, cat food.

I go to toss the bag back into place, bored by its contents, but an unexpected heaviness at the bottom stops me. I narrow my gaze and shove my arm back inside, looking in Colt's direction though I can't see him through the tent.

My fingers close around something heavy, and cold. I pull it out, my chest tightening as I recognize the shape.

Colt brought a gun.

This boy who went to jail because I didn't speak up, brought a gun. This boy whose dad I've insulted a thousand times, brought a gun. This boy who talked me into driving us here, into total isolation, brought a gun.

Who is this person I've hated these last six years? I wonder in a panic.

And why exactly is he here?