THE WILD SEASON

Chapter 15

I've started building my house, and I'm not sure I've ever felt more alive.

Ever since I watched my mother's hands glide across the wood she used to build her doghouses, I felt the same aching pull to do the same. It was always a sleeping dream. One I worried would slip through my fingers like sand if I tried to pick it up. But now, with tape measure hooked to my belt loop and a pencil stuck behind my ear and my soft, pink palms blistering, I know, I know, that this is what I am meant to do.

Before I came out here, I never had to the time to experiment. My dad seemed to always need help with something, and creating a perfect home life took time. I had to be happy and beautiful. I had to have straight As and friends who adored me. I had to swim the fastest and sleep the least. The dishes and laundry had to be done, throw pillows had to stand at attention, and beds had to be made the moment Dad or I rose from our wrinkle-free sheets. Library books had to be returned days before they were due, Christmas decorations put up the moment I finished storing the Thanksgiving leftovers, and cars had to be washed every Sunday morning with me waving at my Dad through the window, a smile on my face because, don't worry, I love doing this! See how happy I am? See how blindingly beautiful this life of ours is?

But today, Dad is at home, on his own, and I am here. And though every few minutes I wrestle with worry over how he's handling my absence, building this house helps distract me.

I started by placing 2 x 4 beams in a rectangular shape on the ground, sectioning off an area that measured fifteen feet wide by ten feet deep—the perimeter of my very first home.

Next, I positioned three 2 x 4s across the rectangle, and spent three days dragging stones from the stream to create my foundation. I situated them inside the rectangle like puzzle pieces, their bellies worn smooth from running water. The longest side of my home-to-be faces the stream so that when I finish, I can sit inside and watch the water trickling over the same rocks that hibernate beneath the floorboards.

After the rocks where laid, I spent another two days carrying mud from the bank to fill between the rocks. With my knuckles raw and my back aching, I worked grass and pebbles and dried leaves into the moistened mud until it thickened. Then I spread the paste between the stone foundation. When I was done, I nearly wept with pride. My subfloor was complete. It'd shame a real contractor, but I'd done this with my own two hands, and a humble tool chest. And my heart was fit to burst.

On the sixth day, Colt stopped snickering as I slipped and slid in the mud, and instead watched me with mild interest. He'd been working on a trap to catch fish, and I wasn't complaining, because soon enough we'd be out of the food I'd packed.

"Why don't you just put the stupid particle board on the ground?" he asks as I nail it into the 2 x 4 beams.

"Because the ground shifts. This way the subfloor shifts with it, and the house itself remains stable. And when it rains, it'll sit above the wet ground. Also, fewer bugs." To truly take advantage of a subfloor, I needed a crawl space to make adjustments when needed, but it'd still serve a purpose. Besides, it was gratifying to create it from natural elements alone.

"Lot of work just to make a floor," Colt says dismissively, tying dried grass around the handle of a spear. "Guess we should have brought some sort of pop-up shelter. Like, oh, I don't know, a tent? Then we could both focus on catching food."

I point my hammer at the stream, which has lost exactly zero fish to Colt's whittled weaponry. "But you're doing such a fantastic job yourself. Just get over yourself and read the book."

"That damn book," he grumbles.

I'm using a jab saw to cut off the edges of the particleboard that overhang from the 2 x 4s when Sloth appears from the tent. She leans forward on taut legs, stretching, and then notices the new floor. The cat moseys over, smelling the board, seeming to wonder where the rocks and mud went.

"You left all the paw prints you're going to leave," I tell the animal, who drove me insane by constantly walking over every fresh batch of muddy pulp I spread. When Sloth steps up on the floor now, I watch her, smiling. She strides to the center as if she owns the place, with or without walls, and then she lies down in the center and flicks her tail.

"See, the cat likes the house," I say, but when I turn, I find Colt standing in the stream. His jeans are rolled to just below the knee, and he's removed his shirt. I immediately turn away, and then, slowly, I turn back and watch him from the corner of my eye.

The long muscles in his back pull taut as he steps carefully over the stones with bare feet, the spear poised above his head. I'm not sure why he thinks the spear will work better now just because it has a grip on the handle, but I'm too preoccupied with the house to care. Maybe I'll take a break from building tomorrow to help with food. But when I do, you can be sure I'll use Survive the Woods.

Colt takes another step and nearly stumbles into the rushing water. He quickly throws his weight backward and almost lands on his rear. I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing. The smile melts from my face when he turns sideways and I catch a glimpse of his exposed torso. More muscles grace his abs, and his chest is swollen and defined. Light reflects off a thin layer of hair across his chest, and I think how differently he looks from the boyfriend I had last year. I swam with Jason all summer at Valmont Pool, but I don't remember him ever looking like Colt.

I think about the job Colt has, those arms carrying boxes up and down stairs, up and down driveways, across parking lots. Must have to be pretty strong to do that. Must take a lot of endurance.

Colt looks in my direction and catches me staring.

"What?" he says, frustrated. "Think you can do better?"

"Screw you, Colt," I snap, because I'm mortified he caught me looking.

And because I'm overcompensating for the way I was looking at him.