Mason rotated his arms in wide circles, releasing tension in his shoulders. I didn't want to watch him, in case it gave the wrong impression, but when he didn't seem to notice me, I continued to study him in quick, stolen glances. He was taller than Calvin and more muscular. Not in a bulky, gym-rat way, but it was obvious he was athletic. His tight shirt revealed sculpted arms and a broad chest that tapered to a hard, flat stomach. It was difficult to recall what I'd first thought of him at the gas station, yesterday. Before I knew who he really was. That first meeting felt so very long ago. And I'd been so very wrong about him.
Finally, a more recent memory of Cal. It dropped into my head after I'd given up, and wasn't that the way it always happened? It was a good one. Our first trip to Jackson Lake as a couple. I'd been stretched out on a towel on the shore, reading People magazine. Calvin and his friends were taking turns racing jet skis around the buoys. I'd only finished one article when lake water, icy cold, dripped on my back.
I rolled over, startled, as Calvin flung himself playfully onto my towel and pulled me close to cuddle. He was soaking wet. I shrieked, trying halfheartedly to squirm away. The truth was, I loved that he'd left his friends to spend time with me.
"You didn't jet-ski very long,” I pointed out.
"Long enough to keep the guys happy. Now I get to keep you happy."
I kissed him, slow and deliberate. "And how do you plan on doing that?"
He wiped a smudge of wet sand off my cheek with his thumb. We were propped on our elbows, facing each other, gazing into each other's eyes with an intensity that made my blood feel like it had been lit on fire. Just before he leaned in to kiss me back, the moment seemed to hold its breath, and I remembered thinking how perfect he was. How perfect we were.
I could have lived in that moment forever.
"Take first dibs on the bathroom,” Mason told me, transporting me back to the thick of the nightmare. I tried to block him out. My mind was desperately fishing for more of the memory. I wanted to replay that perfect moment over and over.
Mason stopped stuffing his pillow into a laundered pillowcase and gave me a funny look, and I knew I hadn't erased the nostalgic, faraway expression from my face fast enough. He kept his emotions locked away, and I wanted to be equally self-controlled. But this time I'd slipped.
"You're thinking about him? The guy from 7-Eleven?"he asked gently.
I felt a flash of anger-not because he'd been perceptive enough to guess the truth, but because he'd brought up Calvin. I was stuck in this awful place and the only thing keeping me from losing it was Calvin, the memories of him and, yes, even the hopes, because as imperfect as our relationship had been, I still had hope for us. Things would be different this time. We knew each other better. We knew ourselves better.
We'd grown up during the last year, and our maturity would show. Until I was far from this place, and back with Calvin, he was my secret life jacket, my sanctuary, the one thing Mason and Shaun couldn't take. If I lost Calvin, I lost everything. The nightmare would swallow me whole.
"I don't have to use the bathroom,” I said curtly, again rejecting his kindness. I did have to pee, but thinking about my bladder would keep me awake through the night. The worst that could happen now would be to fall asleep and miss my chance. "And I'll take the rocking chair,” I said coldly. "I slept fine in it earlier." Mason appeared doubtful. "It doesn't look comfortable. Really, you can have the sofa. I'll feel better if you do."He shot me a brief, disparaging smile. "This is your chance to make me bear my load of the pain."
"Why does my comfort suddenly matter to you?" I lashed out. "You're holding me here against my will. You're forcing me to hike in exhausting, frigid, dangerous conditions. Am I supposed to believe you're suddenly worried how I feel? Because this is how I feel: I hate it here. And I hate you. More than I've ever hated anyone!"
A spark of emotion flickered over his face before it turned stoic again.
"I'm keeping you here because there is a blizzard outside. You wouldn't make it on your own. You're safer here with me, even though you don't believe it."
I was seized with rage. "I don't believe it. That's exactly the kind of lie you want me to believe to keep me passive and obedient. You're keeping me here because you need me to get you off this mountain, end of story. I hate you, and I'll kill you if I get the chance. Would love to, in fact!" They were strong words, and I realized I'd probably never carry out their threat. Even if I got the opportunity, I didn't believe myself capable of killing another human, but I wanted to make myself perfectly clear. None of this was okay.
I was angry and frustrated, but the truth was, the more I spent time with Mason, the harder it was to believe he was capable of killing another human. I'd seen the shock and horror on his face when Shaun brutally shot the game warden. And even though I'd originally suspected Mason had been involved in the death of the girl whose body I'd found at the cabin, I was starting to think he didn't have anything to do with it. He might not even know about the body.
"Just please take the sofa,” Mason said one last time, his voice infuriatingly calm.
"Never,” I breathed wrathfully. With a pointed look at him, I brushed his blanket onto the floor and sat in the rocking chair as grandly as if it were a throne. The curved bars dug into my back and the hard, wooden seat didn't have a cushion. I wouldn't be able to sleep twenty consecutive minutes. Every time I shifted, I'd be jarred awake. Meanwhile, Mason, who had to be exhausted, would sleep soundly on the sofa.
"Good night, Britt,” Mason said uncertainly, clicking off the lamp.
I didn't respond. I didn't want him to think I was softening, or that I was letting him in. I wouldn't crack. As long as he kept me here, I would hate him.
I woke up damp with sweat. For several disoriented seconds, I couldn't remember where I was. The walls flickered with shadows, and I turned to find the source-the fire, which had died down, but gave off heat. As I stretched my legs, the rocking chair creaked, and that's when I remembered how vital it was that I not make a sound.
Mason stirred at the noise, but after a pause, his breathing resumed droning softly through the darkness. He lay sprawled on the sofa, his cheek pressed into the cushion, his mouth parted slightly, his too long legs and arms draping over the edges. He looked different with the firelight dancing on his face and a pillow hugged to his chest. He looked younger, boyish. innocent.
His blanket had fallen off in the night, and as I walked silently past, I stepped over it, listening to the quiet rise and fall of his breathing. The air felt almost solid as I pushed my way toward the front door. Barely breaking stride, I greedily picked up a headlamp and canteen, which, to my great fortune, one of them had left on the kitchen bar. The canteen was full. An even better stroke of luck.