Aurora snickers. “Okay, Celine. You just spent the whole day shooting heart eyes at him, then snuck off with him in the middle of the night. Nothing to see here!” She is gleeful.
“I’m…ignoring you now,” I manage, trying to push humor into words that taste like chalk. Is she right? Am I that transparent? I must be—it’s not like she’s making things up. And yeah, I want to tell Brad how I feel eventually—but not by accident. It’s supposed to be a choice, one I make in the future, when I’m stronger or braver or just…generally better than I am right now. What happens when we go back to school? When I’m in love with him right in front of everyone? What happens if he notices and he doesn’t…he isn’t…
I lie awake all night with a nest of snakes under my ribs.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BRAD
I want to tell Celine the truth today.
My brain graciously allows me two hours of sleep; then I get up early to use the bathroom before anyone else. Just like our last campsite, the loos and showers are awkwardly tucked into the edge of the forest, halfway up a jagged hill with winding, white-pebble paths that I assume are supposed to be helpful but are actually quite slippery. There’s no fence to separate the path from the ragged drops of the hill face, either, which is deeply irresponsible in my opinion, and I spend half the walk up fighting with my brain to avoid counting steps. When I manage to reach the facilities, I find them predictably dingy and disgusting—and there’s still another whole night of camping before my return to sweet, sweet civilization. Ugh.
But even this literal torture barely dampens my mood because I’m going to ask Celine to give me a chance, and after last night, I think she’ll say yes.
We’re being brave, right? Together. We decided. And the fact is, Celine’s a person, not a plan. If I’m trying to gain her trust, I want her to know how I feel. If she’s going to reject me, that’s okay too. But I’m gonna make it clear that I’m here until she asks me to leave, and just the thought of admitting it has me bouncing around like a cartoon character.
I’m grinning so much that when I crawl back into our tent, Raj takes one look at me, groans, and turns over. “Why is your face doing that at this hour of the morning?”
“I’m gonna talk to Celine.” Too late, I realize this means very little to Raj because he （1） doesn’t know that we’re secret make-out partners and （2） has no idea I lo— I’m pining after her and have been for roughly a century.
Still, he looks over his shoulder and cracks one eye open to stare at me. “Huh. Well. Good?”
“Yes,” I say, my fingers drumming out a rapid beat against my thighs. “So good. I hope.” God, what if it’s not good? No, no, fear is the mind killer. Just do it, tell the truth. “So good.”
“Nice one, pal.”
I high-five his sleepily upheld hand, choose today’s outfit （burgundy this time, she likes red）， and basically run to her tent.
Sophie unzips the flap and squints at me, or possibly at the bright-white morning sun. Her hair is still wrapped up in a pink-and-blue scarf and she has a pillow crease on her cheek, which— How does she fit a pillow in her rucksack? Very impressive. Unfortunately, her expression suggests she’s less than impressed with me. “Mate. Just marry her already.”
Not a bad idea. Wait, no, I am a teenager. I can’t get married; Mum would cry. “Hey, Soph! Celine in?” That was very loud. I think I’m nervous.
Slowly, Sophie raises delicate fingers to her temple. “Why. Are you so cheerful. At seven in the morning.”
“It’s my naturally sunny disposition.”
“Well, take it down a notch, babe. You’re giving me a migraine. And no, Celine’s not here. She went to the bathroom.”
“Oh.” I should wait for her to come back. Exceeeeept I’m not going to do that because I have decided to confess my true lo—feelings—so I need to do it now before my nervous excitement turns to nervous catastrophe. Back up the danger hill I go. “Okay, thanks, Sophie, bye!”
I zip past Zion on my way to the white-pebbled path and he laughs after me, “That’s the spirit!” I’ll take that as a good omen.
I’ve got this. One hundred percent.
CELINE
Getting changed in the communal showers is not in my top ten favorite life experiences, or even my top thousand, but I’m not about to waltz back to my tent in a towel—at least, not in this weather. So I awkwardly balance on my shower shoes to avoid touching the wet and mildly gross tiled floor while I layer on my tracksuit, then stuff my pajamas into a bag and ram my little towel on top.
I wasn’t even planning to shower on this expedition—I thought I’d just wash the necessities and keep it moving, mainly to avoid this exact situation, but I needed a shower for emotional purposes because my brain is scrambled. Unfortunately, the water was lukewarm, the pressure was weak, and the snakes under my ribs slither on. What would I rather do: tell Brad the truth before I’m ready or have him figure it out? I still haven’t decided.
So obviously, when I open the bathroom door, he’s standing right there.
“Celine!” He straightens up from the mammoth fir trunk he’s been leaning on, a smile lighting up his face. He’s wearing his glasses, the gold frames bright against his brown skin in the morning sun, and I want to put my fingertip in his shallow little dimple. I want to kiss him and taste all that happiness.
For God’s sake, I’m supposed to be in turmoil right now. This boy is so contagious, the World Health Organization should be notified. “What are you doing here?” I ask, and my voice comes out breathless.
There’s an odd little pause before he answers. “I came to walk you back so you wouldn’t get eaten by wolves. Did you shower? Give me that.” He takes my bag and eyes the towel sitting on top as we fall into step together. “I hope you’re going to dry that properly, Celine. You can catch communicable diseases from towels. Damp fabric is a breeding ground for bacteria and wet skin is receptive to all kinds of…” He breaks off with a shudder. “Although, how you’re supposed to dry anything properly in this damp— God, who even invented camping?”
“I don’t think it was a matter of invention,” I say.
He laughs and I see liquid gold rolling through the air. I adore him. Then his smile fades slightly and he says, “I thought maybe we could talk.”
His voice is quiet. Cautious. The snakes in my middle lift their heads and flick out their tongues, tasting the breeze, unanimous in their conclusion: smells like doom.
There are only two types of talking: the type that is fine and normal, which doesn’t need announcing, and the type that’s terrible, which requires an Official Moment. People say they want to talk before they break up with you, but Brad and I can’t break up because we’re not together. Still, my throat constricts. It turns out a lack of official title and public affection doesn’t help much when you love someone regardless.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. If Aurora noticed how I feel, Brad must have noticed too, and now he’s going to tell me it’s too much. I’m too much. I have been since we were little. We take a few more steps in silence before I manage to force out the word: “Okay.” Thank God it sounds unaffected, slightly curious, rather than crumbling and afraid.