“Excuse me,” says one of them from behind us, and I force myself to turn, ignoring the slow sinking in my stomach. “Are you Drew Wilson?”
There are two ways an interaction like this can go: I politely tell them I’m in the middle of a hike and can’t stop, and they’ll spend the rest of their lives talking about what a bitch I am to anyone who will listen. Or I can give them everything they want, and they’ll talk about how nice I was, though they thought I’d be thinner.
It’s really not even a choice.
I plaster a cheerful smile on my face, while Josh’s eyes bore into me from behind with the power of a thousand suns. “Yes, hi.”
They ask for a picture. A separate one for each of them, and I oblige while they ask me questions about the next album—about which I know nothing aside from the fact it will suck. They show no signs of leaving until Josh makes impatient noises behind me.
“Is he your boyfriend?” one of them asks, sweeping her appreciative gaze over him.
“Him? No. Satan isn’t allowed to take a companion on the Earth’s surface, as far as I know.”
They leave at last, and when I turn back up the hill, Joshua is standing there with a brow raised. He hands me a bottle of water, thank God. “Satan isn’t allowed to take a companion, huh?”
“So I’ve heard,” I reply carelessly. “I’m sure you’re more familiar with the rules.”
His tongue darts out to tap his upper lip. I see a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, but he stoically manages to repress it. He nods at the girls and sighs. “They’re already posting those ridiculous pictures online.”
I shrug. “Do you want one too? You can post it on Instagram and talk about how I was nice, but then mention I’m not as pretty in real life.”
He looks back at me, his eyes brushing over my face. Lingering on my mouth. “I don’t have Instagram.”
I smack my forehead. “Oh my god. Are you serious? Tell me how old you are again, because even my great-grandfather has Instagram. Although he fills up his IG with infographics about the Russian Revolution, so he doesn’t get a lot of likes.”
He grunts and starts up the hill again. “Why the fuck would I want Instagram?”
“You could post pictures of Somalia,” I suggest. “Here’s a pretty sunset. Here’s a child with a gunshot wound.”
“Sunsets only happen once a day,” he says darkly. “So it’d be option two more than often not. Glad you find it so amusing, however.”
“Jesus,” I sigh, scrambling after him. “Has anyone ever suggested you lighten up?”
Rocks go sliding downhill as his feet turn toward me. “Certain things bother me.”
“I’ve noticed,” I reply, taking another sip of water. “Mild pleasure, societal advancement, what else?”
He turns to look at me with an expression that makes me feel an inch tall. “Spoiled princesses making fun of other people’s misfortunes,” he says, and then he stalks off, leaving me in a haze of dust and mild regret.
Six would have laughed at my joke, I think defensively, trying to ignore the small knot in my stomach that suggests Joshua might have a point.
He’s waiting at the first bunker, studying the view as if he plans to lay siege to it later.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly because I really hate apologizing. “I was being an asshole.”
He looks at me for a long moment. “Yeah, you were. But you’re not the first person who’s suggested I could stand to lighten up.”
“So we were both wrong? That’s what you’re saying?”
His mouth moves, slightly. “Yes, exactly. That’s what I was saying.”
“Smile,” I instruct, holding up my phone to take a picture of him for Beth. He folds his arms across his chest, his mouth flat, and the only part of his face that moves is a single eyebrow saying Why are you taking my picture? I only stand for photos when required to do so by the US Passport Office.
I take the photo anyway, just to spite him. He looks like a brooding, virile Viking on the cusp of pillaging a village or declaring prima nocta.
“Though you’re hideous,” I tell him, “you could potentially take a decent photo if you were capable of smiling.”
He raises that brow once more. “You think I’m not capable of smiling?”
“You’re not even capable of smiling right now when I’m accusing you of being unable to do it. Your face only has two expressions—mildly disgusted and really disgusted.”
There’s a low, warm noise from his throat. One I might almost confuse with a quiet laugh. I want to not be pleased by that. “I wouldn’t confuse the way I look at you with the way I look at everyone,” he says, turning up the hill and heading toward the second bunker.
Asshole.
For ten more minutes, we climb, and when we finally reach our destination, I’m absolutely spent and ready to throw myself from the peak and hope for the best. Instead, I turn and grab the first foothold to scale its side.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he demands.
I continue to climb, though the footholds are far apart and I’m not especially gifted with upper body strength.
“I want a selfie from the top,” I reply, “so I can prove how healthy I am and show up all those dickheads saying I need rehab.”
“That definitely sounds healthy,” he mutters, following me up with no sign of effort.
When I reach the top, I take in the view. The ocean is the deepest blue imaginable, a royal blue crayon plucked straight from a new box and brought to life. In the distance, a kayak moves over the water toward the Mokulua Islands, small as a grain of rice from here. I close my eyes for a moment and picture it—the only sound the roar of the wind, no one gawking at me. There are times when I think I could live like that, on some barren island alone. At least then I could fall down without half the world saying I need rehab, or have some premenstrual bloating without TMZ suggesting I’m pregnant.
My eyes open and I discover him standing way too close. “What are you doing?”
“Just making sure you don’t fall off,” he replies dryly. “I understand you do that sometimes.”
I lower my phone and stare at him balefully. I thought he might be the one person alive who hadn’t heard about Amsterdam. “You’ve been saving that up all morning, haven’t you?”
He gives a small laugh. “Since the start of the trip, actually.”
My mouth moves and I struggle to hold it still. “Well, I’m glad we’ve gotten it out of the way.”
And then I laugh. Joshua is still a fucking asshole. If he hadn’t made the comment about the silver, I’d probably want to be his friend anyway.
7
JOSH
Man is not as evolved as he’d like to think—when it comes to sex, we are essentially puppets, wired by our primitive brains to seek reproduction of the species at the expense of all else. Infants will stare at a photo of a symmetrical face longer than they’ll stare at a photo of their own mother. Show men around the world a variety of female bodies, and no matter what they claim to like, they physically respond to the exact same proportions.