“Is that safe to drink?” Noah asks.
“I brought a pack of tablets that are supposed to kill the bacteria in water.” Jack lowers his backpack to the ground and lays the rifle down beside it. “And we can use the pillowcase to strain the dirt out of the water.”
As a general rule, I don’t like drinking things that need to have dirt strained from it first. But right now, I’m so thirsty that I would lap up the water, dirt and all.
Jack strains the water through the pillowcase into his water bottle. I take out Noah’s empty water bottle from my purse, and we fill that one too. The water still looks decidedly murky, but even so, I’m devastated when Jack says we have to wait an hour to let the pill work before we can drink it.
For a moment, I imagine my daughter’s face if she saw the water we had to drink. She’s the kind of kid where if there’s so much as a smudge on her plate, she freaks out. What would she think about drinking from a bottle of water that has dirt floating in it? Of course, Aiden would probably find the whole thing funny—I once caught him tasting dirt when he was about three years old.
Oh my God, I miss my children so much. I’ve got to get home to them. I’ll do whatever it takes.
Jack had put down the rifle next to his backpack, and Warner is eyeing it. The whole thing makes me uneasy. I don’t love the fact that Jack brought a gun on this trip, but even more than that, I don’t want Warner to have it.
“Jack,” I say, “maybe you should dismantle the rifle.”
At least my suggestion calls his attention to it. He places his hand protectively over the gun. “After what happened with Michelle, I feel more comfortable having it handy.”
Except what did happen with Michelle? We’re assuming an animal got her, but nothing about this makes sense.
And maybe that’s why Jack wants the gun handy.
Warner yanks the map from his pocket. “We need to get back on track. We need to find this place.”
“I told you.” Jack closes his fingers around the rifle. “We’re not leaving without Michelle.”
It surprises me how protective Jack has become about Michelle. The last time we were lying in bed together at his house, with Michelle slaving away at the office, he acted like their marriage was a sham. But he’s genuinely terrified for her. And my chest aches when I think about the way they cuddled together last night.
Jack acted like it was over between him and Michelle. But maybe that was a lie. The best I can say is maybe he thought it was true when he said it.
Or maybe it was never true. Maybe it was just something he said to get me into bed. And maybe I’m not the first woman who fell for his lies.
“Look,” Warner says, “if Michelle is injured somewhere, our best chance of helping her is to get to a phone and call the police. We obviously couldn’t find her on our own.”
Jack glares at Warner, his hand still on the gun. After a moment, he swears under his breath, then picks up the rifle and stomps off into the woods. I don’t know where he went, but he couldn’t plan on going far. He left behind his backpack and the water bottles.
Warner watches him walk off, then lets out a long sigh. He drops down onto a felled tree and rubs his temples. For the first time since we’ve been out here in the woods, he looks exhausted. In this state, I’m not even sure the Sears catalog would find a place for him in its pages. He takes the hem of his shirt and wipes his lower face with it.
“Are you okay?” I ask him.
“It’s hot,” he mutters.
After that declaration, he rips his T-shirt off entirely, peeling it from his sweaty chest. And…
Whoa.
I take back what I said about the Sears catalog. Any catalog would be happy to have this guy on their cover page. He is ripped. And tan. You could sort of tell when he had his shirt on, but with it off, nothing is left to the imagination. I think there might be a little drool coming out of the corner of my mouth. I look over at Noah next to me, who rolls his eyes.
Lindsay is a lucky girl.
Was. Was lucky.
I flinch, remembering the future Lindsay had been imagining for the two of them. She really, really liked this guy—I’d never seen her so infatuated. And it wasn’t just about his looks. She wasn’t that superficial.
“Listen,” I say, “when we get back, I thought maybe you could help plan the service for Lindsay.”
I can’t bring myself to say “memorial service.” He knows what I mean.
Warner mops his face with his damp T-shirt. “That’s all right. I mean, we were only dating a few months. The people who knew her best should be doing that.”