I laugh as I grab the tent in its bag and begin to unpack it. I hand him the broom. “Sweep the dirt.”
He looks at me, completely lost. “What?”
“Sweep the dirt—clear a patch for us. No sticks or anything can be under the tent.”
“Sweep the dirt,” he repeats.
“Yes, Jameson. Hurry up, or you will be doing it in the dark.”
“Jesus Christ . . . now I’ve heard it all,” he mutters as he begins to sweep a patch of dirt to clear it. “Who sweeps fucking dirt?”
“Campers.” I smirk as I open the instructions, and then my face falls. The instructions look like they’re to build a nuclear reactor. Oh jeez, Molly said it was easy to put up.
Okay . . . whatever. It will be fine. I inwardly begin to panic. We are not going home.
I spread the tent out, and I hear a slap. “Ow.”
I keep concentrating as I get the poles out of their bag.
I hear another slap. “What the hell?” he cries.
“What?”
“These bugs are from Jurassic Park.” He swings his arms around to get them off him. “No bugs are this big.”
I go back to my instructions. Okay, so it says here that this pole goes into this . . .
“Ahh,” he cries as he slaps his arm. “I’m getting fucking malaria over here, Emily.”
I roll my eyes. “Stop being a baby.” I put the pole into the correct place. “Can you grab the corner and stretch it out, please?”
He swings his arms around and goes and gets the corner of the tent and stretches it out. The sun is just setting. “Step back a little farther,” I say.
He slaps his legs. “Fuck off,” he whispers as he swings his arms around, trying to swat whatever it is he’s swatting.
“Step back farther.”
He walks backward and trips over a rock and falls into a bush. “Ah,” he cries.
“Oh.” I burst out laughing and run to help him up.
“What kind of fucking lunatic does this for fun?” he splutters as he climbs out of the bush.
“We do.” I laugh.
“This isn’t fun, Emily,” he huffs as he brushes the dirt off him. “This is a living hell in a hydroponic mutated-bug breeding zone.” Something bites him again, and he slaps his neck. “Fuck off,” he whispers to the bug.
“For God’s sake, get the bug spray, princess. It’s in the bag of supplies in the truck.”
“We have bug spray?” He looks at me deadpan. “Now you fucking tell me, after I’ve lost four pints of blood already.”
He storms to the truck, and I hear the spray can go . . . and go . . . and go . . . and go.
“Are you saving any for me?” I call.
“This is man versus wild, and every man is for himself. Don’t you watch Survivor? I’m voting you off the island tonight,” he calls before launching into a coughing attack and waving the air in front of him. “What the hell is in this stuff, anyway?”
“Poison.” I widen my eyes. “To kill the bugs.”
He storms back over. “Hurry up with the tent,” he demands. “What’s taking so long?”
“You put it up if you’re so perfect,” I snap.
“Fine.” He snatches the directions from me and stares at them for a moment as his eyes flick to the outstretched tent. He turns the paper around and twists his head. “Well, this all makes perfect sense now.”
“It does?” I frown. “I couldn’t work it out at all.”
“This isn’t directions to put up a tent—this is a map for an escape from Alcatraz.”
I burst out laughing.
“What’s funny?” he barks. “Nothing about this situation is funny, Emily.”
He turns the page and then turns it again and then again. We both frown as we stare at it. “Okay, I see now.”
“You do?” I ask hopefully.
“No. I don’t. We find a hotel.”
“Jameson,” I plead. “I wanted to do something with you that you’ve never done with an ex-girlfriend. I just wanted us to do this first together. Will you just humor me, please?”
He exhales heavily.
I take his hands in mine. “I know this isn’t what you’re used to, but I wanted to take you out of your comfort zone. I really want to do this—it’s important to me. This is how uncomfortable I feel in your fancy apartment.”
“Not possible.” His eyes hold mine, and then he exhales in defeat. “Fine.” He begins to study the directions again; the light is fading, and he’s squinting to see.