Page 32 of Craving Chaos

Jesus, I sound like a creep.

I actively force myself to give her as much space as I can, which isn’t much, though I leave my top arm draped over her. I can’t bring myself to break that connection.

We both lie still. Awkwardly still.

The room is painfully quiet, save for a few pops and crackles coming from the stove. My exhaustion from minutes earlier has pulled a Houdini and disappeared. I wonder how long I’ll have to lie here before the tension dissipates. Probably until Shae falls asleep. Next, I wonder how long that might take if we’re equally uncomfortable, but all my questions are silenced when Shae slowly, deliberately leans her body back against mine.

Masculine satisfaction swells in my chest. Whatever hit my pride might have taken is now long forgotten as he stands atop a boulder and begins to pound his chest with his fists like fucking Tarzan.

This is a problem.

I want to tell myself it’s the circumstances—that it’s been one hell of a week, and she’s the only person around to find comfort in—but I taste the bitterness in the lie.

This craving in me isn’t merely a byproduct of our situation that will fade as soon as we’re home. It’s Shae. The way her skin is so damn soft under my fingertips. The way her hair still hints at a lingering scent of roses even though we don’t have a single bar of soap. It’s the knowledge that despite how inexcusably harsh I was with her, she did everything she could to help me when I needed her.

A shit ton of people out there would have seen my illness as a convenient way to conserve supplies. She’s plenty capable and didn’t particularly need me for her survival, but she kept me alive anyway. She’s honorable, compassionate, resilient—the list grows every day, making it harder for me to remember why wanting her would be a bad idea.

The fact that I would even consider shrugging my responsibilities as the Moretti family boss is a dangerous sign. A relationship between us wouldn’t work.

Not if you were back home. But we’re not home.

It’s true, and we may never make it back home. Why the fuck shouldn’t we do what we want while we can? What happens in the wilderness doesn’t have to follow us home.

I’m attempting to rationalize a bad decision. I hear it plain as day, but I don’t care. That’s the worst part. She’s got me so damn wound up that I’d intentionally fuck myself over if it meant keeping her close.

My hand presses flat against her belly as if in acceptance of my fate.

Never thought I’d give in to addiction. I’m not the type. Yet here I lie, happy to know I have at least one more day with my new drug of choice.

Chaos.

Morning brings another bout of anticipation, equally as consuming, but the source is entirely different. It’s time to check our traps. There are no words for how desperately I’m hoping to find that at least one of the snares worked.

I’m so fucking hungry it hurts.

If we didn’t eat at all, our stomachs might at least go numb to the hunger, but every tidbit of food we consume seems to enrage my stomach all over again like a child throwing a tantrum over a toy that’s been taken away.

“I will never take food for granted again,” I say aloud as we start toward the creek where we have our traps.

“No kidding.” Shae is especially somber this morning. We’re both feeling the weight of reality setting in. If we can’t catch our own food, we’ll be forced to make our journey to civilization in the dead of winter when the odds of our survival are slim to none.

“What’s your least favorite thing to eat?” I ask as a distraction.

“Hmm … maybe sauerkraut. I’m not a fan of anything fermented.”

“Would you eat it now?”

“In a heartbeat. I’d lick my plate clean.” She shoots me a small smile. “What about you? What’s something you usually refuse to eat?”

“Hardboiled eggs,” I say immediately. No need to think about it.

“Oh, yeah? Eggs are awfully good for you.”

“Sure, and I’ll eat them scrambled or over medium, but hardboiled is nasty. One part is Jell-O-like, and the other is all pasty. It’s just nasty. Makes me gag.”

“So it’s a texture thing. Interesting. And right now, if I set a plate of hardboiled eggs in front of you?”

“I’d eat that shit, and I’d be pissed about every damn bite of it,” I offer in a playfully petulant tone.

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