Page 32 of Ex Marks the Spot

Glancing from him to the heaping mess of lumber he created, I wiggle my fingers around an invisible crystal ball and say, “Just a moment while I magically read your mind so I can get the specific pieces of wood you’re requesting.”

He rises while muttering something that sounds like, “For fuck’s sake,” and walks over to the pile to extract the boards in question. “Just do what I do with mine,” he says, passing one to me.

“Oh good. We’re at the mansplaining portion of today’s adventure. I was wondering when we’d get to that.”

“You are such a pain in my ass.”

I smile sweetly instead of hitting him with my board. “The feeling is entirely mutual.”

Somehow, we manage to tolerate each other’s presence long enough to build the ox cart. The wheels alone come up to my hips and probably weigh around forty pounds each, so the whole thing was more labor-intensive than I’d expected.

I flag the factory chief to ask for a check and down half my water bottle as he saunters over. While he makes a slow circle around our cart, Court lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe his face before chugging his own water. I absolutely do not stare at the brief display of muscles or watch his Adam’s apple bob with each gulp, and I especially don’t savor the sight of him swiping the back of his hand over his mouth when he’s done.

“It’s good,” the man says, holding up his thumb.

Praise the lord and the universe and the ancient peoples of Costa Rica.

After thanking him, we tear open the envelope and read the clue out loud.

Travel on foot to Jardín Else Kientzler and search for Paul.

The last team to check in will be eliminated.

I hitch my backpack onto my shoulders but Court leaves his and jogs over to the factory chief. They exchange a quick series of nods and pointing gestures, and then he’s back. “It’s a garden about two kilometers away. He said we can cut through here and follow the main road all the way there.”

He grabs his backpack and we take off running (again) making me grateful for every mile I logged before the race started. There was nothing I could do to train for this humidity though. We’re basically swimming down the road, and if my hair wasn’t secured with two hair ties, it would have its own ZIP code right now.

Court, of course, still looks annoyingly perfect. I’m sure his girlfriend does, too. I bet she has a face that doesn’t need makeup and a figure that can tolerate a dozen cookies for breakfast. And knowing him, she’s even more intelligent than she is beautiful—an impossible task for mere mortals, but not her. She has a master’s degree, or possibly a PhD, and she still makes time to volunteer at the local shelter or assisted living facility. Hell, she probably works at one or both of those places.

She most certainly doesn’t turn beet red when she runs, nor does her hair attempt to impersonate a clown wig when left to its own devices in the humidity. And when Court dishes out his shit to her? She totally puts him in hisplace. Guaranteed. I suppose I should retract my earlier statement about feeling bad for her.

He hasn’t mentioned what he’d spend his half of the prize money on, at least not that I’ve heard, but it’s an easy assumption to say he’d put it toward their wedding and honeymoon. Then again, she could dream of an elopement or destination wedding, in which case him doing reconnaissance via Xtreme Quest is brilliant.

I’ve dated here and there, but I’ve learned there’s not much of a market for twenty-eight-year-old women who live at home and work at a job they’re good at but hate. While Court’s getting married with his earnings, all I want to do is rent a studio so I can finally have a place to work on my art. Maybe then I’ll start feeling like I can breathe again.

But all of that is irrelevant if we don’t make it to the checkpoint before Moe and Randall. Hopefully they got an unruly ox and they’re stuck in a field somewhere.

This thought gives me one final push as we Michael Phelps our way to the garden. If this was a triathlon, we’d have the run and swim covered already. How do Costa Rican athletes handle this humidity?

“Look.” Court points to a display of handwoven bags as we run past a store front. “Maybe we should stop and get you one. You could use it to carry your grudge against me.”

“Or I could use the strap to strangle you. Seems like a much better use.”

“So what I’m hearing you say is you want to tie me up?”

My eyes narrow to slits. “Shut up and run.”

Several sweaty minutes later, we arrive at the entrance to the garden.

“This isn’t helpful,” he says of the map.

He’s not wrong. Dotted lines, solid lines, other lines that might be a road, and a handful of location markers are scattered around, and none of it gives any indication about where Paul would be.

I take that back. The small labyrinth of hedges would make for a great backdrop, but it’s positioned at the bottom of a small hill so I can already see he’s not there...which is probably why they didn’t make that the checkpoint.

“There’s a couple of lookout points he could be at.” Court gestures to the lower corner of the map.

“I think that’s too close to the entrance. They wouldn’t make it that easy. What about the event zone?”

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