Page 33 of Secret Nights and Northern Lights
“Jesus.”This was a mistake.“With Iceland. And by the way, I don’t appreciate your little swimsuit stunt.”
“So you’ve already gotten down to your skivvies with him?” Her voice is filled with such delight it may as well be Christmas morning. “How forward of you, Mona Miller!”
“I’m not kidding!” I snap, my voice sharp and shrewd. Immediately, I apologize. “Sorry, J. I’m so sorry. This trip is really fucking with my head.”
“No, I’m in the wrong here. I know this trip is stressful for you,” she replies. “Putting on my supportive best friend hat as of…now. Okay, tell me everything so far.”
So I do. I spend the next forty-five minutes recounting everything from the details of the incredible sites we’ve seen so far down to the mundane minutiae of what I’ve eaten each meal. Honestly, it just feels good to talk to someone. Someone I don’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing to or accidentally treading too deep into territory I no longer care to explore. Someone who knows me, but not like Ben knows me.
When I finish, I’ve rambled for so long I’m not even sure she’s still on the line. Until I hear her horrified voice say, “He sharedhis frieswith you?”
“What?” I just told her about boiling mud pits and tectonic plates and a waterfall that could sweep me away, and she’s concerned about my French fry habit? “Why does that matter?”
“Oh, it matters. Tell me how it happened.”
“What do you mean? I asked if I could have a fry. He said yes. That’s it.”
“No. Tell meexactlyhow it happened.”
“I just did!” I say, exasperated. “I said, ‘Can I steal a fry?’ and Ben pushed his plate toward me, indicating that I could. So I ate a few. That’s it.” I leave out that I ate half of them. Three-fourths, if I’m honest.
“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my—”
“The hell is wrong with you? It’s not like we each put one endin our mouths and met in the middle like aLady and the Trampmoment. Why are you making this a big deal?”
“Because you ate off his plate! That is an intimate act!”
“No, it isn’t. I eat off your plate all the time.”
“Andweare best friends,” she says matter-of-fact, as if I’m making her point for her. “There’s an intimacy in that.”
I fall silent, considering her words.
“All I’m saying is, you can’t expect to keep your head in the game if you’re going to fall into old familiarities with this guy.”
She’s right. Of course, she’s right. But also…“You’rethe one who pulled the swimsuit trick.”
“ ’Cause, Jesus Christ, I’d rather you fuck him than share his fries!”
As odd as it is, I think I see my friend’s point. “Okay, no more fry sharing. I promise.”
“Good girl. Now tell me about these Icelandic men. Are they hot?”
Chapter 10
Tip #5 when visiting Iceland:The termwhiteoutdoesn’t mean anything good.
The following morning, we have a two-hour drive south along Ring Road to Mýrdalsjökull glacier, where we will snowmobile to the highest point of the glacier, which happens to lie atop one of Iceland’s largest volcanoes, Katla.
Yep, Ben and I are going tosnowmobileover aglacieron top of avolcano. So cool, cool, cool. Everyday stuff and all.
As much as I’m up for a new experience that doesn’t necessitate hiking, Suki may be nudging me even further outside my comfort zone with this one. Again, I’m left dreaming of pool boys serving me cocktails at a Tuscan villa or sailing through the calm waters of Lake Como with a glass of Pinot.
Oh, Italy!
Before I can fully home in on my anxiety over snowmobiling, however, I must first home in on my anxiety over another longcar ride with Ben after I fled his room last night like he was highly contagious. Fortunately, journaling buys me Ben’s silence. Unfortunately, a heavy fog makes it impossible to view the mossy green mountains or the jagged coastline or anything other than the multitude of sheep within twenty feet of the road.
The first hour passes while I scribble down every possible detail of the sheep we pass: some with horns, some without, some grazing in groups, others lounging unbothered in the grassy fields, how fucking cute they are when they run, how one little guy hops (hops!) over a puddle in the most adorable display of animal agility ever witnessed. I even attempt a few sheep sketches in order to prolong my “work”—they are not good, and I will show them to no one. Ever.
