Withering Hope

But I don't stop. I can't. Tristan grips both my wrists, forcing me to stop. He steps in front of me. "Aimee, what are you doing?"

"I don't know," I whisper. The events of yesterday afternoon play in my mind like a bad movie. The jaguar jumping forward. Tristan falling backward. My utter ineptitude to shoot the animal. The magnitude of it all hits me in one giant wave and my knees tremble. All I manage to blabber before I burst into an ugly cry is, "I don't want you to die because of my incompetency."

"I won't—Aimee, you are hurting yourself. Let the bow go." When I don't react he raises his voice, desperation piercing it. "Aimee."

He unclenches my fingers from the bow, taking it away. That's when I see my fingers. They're worse than yesterday. The skin is shredded where they touched the bow.

"I am so sorry," I say through sobs.

"Shhh, you're having a meltdown."

Tristan drops the bow, putting an arm around my waist, patting me on the back. "Calm down, Aimee. I'm all right. It barely hurts anymore."

I sob even harder. "But you could have died. I could have lost you."

"Please don't say that." His voice is soothing, and I find myself relaxing in his tender embrace. "Let's go inside the plane and take care of your fingers."

"No, I'm fine." Ashamed of my meltdown, I try to pull myself together. "We have lots to do and I—“

Tristan scoops me up in his injured arms, but I don't protest or ask him to put me down. I rest my head on his shoulder, enjoying the rhythmic beat of his heart. Somehow, it has the power to drive away any thought. When he puts me down in my seat, I draw my knees up to my chest, feeling cold without his arms on me.

"I'll be back in a sec," he says.

He brings the bottle of alcohol and a strip from my wedding dress then kneels in front of me, tending to my callused fingers. I try to be brave, like he was yesterday, but I start whimpering as soon as the cloth touches my skin.

"Aimee, what did you feel last night?" His voice has a strained quality to it, as if he's bracing himself for my answer.

I don't answer, considering my words for a long time. Too long.

He begins to turn away, but I grip his wrist and his head snaps back toward me. He caresses my cheek with the back of his fingers, sending tendrils of sparks through me. "I don't regret what happened between us, Tristan."

He kisses my forehead, murmuring, "It's the most beautiful thing that’s happened to me."

Something flutters in my chest at his words. They're so pure, so heartfelt that I almost liquefy. "Let me change the bandage on your arm," I say.

"I've looked at it this morning. It's fine, no need to change it. We have to be careful not to waste the bandages."

I run my fingers over his bandaged arm, as if that would help me find out if he's telling the truth. He doesn't wince at my touch, so he's not in pain. All of a sudden he grabs my wrist, looking down at my fingers.

"You're not wearing your ring."

"No… I don't feel the need to wear it anymore."

He raises his eyes to mine. Slowly—as if he doesn't dare to believe what I said.

"Do you mean that?" he asks in a low voice.

I nod, not quite able to say the words out loud. But there's no sense denying this. There are many things you can hide in the rainforest. But not lies. Or love.

I lean in and kiss him.

His lips part in surprise, but then his mouth settles over mine in a soft kiss. Before long, the heat that only he can stir to life starts building inside me. I deepen the kiss with urgency, both my hands darting at the crook of his neck.

"Slow down, Aimee," he says, gasping for breath, "why are you in so much of a rush?"

I bite my lip, ashamed. "I thought you liked it this way."

"I love it." He pushes a strand of hair behind my ear. "But I don't want to rush this today. Last night, I didn't have enough self-restraint to give myself to you and make love to you the way you deserve."