‘I was reading,’ I say, gesturing to my books.
He looks at Walden and scoffs. ‘Wasting your time is more like it. You know Thoreau left the woods every Sunday to have dinner with his mom?’
I did not know that. I stare at him. ‘Well. Doesn’t that just kill all the romance?’ I say drily.
He stands, and I see a brace of arrows is strapped across his back. There’s a huge knife tied to his thigh over a pair of worn camouflage pants. I look at his face. He’s about my age, maybe older. I can’t really tell what he looks like because of all the mud on his face, but his eyes are two bright blue-grey discs. He turns the way the deer went and then back at me anxiously.
‘Are you sure you’re OK? That deer’s injured and in pain. I can’t leave her like that,’ he says.
‘Oh, right,’ I say, frowning at the thought of that poor animal. ‘I’m fine. Go kill the suffering deer.’
But he hasn’t waited around to hear the catty ending to my response. He’s already running off yelling, ‘Sorry!’
In moments, he’s disappeared in the underbrush. I stare after him, my mouth hanging open. I look down at myself and realize I’m filthy. There’s blood everywhere. I should be disgusted, but I’m not. I’m definitely feeling something, which is remarkable, but it isn’t disgust. My heart takes forever to stop pounding.
I rinse off as best as I can in the river and pack my things up while they’re still a little damp. Luckily, these water-repellent blankets also repel a fair share of blood. The scent lingers. Musky and metallic.
On the walk back to my grandparents’ house, I can’t stop wondering about the wildboy. He was out here, hunting I guess, with no rifle and no one to help him. He just had a bow and some arrows and a giant knife. How would he even carry a dead deer back to wherever it is that he lives by himself?
I mean, seriously. Who is this guy? Slaying deer with his bare hands by day and reading philosophy by night . . . Who does that? Not that I’m into the whole Tarzan thing – or the smarter-than-thou philosopher thing, either.
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I mean, it’s nice to know a guy is tough enough to chase down a deer. And that he’s smart enough to do more than just hit things with rocks. And the way he shook when I touched him . . .
It’s dark by the time I get back to my grandparents’ house. I see Rob’s car in the driveway and mentally kick myself. The barbecue.
‘Sorry!’ I call out as soon as I open the front door. ‘I fell asleep! I’ll be right down.’
I go straight up the stairs and run to my room. I hear Grandma calling after me, but I don’t reply. My clothes are irreparably stained with blood. I take them off and throw them into the very back of my closet. I’ll have to get rid of them when my grandparents aren’t around.
I rush through a shower and quickly dab on lipstick, and then I’m down the stairs again wearing another one of my old dresses.
I can’t apologize enough as I enter the living room. ‘Rob, I’m so sorry,’ I say as he stands to greet me.
He looks me over. I’ve twisted my damp hair on top of my head in a bun, and the dress I’m wearing has a low neckline, showcasing my long neck and toned arms.
‘Worth it,’ he says, making me and my grandparents laugh.
We chat with my grandparents for a little before we head out the door. I don’t know why I don’t say anything about the deer and the wildboy. I don’t feel like trying to explain it, I guess. I can’t really explain it to myself, let alone anyone else.
Wildboy said he lived there. Does that mean he lives in the woods? It’s illegal to live on public land. He must have meant in town. For all I know, he’ll be at the barbecue, and then I’ll have him there to explain it to everyone else, because I don’t even know where to start. A deer fell on me, and then a guy did? My grandmother is anxious enough as it is. No. This I’m going to keep to myself until I get a little more information from Wildboy. If I ever see him again, that is.
When we get in Rob’s car, I see him check his watch. It’s a Patek Philippe, I’m sure of that, but it’s got an obscure complication I’ve never seen before. It must be very rare.
I apologize again for being late and ask, ‘Did we miss it?’
‘No,’ he replies, but I can tell he’s annoyed. ‘It’s not that late. It’s just a little rude.’
He lets the word hang there. I realize he’s implying I’m rude. He’s either expecting me to insist that I’m not rude or he’s expecting an apology. But I already apologized. Come to think of it, I don’t think I ever actually agreed to come out with him in the first place.
I’m starting to think up a convenient bellyache, maybe a migraine. I’m contemplating going for the gold by saying I have massive period cramps so I can have him bring me home, when he completely changes the subject.
‘So, you fell asleep?’ he asks. ‘Were you writing?’
‘Reading,’ I reply, shaking my head.
‘What were you reading?’