Chapter Sixteen

Julia

We're huddled together against the craggy body of a Joshua tree. Kit keeps turning on the flashlight, quickly checking the ground, turning it back off.

"I don't think it was a rattlesnake," I say, after she does the motion for the third time in as many minutes.

"It was a distinct rattle hiss sound." She is a mess of restless, nervous energy, and I can't tell if it's just her fear of desert wildlife, her proximity to me, or both that is the culprit.

"I think it was the wind moving through that hollow branch." I point above our heads to a dead limb of the Joshua tree protruding from the trunk. I check the clock on my phone. "We've been at this particular tree for almost five minutes and we haven't seen anyone."

"I think most of the other teams scattered to the opposite side of the camp—away from the mountains and all the creatures that live in them." The moon is high and bright, so I can easily see the outline of her features in the light.

We ran together, hands clasped, all the way to the last crop of Joshua trees before the fence line of the Glamp-Out. When we reached it, I felt her fingers go slack and let go. But for a while, she had gripped my hand back.

I'm sure of it.

"It was the right call," she concedes, despite her visceral distaste for creatures she can't see coming. "But I want it on record that I heard a rattlesnake. Leaving that in the Yelp review."

"I'm sure if the Glamp-Out was concerned about mountain lion attacks or rattlesnake encounters, they would have had us sign a waiver," I say, grinning.

She gives me a playful shove that I'm not prepared for and it knocks me back into the tree. The momentum makes her lose her balance, her slick-soled boots skidding across some precarious sand. Her hands extend to break her fall against the tree and stop her from colliding bodily with me. Her lips brush the side of my cheek, breasts beneath jackets grazing, hair tickling the edge of my earlobe. My palms flatten against the tree trunk, fingers clenching.

Her small gasp becomes visible in the chilly night air.

I can smell food on her breath, wine and tequila, the sharp acid of that lime we chased the liquor with. Then I feel her holding her breath, like she knows I'm cataloging the scent for memory. She doesn't pull back right away.

"We should make our break for it," I say. She nods. Her full lower lip comes tantalizingly close to brushing the corner of my upper lip.

Finally, she pushes herself up, adjusting her braid over her left shoulder and straightening her coat. Her crystal necklace rolls into the light. When she looks up, she doesn't make eye contact. Her eyes drift over my shoulder in the direction of the tents nearest to the yurt, focusing, and then squinting in a narrow, sly expression.

"One team down," she says, and I whirl to get eyes on the events.

Maddie and Lisa have been captured. They make a show of holding up their arms in surrender while Natalie edges up, tapping them both on the shoulders and finishing the action off with some finger guns. Coco does a happy dance that gets a dramatic display of middle fingers shooting out from both the captives.

It's a quick exchange, and then Coco seems to spot movement from the other side of a row of tents.

"Now," I say. "They're distracted."

Kit flicks on her flashlight, casting the beam over the expanse of sand that makes up our designated path toward the yurt. It ends at a large boulder formation just on the opposite side of the building. The light reveals a few small rocks working their way up onto the surface of the sand that we will need to avoid, but no sign of rattlesnakes or other creatures of the night.

"One, two," she says, turning off the light. "Three."

We launch out, guided only by the moonlight. The bouncing flashlight beam would definitely give our movements away. They'd see us, and instead of regrouping at the boulder before making our final run, we'd just have to break for the yurt and hope we're faster than they are. My lungs burn already from the exertion. I squint to make out the rocks in the way, sidestepping one just as Kit screeches, "I swear to God something just brushed by my calf—holy shit, was that a possum???"

I let out a howl laugh, and she growls profanity in reply. "A possum in the desert? That's a new one."

It's not like old times. Not even close. But still, it all feels achingly familiar.

I never had to drag her along in the past, despite her aversion to things like snakes, or heights, or humidity ("My hair cosplays as Ms. Frizzle in a swamp at the concept of moisture in the air"), she wanted the rush of adrenaline that came with taking risks as much as I did. Maybe even more. Whatever has changed since the last time we saw each other, that desire seems to remain in her, even if it's been mostly squashed out of me. She would leap headfirst, ask questions later, and almost always have a bunch of mini freak-outs along the way. Emotions like fear or pleasure were to be felt, not withheld.

That is, until the last time she leaped and she became terrified of falling.

We reach the boulder, chests heaving, blood pumping, resting our backs against the cool rock for support. The moonlight drenches her face. It's hard to tug my attention away from the damp sheen of sweat puckering along her exposed collarbone, but when she reels her lids open, I manage to, right in the nick of time.

"I don't think they saw us, do you?" she asks, breathless.

I hold my finger to my lips to signal for quiet and we both listen. In the distance I hear screeches of laughter, maybe the sound of someone being captured, but I can't make out the words or voices. The only other noises come from the desert itself. The wind in trees, moving branches, rustling up the sand into tiny tornadoes.

"I think we're good." I point toward the opposite edge of the boulder and we both move to peer around at the yurt. The bonfire area is partially in view beyond the white edges of the building, and I can see Lisa and Maddie sitting in chairs they've pulled up to its side, holding skewers fixed with marshmallows they are roasting in the fire. Clearly, not too broken up about their quick defeat. "This is it—the chance."

I'm standing beside her so that I can see beyond the boulder, since she's a couple inches taller than me. When she moves her arms to put the flashlight in her other hand, our elbows brush. It's not skin-on-skin contact because of our clothes, but it doesn't matter. I still get a surge down my spine that makes me wobble.

"We will be the winners of the Sexy Times bag," she says. Her use of those specific words hits a button in my brain, reminding me of Coco's encouragement that I let my freak flag fly, a totally out of the question proposition. Loosening up is so not in my job description, and yet here I am willingly playing a game of hide-and-seek for a "pleasure for one" bag of goodies.

"Jesus Christ," I snort. "I should probably donate mine."

"Not me," she replies. Her smile is sly; I hope the heat in my cheeks isn't noticeable. The urge to ask her more is a swishy, seasick feeling in my stomach.

When you're a queer girl and you come out in high school, you hope for acceptance from peers and family; you sigh with relief that you don't have to pretend to only notice boys, or to just want friendship from girls. But coming out doesn't make you magically equipped with a faultless gaydar; it doesn't make you any more certain that you will find love in the hopeless landscape of adolescence. Your own queerness doesn't automatically mean you know if someone else is also queer, any more than any person can ever be sure of another's attraction.

I wasn't ready. Her words outside the yurt before the tarot readings. But—

She kissed me first.

She kissed me back.

Just like every other adventure.

"I can't imagine you're satisfied in bed—sleeping just with men." As soon as the words leave my lips, I wish I could retract them.

This is why I don't cut loose. This is why I have firm boundaries, fixed rabbit trails. The only insurance against heartache is control.

I see the muscle in her jaw pulse as she clenches her teeth.

"I mean, maybe you are." Shut the fuck up, Kelley. "Since you're straight." The word is said in heavily implied air quotes. Self-sabotage for one, please.

Kit flicks the flashlight on. Then off. She turns, whirls actually, and now we're nose to nose. There's a spray of soft freckles showing through her matte finish makeup, too covered up for me to see if the pattern has changed since high school.

"It's shitty to make those kinds of assumptions about a person," she says, her voice newly sharp.

"It's not an assumption when the person once said it themselves." I double down because otherwise I will wither.

"A lot can change in ten years," she says, hooking her left eyebrow in a pointed expression.

"What, exactly, has changed ?" I edge closer, the curves of my body taunting hers. Her eyes drop to my lips but don't linger. She flicks the flashlight back on, shifting to put distance between us, and turns her attention to the path ahead.

"Think we can make it? I hear voices getting closer." Her tone flattens, like she is deliberately trying to control her inflection.

I force myself to focus. Dickish behavior (mine) aside, we're in this thing together. She wants to win the Sexy Times bag, or she wants the glory, or she's just trying to distract herself (like me) from all these confusing, conflicting, consuming feelings and this is the current best plan of action to do so.

"We just have to touch the yurt, right? Not make it inside or anything?"

"That's the directive."

She flicks off the flashlight. "Now or never."

And it feels like she's talking about more than just running for the glory of that Sexy Times tote bag. My eyes find hers. Trepidation melts away with the look she's giving. These words are an answer, more than an olive branch.

"Now," I reply.

I want her to want me.

And maybe she wants the same thing.

We launch out in unison, our strides easily syncing as our feet scrape the rocky sand. We have a straight shot to the yurt, maybe twenty to thirty yards, when I hear a war cry come from the left—the direction the other players had scattered when the game commenced—and I look over my shoulder to see Coco breaking out into a sprint with Jenni and Heather behind her. They look defeated, which tells me it's down to the last two teams.

Piper and Millie vs. Kit and me.

"I'm surprised—Coco—didn't—hand it to…Jenni," Kit says, between gulps of air.

"This could be part of her plan," I add, and then gasp for oxygen.

"Plan?" She exhales the word.

"To win her back."

"I don't know if that's in her cards." She's breathing heavy from the run, but when she says it all nonchalant, basically a throwaway, I'm caught off guard. The idea that the cards could predict Coco's future for real without any reason to question them makes me wonder if she puts the same stock in that reading of ours from all those years ago.

But I don't get a chance to obsess over the thought.

Coco is closing in from the left, and straight ahead Piper and Millie shoot out from a space between two tents with Natalie close behind. Piper has broken out ahead of Millie, her long, athletic form eating up the ground toward the yurt. We're closer, but not as fast. And she knows it. Her eyes jolt around the scene as she's moving, assessing. Her smirk is an evil challenge.

The professional thing to do here is slow down. Let them take it home. The bride is on that team. She's the client, this is her show. But then I hear Kit's husky voice in my head, I triple-dog dare you , and my competitive streak flares up with renewed heat.

I reach for Kit's hand as the muscles in my calves fire to launch me the last few paces to the yurt. With one hand I hit the wall before I twist into her body and she holds me up against her.

Our breath mingles in the air between us.

Her hair has come out of her braid in wild tendrils to dance around her face.

She lets her cheek fall against my forehead, exhaling a long, winded sigh. After a few seconds heaving air into her lungs, her breasts rising and falling against my body, our hands still bound, fitting between us against our abs, she begins to laugh.

Bright, hearty, and intoxicating.

The reverberation vibrating everywhere her body touches mine. When I pull back to meet her eyes, there's no mistaking that the pupils are dilated, and just for a second I let myself believe it's because of me.