State of Emergency

Whoa…

“And you’re staring at me,” he states, snapping me out of my reverie.

“I am not,” I laugh nervously. “I’m just…thinking. Without blinking.”

Chris breaks into good-natured laughter.

“Sure you are.”

I roll my eyes, feigning i

“What about food and water?” I ask, trying to change the subject. “We’re going to run out.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Chris says.

“How can you be so calm about possible starvation? And dehydration? You know how long it’s been since I’ve peed?” I clear my throat, realizing I probably could have kept that bit of information to myself.

To my surprise, Chris doesn’t take the opportunity to tease me. Instead he looks serious and says, “Drink what water you have left in your canteen. We’ll stop for the night and as long as it rains you can keep drinking. Dehydration is more deadly than going without food for a couple of days, so we’ll address that problem first. We can use the poncho in your backpack to gather more water if you want.”

“Great. I’m going to die.”

“Quit being dramatic,” he sighs.

“I’m not being dramatic! I’m being realistic.”

Chris shoots me an a

“There’s no river nearby, is there?” I ask just as Chris shuts the door.

“He was driving Northbound,” he shrugs. “Probably headed to the mountains.” He twirls a camping permit in his fingers. “Kings Canyon.”

I open my pack and turn on the crank radio and electric lamp. Chris decides to be noble and wind the radio up while I get out “di

“Got anything?” I ask, peeling the wrapper back.

Chris sets the radio on the floor. There isn’t even any static anymore.

“Looks like the days of the radio are over,” Chris a

“Turkey and potatoes,” I deadpan, tossing him a bar. “And for dessert, pumpkin pie.”

“Someone’s got Thanksgiving di

“For Thanksgiving?” I yawn. “I made di

Chris laughs.

“Your mom must appreciate all your cooking.”

I frown, tearing my energy bar into tiny little pieces.

“I wouldn’t know.”

Noticing my mood change — or as my dad always called them: Mood swings from hell — Chris decides for some reason that he needs to find out more information about my dear old mom.

“Where’s your mom, Cassidy?” he asks, looking right at me.

I avoid his eyes, finding a super interesting thread on my jacket sleeve to focus on. “Not sure,” I shrug. “Why?”

“Do you have any family besides your father?”

“Not really, no.” I look up, kind of angry with him for bringing this up. It always makes me cry like an overly emotional child when I think about my lack of family. “And this is important to you because…?”

“I’m just asking,” Chris says, throwing his hands up.

But I can tell there’s more to it than that. So I decide to get snarky.

“Where are your parents?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.

And she throws a curveball!

Chris takes a bite of his bar, giving me an I-Totally-Know-What-You’re-Doing look.

“They’re retired,” he replies.

“Both of them?”

He nods.

“What did they do?”

“They were farmers,” he says.

“What about your brother?”

“I think I said before that he’s a senior in High School.”

I smile evilly.

“Is he cute?” I ask. “Or single?”

Chris stops chewing and leans forward.

“And this matters to you because…?” he echoes, raising an eyebrow.

“Just asking,” I grin. “But seriously. Is your brother cute?”

“Not as cute as me.” He winks. He actually winks, and somehow it actually comes across as sexy rather than stupid or creepy. I feel my cheeks turning red, and I am extremely grateful that it’s so dark inside the camper shell.

“Well, you’re not cute,” I say, finishing off my bar.

“I’m not cute?” Chris repeats, looking shocked. “Is that why you stare at me all the time?”

“I’m not staring at you!” I retort. “I’m just making sure you’re not trying to kill me or something. Or steal my backpack.”

“Right. I’m just dying to steal a backpack with two energy bars and a plastic poncho.” He smirks. “That’s been my plan all along.”

“Hey, desperation drives people to do crazy things,” I say, taking my jacket off.

“You still don’t think I’m cute?” His smile is playful. Pleasant, even.

I spread my coat out like a blanket over my body, thankful for my thermal black shirt. Warmth is super important these days. “No,” I say, and it’s the truth. Chris isn’t cute. He’s way too mature and fit and older to be cute. He’s hot. But he doesn’t need to know that’s what I think.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. “I can see you smiling.”

“I’m not smiling,” I answer. “I’m laughing at you. Vanity is so yesterday.”

“Ah.” He suddenly reaches across the truck and places his arms right over my head. I freeze, surprised — and stu

“My brother,” he says, his face way too close, “is very similar to me. But he’s eleven years younger than I am.”

I hold my breath, my eyes flicking down to the fine goatee he has all the way around his mouth, up the sides of his cheeks. He’s got nice skin, a strong jaw, long, thick hair right above the shoulders that’s dark brown with blonde highlights.

“Chris,” I say, afraid to release a breath.

He moves closer. Way too close. I can actually feel him breathing against my skin, and he smells a little bit like the leftover coffee from Walter’s apartment. His eyes search my face for some kind of emotion, sending the blood rushing to my cheeks. If I lean forward just an inch, I could kiss him.

“What…time is it?” I ask, glancing down at the crank radio, dropping my eyes. I can see the time from here: 8:33 p.m. He knows I can see it, too. But instead of pointing that out, he slowly moves his arms from the camper shell and pulls away, making a point of taking his time finger the strands of hair falling over my shoulder. He looks either extremely smug or disappointed with my reaction. Maybe both.

Definitely both.

I finally exhale and scratch the side of my head, wondering what I should say. Something like, “Why didn’t you kiss me?” or “Why did I ask for the time?”

Chris says nothing, retreating into frustrating silence. I curl up into my usual ball and try to say warm as Chris flicks off the light. I crack one of the windows open so I can let my canteen fill up with water during the night. Eventually I fall asleep, but it takes me a long time, because I’m hyperaware of Chris’s body only a few feet away, and I know that he’s watching my silhouette in the darkness. It’s the weirdest, most puzzling thing I’ve ever experienced.

Well. Besides the end of the world.

At dawn, I sit up quickly because my feet feel cold.  Rainwater is dripping through the window, pooling all over my boots. I groan and wonder how long my feet have been marinating in rainwater as Chris wakes up. His arm is thrown across the truck bed like he owns it, the other arm behind his head. I study his face, finding myself smiling in the process. He looks relaxed, almost boyish in sleep.

I grab my canteen, happy to see that it’s pretty much completely filled with water. The sky is still dark but it doesn’t seem like it’s raining anymore. Awesome. No more water-based adventures.