poison to dip the tips of the arrows in," he blurts out.
His words bewilder me so that I don't have time to ponder whether he's trying to change topics or really plans to poison the arrows. "Why? That would make whatever you shoot with a poisoned arrow inedible, right?"
"Not for the animals we intend to eat, but for predators.” I know he’s thinking of the paw prints we discovered the other day. “If a jaguar makes an appearance, I'd need about five arrows to take him down. Jaguars are very fast. I'd never have time to shoot enough arrows. If the arrows are poisoned, we'll have a better chance."
"How will we find poison? I mean, most things around us are poisonous, but it's not like we can drain—”
"I don't know yet." He rests his jaw on his palm. The tuft of dark emotions in his gaze tells me he's not thinking about poison for the arrows, but a different kind of poison.
"That's what your nightmares are about, aren't they?" I ask. "Your time in the Army."
He doesn't answer, but I won't be deterred. "If there's an elephant in the room—or well, the jungle—I don't want to keep ignoring it. We can talk about things. It can be liberating." I remember the talk we had about my parents a few weeks ago, and how I felt so much freer afterward. When Tristan doesn't glance at me, much less answer, I add, "I hear you every night, you know."
That makes his head snap up. "You can hear me?"
"Yeah." His gaze holds so much anxiety and desperation that I'd like nothing better than to bury myself in the ground, ashamed that I'm intruding in a matter so private.
He swallows hard, looking away. "I'm sorry."
I blink, confused. "For what?"
"I didn't want to disturb you. I thought if I closed the door… I didn't realize I was so loud."
"You're not disturbing me. You don't have to keep sleeping in that cockpit. There is enough room in the cabin, and I don't get scared by nightmares."
He smiles sadly. "No, but you will resent me. Even if you can hear me when I'm in the cockpit, it's better if there's a door between us."
"I won't resent you. Tristan, come on, trust me on this one. You need to be able to rest. The cockpit is nowhere as comfortable as the cabin. We'll deal with those nightmares."
He glances at me, his expression unreadable. Then he hands me the bow and some arrows.
When our fingers touch, an electrical current shoots through—just like the day he told me I look good when I wear white. Only now, I realize with a jolt of my stomach, it’s even more intense. I’ve been paying attention to these reactions from him. They happen often lately. They are becoming harder to ignore, but I try my best. Something else is getting harder to ignore, too.
This sense of guilt I can’t place.
"Let's get you to shoot straight,” Tristan says in a voice that doesn’t sound quite right. “I'll deal with my nightmares."
I smile. "Let's make a deal. I let you teach me how to face the forest; you let me help you face your nightmares."
"You won't give up, will you?"
"Should I take that as a yes? You'll sleep in the cabin?"
"Fine, I will,” he says with an uneasy smile. “Now, concentrate on the target and shoot."
Despite having memorized every movement of his muscles when he was shooting, I can't reproduce them, much less shoot with his accuracy. Or any kind of accuracy.
"So why aren't you in the Army anymore?" I ask after we call it quits for the day and gather the arrows.
Tristan hesitates. "It's a hard life. It started to take a toll on me. And… I dropped out because I wanted to spend more time with my wife. I'd been deployed almost continuously since I enlisted, so she spent the first two years of our marriage alone. Not the life she hoped for," he says. "In the short periods when I was home, things between us were tense. Very tense." His eyes search me, as if hoping I might interrupt him or switch subjects. But I don't. I leave it up to him. If he decides not to say anything else, I won't press for more. I’ve
His words bewilder me so that I don't have time to ponder whether he's trying to change topics or really plans to poison the arrows. "Why? That would make whatever you shoot with a poisoned arrow inedible, right?"
"Not for the animals we intend to eat, but for predators.” I know he’s thinking of the paw prints we discovered the other day. “If a jaguar makes an appearance, I'd need about five arrows to take him down. Jaguars are very fast. I'd never have time to shoot enough arrows. If the arrows are poisoned, we'll have a better chance."
"How will we find poison? I mean, most things around us are poisonous, but it's not like we can drain—”
"I don't know yet." He rests his jaw on his palm. The tuft of dark emotions in his gaze tells me he's not thinking about poison for the arrows, but a different kind of poison.
"That's what your nightmares are about, aren't they?" I ask. "Your time in the Army."
He doesn't answer, but I won't be deterred. "If there's an elephant in the room—or well, the jungle—I don't want to keep ignoring it. We can talk about things. It can be liberating." I remember the talk we had about my parents a few weeks ago, and how I felt so much freer afterward. When Tristan doesn't glance at me, much less answer, I add, "I hear you every night, you know."
That makes his head snap up. "You can hear me?"
"Yeah." His gaze holds so much anxiety and desperation that I'd like nothing better than to bury myself in the ground, ashamed that I'm intruding in a matter so private.
He swallows hard, looking away. "I'm sorry."
I blink, confused. "For what?"
"I didn't want to disturb you. I thought if I closed the door… I didn't realize I was so loud."
"You're not disturbing me. You don't have to keep sleeping in that cockpit. There is enough room in the cabin, and I don't get scared by nightmares."
He smiles sadly. "No, but you will resent me. Even if you can hear me when I'm in the cockpit, it's better if there's a door between us."
"I won't resent you. Tristan, come on, trust me on this one. You need to be able to rest. The cockpit is nowhere as comfortable as the cabin. We'll deal with those nightmares."
He glances at me, his expression unreadable. Then he hands me the bow and some arrows.
When our fingers touch, an electrical current shoots through—just like the day he told me I look good when I wear white. Only now, I realize with a jolt of my stomach, it’s even more intense. I’ve been paying attention to these reactions from him. They happen often lately. They are becoming harder to ignore, but I try my best. Something else is getting harder to ignore, too.
This sense of guilt I can’t place.
"Let's get you to shoot straight,” Tristan says in a voice that doesn’t sound quite right. “I'll deal with my nightmares."
I smile. "Let's make a deal. I let you teach me how to face the forest; you let me help you face your nightmares."
"You won't give up, will you?"
"Should I take that as a yes? You'll sleep in the cabin?"
"Fine, I will,” he says with an uneasy smile. “Now, concentrate on the target and shoot."
Despite having memorized every movement of his muscles when he was shooting, I can't reproduce them, much less shoot with his accuracy. Or any kind of accuracy.
"So why aren't you in the Army anymore?" I ask after we call it quits for the day and gather the arrows.
Tristan hesitates. "It's a hard life. It started to take a toll on me. And… I dropped out because I wanted to spend more time with my wife. I'd been deployed almost continuously since I enlisted, so she spent the first two years of our marriage alone. Not the life she hoped for," he says. "In the short periods when I was home, things between us were tense. Very tense." His eyes search me, as if hoping I might interrupt him or switch subjects. But I don't. I leave it up to him. If he decides not to say anything else, I won't press for more. I’ve
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