Withering Hope by Layla Hagen Page B

of news about everyone's private life, never mentioned anything about Tristan's love life… like the fact that he had been married. I suppose he was as tight-lipped there as he has been with me.
    I remember him telling me in our second week here he isn’t seeing anyone in L.A., and I wonder why. I can imagine women would knock themselves out trying to get a date with him. He's stunningly good-looking, with a body so well-sculpted he could give most underwear models a run for their money. His face has beautiful features, with black eyes and high cheekbones. Though for all their beauty, his features are peppered with a harshness I can't place. Like tiny shards of glass in the sun—shimmering bright and beautiful, like diamonds, but cutting at the touch. It's not his looks, though, that make him excellent boyfriend material. It’s his heart-melting protectiveness that leads him to taste weird-looking, potentially harmful, fruit himself instead of letting me do it; it’s his thoughtfulness to do things for me just to put me at ease, from washing stuff to making sure he calls me by my name a couple of times a day because I asked him to. He’ll make a woman very happy one day—if we ever get back to civilization. I remember what he told me about his wife, and I can’t imagine why anyone would fall out of love with him.
    I rub my numb feet and stand up. "I'm going to look for some fruit for dinner."
    "We have plenty of grapefruit, and I'll see if I can catch something. Just rest a bit; there's nothing wrong with resting."
    "I feel guilty just sitting here and staring at you rubbing the skin off your hands on that thing."
    He laughs, a few strands of dark hair falling into his eyes. He pushes them away, and I can tell he's annoyed with his long hair, but I like it. He asked me to help him cut it a few days ago but I declined, afraid I'd poke his eyes out with the knife.
    "No need for guilt. You work a lot. I never imagined you'd be able to do so many outdoor things so well." He says the words with a tinge of incredulity as if he still can't believe it.
    I put my hands on my hips, pretending to be offended.
    "I bet you thought I was a spoiled, rich girl."
    That isn’t far off. My family was rich. Not like Chris’s parents, but rich enough. My grandparents had been wealthy, and passed their wealth to my parents, trusting they'd continue the family business and multiply the wealth. But my parents dedicated themselves to humanitarian causes. They donated most of their fortune, though they kept enough for us to have a privileged life. We didn't have household employees, like Chris’s parents, which is why I was always a bit uncomfortable when I was at their place, where there was someone ready to meet my needs every moment of the day.
    "Well, no, I mean I knew you were down-to-earth, but I was expecting you to complain a lot. You adapt well," he says with approval, and I feel childishly proud.
    "Thanks. By the time we leave this place, I'll feel more comfortable outside than inside."
    Darkness slithers over Tristan's face and he doesn't reply. Sometimes he’s so negative. Despite Tristan's ominous predictions that the forest holds dangers at every step, we’ve managed to survive unscathed for more than a month, except for discomfort from fruit that failed the edibility test. I may have a false sense of security, but I believe we stand a good chance of getting through the months until the water recedes just fine. These weeks are proof of that.
    It won't be long before I realize these weeks have been nothing more than the calm before the storm that never ends.

"T his was a definite treat," I say a few days later, rubbing my belly. Tristan hasn't managed to catch a bird in two days, so we've feasted mainly on fruits. Tonight we got lucky. After we're done eating, I announce that since we still have about half an hour left before the darkness sets in, I want to inspect our wood supply, to see if we need to gather more wood first