little he’s wearing. If he didn’t have his jacket on, he would be dead. But it isn’t a thick jacket, though that can be deceiving.
But he is wearing jeans and, from what I can tell, only a flannel shirt underneath the jacket.
“You’re freezing. My God.”
I quickly pull out the clothes I had jammed under my jacket and hand them to him.
He looks at his boots and then to me.
“Can you unlace them for me?”
I take off my gloves and tug on the laces and loosen up the knots. Then I pull the boot apart the best I can.
“Pull with your leg and I’ll hold,” I say.
There’s some resistance, but eventually his foot slides out. I unlace the next one and it slides off too.
“The socks too.”
I slowly peel off his socks, which causes a few yelps from Paul.
“Fuck, that burns,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m trying to be careful.”
Every part of his body is frozen red, and when I touch him, little white spots appear on his skin. His clothing is damp from the snow. The cliff protected him from the worst of the storm, especially the wind, but hanging out there for hours left him exposed.
“My pants, please,” he says, still trying to flex his hands.
I look up at him. His eyes are soft, sky blue. I nod, like it doesn’t bother me in the least. I’ve never taken a guy’s pants off before, and this certainly isn’t how I expected it would go down: on top of mountain, in the bathroom of a crashed plane, in the middle of a blizzard.
I put my hands on his jeans. There’s a belt that I loosen and then pull off. I unbutton the fly and unzip. I put my fingers around his waist and grip both sides. I turn my head to the side and yank down as hard as I can. He lifts one leg and I pull the pant leg over his foot, then the next.
“And these-they’re soaked,” he says, feeling the back of his briefs.
My eyebrows go up instinctually and I say, “Really?”
He puts his hands out in front of me and for the first time I see how red and bruised they are.
“Okay, sorry. I’m gonna close my eyes.”
He smiles and shakes his head. “Sorry. I apologize for the weirdness.”
I close my eyes and slide my hand beneath the band at his waist and slowly pull them down as he steps out. I grab the long johns and open them up so he can step in them, which he does. I stand up and pull them over his crotch. I sneak a peek and feel a flush spread across my face. I never look up, afraid he’ll see me blushing.
I grab the dry jeans and repeat the whole process in reverse. When I’m done, I put dry wool socks on both of us.
I watch Paul pull down the bottom of his jeans over his socks with clumsy, swollen hands. I have an impulse to touch them, which is unexpected because they look gross. I don’t act on it. Instead, I look up into his eyes, and he’s staring down at me.
“Hey,” I say.
“Thank you,” he says. “We should sleep together.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry, in the sleeping bag, I mean. This is decent shelter, but our warmth is our greatest asset; we’ll maximize it in the bag. We’ll figure something else out when it’s light again.”
“Right,” I say nonchalantly. Inside, I’m shouting, Holy shit, holy shit.
Then I add, “Yeah, makes total sense.”
We both step into the bag, and I slowly zip it up. It is really snug, and the front of his body presses against my back. We fit like crescent moons lying side by side. His body, despite being dressed in dry clothes, emits a coldness I can only imagine is painful to bear. His hands are right in front of me to study. His right hand is red and cold, but his left is bruised and cut. They both look angry and swollen. Then, as though he can see me staring at them, he speaks: “I’m going to put my hands on you, okay? I need the warmth.”
Slowly his hands move under my jacket and my sweater, his long arms circling me, and then he tucks his hands under my arms. Blood rushes to my cheeks and my stomach drops with unexpected excitement. I’ve never been touched like this before, and though it’s probably just platonic, I feel a pulse of electricity shoot through my body.
“Is that too awful?” he asks. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I say. But his body heat is good, much better than being in the bag alone. Instinctively, I cross my arms and place my hands over his. He grunts from the pain.
“Your hands aren’t as soft as I remember,” he whispers in my ear.
I smile, thinking of our first conversation.
“I can’t believe we’re here,” I say.
“I can’t believe you’re sleeping with me after one day.”
“Yeah, but I can’t believe you let me know your little secret,” I say.
“What secret is that, my philosopher friend?”
“You make jokes when you’re nervous, so I guess sharing a sleeping bag with me makes you nervous?”
I know he’s smiling-I can feel it in my heart. He says nothing for a long time. We just lie there on our sides, listening to the wind and our breathing. Our feet press against the wall beside the toilet and our heads lie softly on our coats.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“I’m not a philosopher,” I whisper back. “I mean, I’m not a philosophy major. I lied before, so you can stop calling me that. Please.”
There’s a pause in the darkness. I don’t know where all the courage is coming from, but I do know I feel an uncontrollable urge not to lie. Not to lie going forward, not to lie period.
“Right,” he says. And then he adds an aside a few moments later: “But I can tell you think too much. Sometimes doing is better than thinking, you know?”
“Not really,” I say.
Suddenly, he kisses the top of my head, in a brotherly way, nothing further.
“See, I wanted to do that, but I was thinking about it too much.”
“Clever,” I say.
“Night,” he whispers.
I sit for a moment in the dark, thinking about the day. It’s been endless and utterly exhausting-like a lifetime lived in twenty-four hours. I can hear a soft snore coming from Paul. I wonder what tomorrow will bring.
Chapter 18
I wake. Light splinters in from under the door. Paul’s arms are draped around me: his right arm snakes around my body, and his left circles above and around, cupping my waist, his hand gripping my side just above the hip bone.
I’ve read about the wilderness and I know that you can experience hallucinations in extreme cold. Because there’s a twenty-ish guy spooning me, I question whether this is indeed a hallucination. Am I losing my mind? I consider the possibility that I am actually dead and that this is the beginning of an unexpected afterlife. Could I have conjured up a more conventional scenario than to wake up in the arms of a beautiful boy?
I don’t want to move, for fear of waking him. I listen to his breathing, which is full and deep. His breath is warm on my neck. Maybe somebody will come today and find us and it will all be over. I wish I had a close friend I could tell. There’s nobody at the institution but the Old Doctor. He’d love it. I can imagine him saying, “Jane, don’t you see now? You were alive up there, face-to-face with death. Things happen when you’re alive in the world.”
“Are you awake?” Paul’s voice is deep and rusty.
“Yes, why?”
