Out of This World

Nope, not Kellan. At one point, he’d calmly opened his backpack, pulled out twine and rigged himself some sort of arm strap for the three boxes he carried. He’d offered to do the same for me, but I’d said I was fine.

If “fine” was hot, tired and increasingly grumpy.

“Believe me,” I said, “if anything in here was cooked, I’d have dived in by now.” I already had my sights set on a New York strip steak, as well as on one of the potatoes from box number three in Kellan’s arms. Loaded with butter and sour cream…Oh yeah…

“You okay?” Kel asked.

“No, but why?”

“Because you just sort of moaned.”

“It was nothing.” Only the thought of melted butter…

“Why are you huffing and puffing?”

“Um, because I’m out of shape, thanks for asking.”

Kellan, the jerk, wasn’t huffing and puffing at all. Probably because for his job swimming with dolphins, he actually used physical exertion.

I ought to try that sometime.

Or not.

“This stuff is heavy,” I said, adjusting the straps of both my duffle bags.

“You packed too much.”

“Did not.”

“Really? Then why do you need two gigantic duffle bags for three days in the wilderness?”

“Because things might come up.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Things.”

“Tell me what you brought,” he said.

“Oh, you know. Just the essentials.”

“Bet you brought makeup and fingernail polish.”

“Neither of which is heavy,” I pointed out.

Laughing, he shook his head.

Actually, the whole makeup thing had been a quandary. I’d had no idea what I’d need for the great outdoors, so I’d packed it all.

And truthfully? It was a tad bit heavier than I’d imagined.

“And what about shoes?” he asked.

Now there was a discussion I most definitely didn’t want to have. “What about them?”

“How many pairs?”

“Six.”

“Jesus.”

“Okay, four.”

“Haven’t you ever roughed it, Rach. Ever?”

Hey, I rough it every day of my life in the mean, tough streets of Los Angeles. I didn’t see a need to rough it on vacation as well.

“How many pairs of shoes did you really bring?”

“I don’t know why it matters to you,” I said, sniffing. “I’m not asking you to carry my bag.”

“Bags. Plural.”

Damn it. I hated that he was right. “See, this is why I don’t have a boyfriend. I don’t want to have to disclose certain matters.”

“You don’t have a boyfriend because you date guys who are allergic to commitment.”

Okay, maybe that was true, too.

“I’m sweating,” I said, looking for just a little sympathy.

“Sweat is good for you.”

I couldn’t have heard him right, because I sure hadn’t received an ounce of sympathy anywhere. “Excuse me?”

“It’s good for you,” he repeated patiently.

My eyes narrowed, and I stopped and faced him. “Are you saying I could stand to lose a few pounds?”

“What?” He shook his head. “Of course not. What I said was-”

“I’ll have you know, I’m only a few pounds over my goal weight.”

“I do know-Look, you’re fine-”

“And most of those five pounds are water weight.”

“Rach, I am speaking English, right?” He asked this in the baffled tone of men everywhere who’d stepped into uncharted territory: a woman’s psyche. “I said you look fine,” he said. “You heard that part?”

“Fine?” I made a snort that sounded like my head had just gotten a flat tire. “The word ‘fine’ should be erased from the English language!”

He blinked, and eyed me like an unstable rock wall. “What’s wrong with the word ‘fine’?”

“If you don’t know, I can’t help you.”

“Okay, clearly the excursion has gone to your head. Take a lighter box,” he said, sounding a bit desperate to change the subject.

Typical guy.

“Here, take the fruits-and-veggies box,” he said.

Great. Fruits and veggies. I hate fruits and veggies. “Fine.”

This made him frown. “Why do you get to use that word, and I don’t?”

I didn’t answer. I was still obsessing over my weight. I really did plan on losing those extra five pounds. Okay, ten. Honest. Just not right now. Not when I was wishing for some cookies.

Or the end of the quarter mile.

I was really wishing for that, but the woods had swallowed us up. I had a blister on my left heel and my stomach was still growling, but I couldn’t complain because I was with a guy whose arms could fall off and he wouldn’t say so, and I didn’t want to look bad.

I really hated to look bad.

“What do you suppose are the chances there’s a day spa at Hideaway?”

He let out a laugh between pants. “Only you, Rach.”

“Hey, it’s possible.”

Something buzzed. It was either my brain matter beginning to boil or the biggest fly on the planet. Wait. Not a fly, but-“Ack, bee!”

And it was after me. Like really after me. This was no simple flyby either, but a serious I’m-going-sting-your- ass attack by a dive-bombing, maniac bee. I lifted my box higher, trying to protect my face, while screaming like… like the girly girl I was.

“Stand still,” Kellan advised.

Stand still? This was a bee, the mother of all bees, out for my blood.

“Rach, your box.” Kel was trying to balance his own three boxes while watching me dance around like an idiot. “I’m telling you, you’re going to spill-”

Just as he said it, my box toppled right out of my hands and crashed to the ground.

Good news: The bee got the hint that I was crazy, and took off.

Bad news: The box imploded upon impact. Frozen ribs, steaks and ground meat all scattered across the ground, their plastic wrap loosened, becoming marinated in pine needles, dirt, ants and who-knew-what-else.

I dropped to my knees, looked at that New York strip steak I’d wanted and let out a pathetic sound. I think my eyes welled up, but I pretended it was from the dust.

Beside me, two battered tennis shoes appeared. One was untied. I have no idea why I noticed such a thing at a time of crisis like this.

With a sigh, Kellan lowered his knees to the dirt beside me.