Love without a Compass. Lindy Zart

anything,” Avery remarks.

      I look at her.

      “Your pocketknife.” She gestures to my shorts. “We were told to not bring anything but ourselves. Isn’t that considered illegal?”

      “Illegal?”

      “You know what I mean. Against the rules.”

      I study Avery’s features. “I would think you’d be glad I had it. Otherwise, you might still be trapped by a deadly tree.”

      Her jaw goes taut. “I think the idea was to get me untangled without using a weapon.”

      I shrug. “I’ve been wondering…how did you manage to get your hair caught?”

      “You know what an even better question is?” She glares at me.

      “Why has Duke forsaken me?”

      Avery continues to glower at me.

      I sigh and briefly explain about the pocketknife, “I don’t go anywhere without it.”

      “Why?”

      I climb over a boulder almost as big as me, calling over my shoulder, “If I tell you, you’ll just make it into a slogan and sell it on me. You’re good at that.”

      AVERY

      We all have parts of ourselves we dislike. Some we can help, and others, we cannot. I’ve always hated my freckles and wavy hair. I can’t permanently do anything about either of those.

      I carefully heave my frame over the monstrous rock that decided to make its home in the middle of a trail. I scratch my palms and knees in the process. Once I get over it, and by that, I mean, I basically let myself fall over the side and ungracefully land on my feet, I lean over with my palms on my knees and take a moment to catch my breath. Sweat trickles down the sides of my face, stinging my eyes when some drips into them.

      “We’re wasting daylight,” Ben says snippily.

      “Coming,” I say hoarsely.

      I want people to like me, and because of that, I sometimes don’t stay true to myself. The need for approval is strong, and knowing from where it stems, doesn’t negate it. There are times I’ve done things I regret, or acted in a way that isn’t really me, all to impress someone. I study Ben’s profile as he takes in the scenery up ahead. I had control over whether or not I hurt Ben, and I did it anyway. Because I thought the bigger picture outweighed Ben’s feelings. Because I made a mistake I can’t fix.

      My chest spasms, tight with pain, and I straighten. I slowly make my way toward my coworker and teammate, my muscles overtaxed and noodle-like. I’m not used to this much physical activity. Exercising is not my friend.

      I stop beside Ben, my heart pounding with gusto. He takes one look at me and wordlessly offers a bottle of water.

      “Thanks,” I rasp, chugging the water so fast it dribbles down my chin.

      “Easy, we need to make that last,” Ben warns, moving to take the bottle from me.

      I almost growl at him, but grudgingly relinquish the water.

      He hands me a piece of jerky and I chomp down on it, tearing off a small piece and chewing it into oblivion until I can swallow it without the fear of choking on it. I do this until it’s gone, my stomach longing for more. I don’t even bother asking, the look Ben gives me saying not to waste my breath. I grimace and turn from him.

      A wind forms, strong and cool. I close my eyes and tip my head back, letting it wave over me. This, right here, this is nice. The rest of it? No. But the breeze is like heaven to my burning skin and downtrodden disposition. It’s enough to put a little pep back into me.

      When it passes, I lower my head and open my eyes, surprised to find Ben watching me. Noting the intensity with which he views me, my mouth pulls down. What is he thinking? He quickly looks away, his throat bobbing as he swallows. I decide I probably don’t want to know. I’m sure it’s something hellish, like he wishes I’d break out in scabies or something. I’m not even entirely sure what that is, but it sounds horrible.

      “It’s beautiful out here,” Ben says softly.

      I turn a critical eye on the world below and beyond us. The landscape blurs the farther out it goes; its rolling hills blanketed with dense greenery and brown soil, and higher still, mountains are tipped in gray and white. Endless, and vast, it stretches out for miles and miles. Land layering land layering land. My opinion shifts from adverse to appreciative.

      “It looks like it goes on forever,” I remark, watching as clouds shift and part. It’s dizzying to see from this height, and to know with a few steps forward, I’d be rolling down the side of a mountain. I put more space between me and the ledge.

      A bird caws in the distance and I hum to block out the sound, refusing to look at anything but what is directly before me, which is a sloping incline. If I don’t see them or hear them, they aren’t really here. As another bird joins the first, my stomach lurches.

      Over the undesirable sound of nasty flying creatures, I shout, “Can we get moving already?”

      Ben gives me an odd look. “Why are you yelling?”

      “I just like to yell,” I yell.

      His eyes narrow. “Since when?”

      “Since now,” I get out around clenched teeth, lunging forward when Ben doesn’t move fast enough for me. He can stay here if he wants, but I am most definitely not.

      “You want to tell me what’s going on?” Ben easily catches up to me, keeping pace with my light jog.

      “Not really.” I huff along, feeling as if my chest is going to collapse on me. I have exercised more today than I have in the past decade. It’s horrible and I hope to never have a repeat of it.

      Something flies in front of my face and I swat at the air as I go motionless, closing my eyes so I don’t have to know what it is. Of course, I ask anyway. “What was that?”

      Ben answers carefully, “A bug.”

      “It felt really big and seemed to have wings, like a bat…or a bird.”

      “It was a fly.”

      “No way.” I crack open one eye to find Ben staring at me. I snap, “What?”

      “Bats aren’t out during the day. You do know that, right?”

      My skin suddenly itches, imaging phantom bugs crawling on me. Or real. They could be real. Tiny, microscopic, disgusting bugs. I scratch at my arms and legs. “There are exceptions to everything.”

      “Sure, but it wasn’t a bat.”

      “Are there bugs on me?” Panic escalates, taking my sanity with it.

      “No,” Ben replies slowly.

      “Are you sure? Because it feels like there are.”

      He continues to watch me, finally asking, “Are you having a mental breakdown?”

      I scratch harder. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

      “Well, I wouldn’t exactly be sad about it.”

      I make a sound from deep in my chest.

      “Was that a growl?”

      I stop scratching long enough to glare at him. “I hate bugs.”

      “Got that.”

      I navigate the land, pretty sure we’re descending directly into hell. The tight feeling in my chest is getting worse, as is my scratching. “There are no bugs on you,” I tell myself, right before one lands on my shoulder.

      I shriek as I jump up and down, swatting at my shirt. The bug is attached to the fabric, clinging to me for all it’s worth. I hit myself harder in desperation. The bug is large, and