“We could share the pop-up tent,” he suggests.
Excuse me?
“Wouldn’t that make you uncomfortable?” I squeak.
He drags his fingers through his hair, the strands curly from the humidity.
“No, it wouldn’t. I’m comfortable with it if you are.”
I contemplate the offer, and then, against my better judgment, I nod. It’s only one night, and tomorrow we can pretend it neverhappened, and I can stew in my mistake until I inevitably make another.
“We have an early morning. Why don’t we hit the hay?”
Yes, hitting the hay. We should do that. I follow him back to the truck in silence, collecting the thin blanket and pillow from the back seat. There’s more space than I expected in the tent, and if we each stay on our sides, we should make it out alive.
Uncertain of the rules for sharing a tent, I shuffle to the edge—as far as I can go—and adjust to the most comfortable position on the sleeping mat. Jett rustles, and then silence descends, thick and heavy. The urge to apologize sits at the end of my tongue, but I clamp down on the words. I don’t think they would help, anyway.
In the dark, mere inches separating us, Jett speaks. “Can I ask you something personal? Or is that breaking a professional boundary?”
“Depends on the question.”
I don’t like the way he says “professional boundary” like it’s some dirty phrase. I know we’re friends and that can blur the lines, but he signs my paychecks, and that establishes a power imbalance, whether or not he recognizes it.
“Why do you always put the blame on yourself when something goes wrong?”
The question lingers for a while before I respond—before I knowhowto respond. “Because it’s my job to make sure things don’t go wrong.”
“Says who?”
The question surprises me. Society, I guess. The pressure to be perfect constantly weighs down on me. If something goes wrong, I pay the price. I try to trace back the origin of the mindset, but maybe it’sme.
“It’s in my job—”
He cuts off my flimsy response. “That is not why I hired you. I don’t expect you to be perfect. In fact, I would prefer it if you weren’t.”
My head snaps to look at him. His arms are crossed beneath his head while he stares up at the top of the tent.
“What?”
“You spend all this time so focused on not fucking up, on making sure everything isperfect, that you’re not appreciating what’s in front of you.”
Blood rushes to my brain, a ringing sound filling my ears as his words punch me squarely in the chest.
“The most fun I’ve had so far on this trip are the times when you didn’t take things so seriously. I get there’s work to be done—I respect that—but it’s not the only thing that matters, either. I don’t want you to look back on this trip and think about everything that went wrong. I want you to think about the bird in the tree today, or the dingo running across the beach at sunset, not that you accidentally forgot to rent another tent. In the end, that’s not what matters. Not to me.”
“I’ll try. I can’t promise it will go well, but…”
“Isn’t that what matters, anyway? That you continue to try, even when things don’t always go right?”
“Maybe you’re on to something.”
“I am pretty smart, you know.”
“And oh so humble,” I tease.
It’s the laugh he offers me, barely a huff of air, that dissipates the last of the nervous energy bottled in my chest. Maybe we’ll survive this after all.
“Are your teeth chattering?” Jett asks, his voice thick with sleep.
