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“Beckett? If it gets that cold at night, then don’t you think we should—” Miles’s words disappeared in his throat as soon as he noticed something black and yellow with a sharp stinger buzzing next to Beckett’s head. He jumped forward and shoved Beckett out of the way.
Beckett let out a shout of surprise as he was pushed backwards onto the sand. Unfortunately, Miles lost his balance and landed on top of Beckett, legs falling on either side of Beckett’s with a splash.
Miles looked down at Beckett. There was enough space between them that Miles could see the expression on Beckett’s face — wide eyes, parted mouth — but not much else. Not the sandy bank they were lying on. Not the surrounding trees. Not even much of the river. Just Beckett’s face.
“Miles?”
Miles sat up and looked around. The wasp wasn’t anywhere to be seen. He smiled triumphantly at Beckett. “We’re alone.”
“What?” Beckett croaked.
“No pesky uninvited visitors here,” Miles said and adjusted his butt. Then he realized he was still sitting on Beckett. Straddling him. More shockingly, Beckett looked more confused than uncomfortable, especially given all the skin contact at the present moment.
Beckett stared. Then, slowly, he raised his hand towards Miles’s face, fingers outstretched…
Probably to push him away, Miles realized, and quickly got off. It was kind of sad, actually — Beckett’s lower stomach/groin area made a very comfortable seat. He’d definitely sit there again. The thought made him smile. As if that’d ever happen.
“Sorry,” Miles said after he’d rolled onto the bank beside Beckett. “There was a wasp.”
Beckett’s hand, halfway in the air, froze. “A wasp?”
“Yeah, near your head, so I pushed you out of the way. I didn’t mean to land on top of you.”
Beckett sat up and rubbed his eyes. “A wasp,” he repeated again. He removed his hands from his face. “You were saying something before.”
“Oh yeah.” The sleeping bag dilemma. “Since it’ll be so cold at night, we should share a tent. And maybe a sleeping bag too. And maybe…sleep together?”
2
“NO,” BECKETT SAID.
“No?” Miles echoed.
“Our tents are made for one person. We wouldn’t fit.”
“We can squeeze —”
“And we wouldn’t fit in one sleeping bag either,” Beckett continued.
“Let’s unzip the sleeping bag, use it as a blanket—”
“That defeats the purpose of a sleeping bag. We’d be cold.”
“Not if we cuddle,” Miles argued, then remembered the skin-contact thing. “I mean, we don’t have to cuddle. All we need to do is share body heat. Just sleeping close together would do it.”
“Sleeping close together?” Beckett looked at Miles as if he’d suggested they become serial killers. He jumped to his feet. “No. No way.”
Miles creased his brow. “Are you upset?”
Beckett’s eyes drifted to the space between Miles’s legs. Miles looked down, wondering if the wasp had returned and was sitting on his swimming trunks. But no, there was nothing there. By the time Miles looked up again, Beckett had already averted his eyes.
“I’m not mad,” he said. “It’s just a bad idea. We’re not doing it.”
Miles forced a smile. “Okay. All good.”
*
Miles turned the tap. Turned it some more. Turned it until it started making a horrible metallic squeaky sound. Still no hot water.
