TWENTY-EIGHT

Unreliable Flip-flops and Very Reliable Men

Libby

“It's fine, Libby. You're fine,” I tell myself as I wind my way up the mountain in my slippery, sweaty flip-flops. The sun is starting to set, and fear creeps in as the shadows grow longer in what now seems like the first scene of a horror movie.

Just don't take your sundress off and go wandering about the jungle in your knickers. Only the stupid girl who strips down to her undies ends up dead. Everybody knows that.

A rustling sound in the trees causes me to jump, and my right flip-flop flops when it should flip and snaps apart, the strap coming loose from the sole.

“Are you shitting me?!” I say, bending down to see if I can fix it. I place the strap back in, then stand and take a step, only for it to fall out.

“Like I really need this right now.” Putting the strap back in place one last time, I then walk with my left foot and slide my right foot along the path.

Very efficient, Libby. Well done, you.

Oh, what am I doing here anyway? I have no plan. Rushing into the jungle in a skirt and flip-flops in search of a man who made it very clear last night he despises me isn’t exactly the foolproof way to eternal happiness, is it?

But to be fair, he did read a report that basically makes him sound like a complete moron, so…

“Think, Libby. Think.” I need to figure out what I'm going to say when I see him.

I lose my sandal again even though I’ve been carefully sliding it, so I decide to leave the flip-flop and go on without it. One foot is now making a smacking sound while the other pads along the damp jungle floor, and I can’t help thinking the abandoned flip-flop really is a metaphor for my sanity.

A low hooting sound causes me to jump again. “Is that an owl?” Oh, God. Please don't let that be an owl, or any other type of hungry raptor with long, curved, can-kill-you talons.

How far is it to that damn cabin, anyway? I look around, spotting no signs of anything familiar along the path, even though I'm pretty sure I'm on the right one. Or at least I hope I am.

All I have to do is just make it to the bridge. I'm not going to cross it. There's no way I'm going to cross it. I'm just going to walk up to it, call out to Harrison, and if he's at the cabin, great. He can cross the bridge, and we can talk. And if he's not? Well then, I'll just have to trek back down to the Rogue Fun and spend the night there. Alone. With no food, water, or weapons. Perfect.

I walk for what feels like hours but is probably more like twenty-five minutes when I finally make it to the top of the mountain by the bridge, which sways in the breeze. I take a moment to fix my ponytail and adjust my dress, even though it likely isn't going to help much since I'm drenched in sweat and jungle humidity and I have one extremely filthy foot and one that's only mostly filthy that’s still in a flip-flop.

“Okay, Libby, it’s now or never.”

Apparently, hiking through the jungle causes me to talk to myself like a crazy person. For the first time, I understand why Tom Hanks drew a face on that volleyball in Castaway. I've only been out here for about half an hour, and I already feel the need for a friend.

Cupping my hand over my mouth, I call out to the cabin in the distance, “Helllooo over there!”

Hello over there? That didn't sound very sexy.

Taking a deep breath, I shout, “Harrison, if you’re in there, I need to speak to you.”

Better, but still…

“Harrison! I need you!” Urgh. Too needy, but definitely loud enough.

I stand and wait, my eyes trained on the cabin door, willing for it to open. But it doesn't, and now I'm forced to make a decision: Go back to the boat, or go on and find him?

“Just Dewitt.”

Without letting myself think, I take a deep breath and kick off my remaining flip-flop, then grab on to the ropes that serve as makeshift railings for the bridge with both hands. Closing my eyes, I take one step forward before it occurs to me I probably shouldn't do this with my eyes closed this time.

Don't look down. Keep your eyes straight ahead. Keep walking. You'll be fine. Do not panic, and whatever you do, do NOT look down.

I take my first step onto the bridge and feel it slide back and forth under the weight of my right foot. With my left foot still firmly on the ground behind me, I take a moment to get used to the swaying motion of the bridge.

My heart thumps so loudly, I can hear it in my eardrums, and I feel slightly dizzy as I force my left foot to lift off the ground and move in front of my right one. The bridge creaks and groans, complaining about its new passenger. I slide my hands along the ropes, gripping it with white knuckles and sweaty palms — a bad combination when you're trying not to fall into a deep valley on a deserted jungle island.

Wow, the farther you get out on this thing, the more it shakes. I thought those first few steps were scary, but now that I'm pretty much dead centre, it's almost like being on one of those horrible carnival rides that shakes you back and forth. What is that one called again? The shaker or something to do with salt-and-pepper, maybe?

Oh, for God's sake, what does it matter, Libby? Just focus so you don't kill yourself!

“You'll be just fine,” I say out loud. “This bridge held up your weight and Harrison’s at the same time. It can certainly survive you alone.”

“Why, thank you, bossy lady,” I say, changing up my voice to try to sound more fun than I'm feeling. Then I laugh at the pure absurdity of what putting myself in a terrifyingly real, life-threatening situation will do to me.

Hmm…maybe if I hurry, the bridge won't sway as much, and it won't be nearly as scary.

I take three fast steps forward.

Nope! Not a good idea!

I crouch down as the boards underneath me bob up and down wildly. “Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! I am going to die.”

Taking a deep breath, I say in a soothing voice, “You're not going to die. Just keep going.”

If Harrison is in that cabin sleeping with some other woman, she better be a psychiatrist, because I have definitely gone off my rocker.

My hands are now gripped behind me, and I have to force them to slide along to my front, which throws me off balance a little. I take another step just as a gust of wind causes the bridge to tilt to the right.

“Shit!” I scream.

Oh good. I'm now hanging with my elbows locked around the ropes of an upturned rickety rope bridge in the middle of the freaking jungle on a deserted island. Also, my dress must have gotten caught on a nail or something because it’s currently over my head, so I’m also unable to see anything but the seafoam green fabric. At least I can’t look down…

Why didn't I work on my upper body strength? Why, Libby, you lazy, lazy idiot! What would it have taken? Like, four hours a week to be in amazing shape? Would that really have been so hard?

In a situation like this, you need arms like Madonna, not Kate Moss. Well, Kate Moss if she gained forty pounds but kept the same muscle tone underneath. You know what I’m saying.

Okay, well at least I'm staying calm, so my last few moments on this Earth will be spent with a bit of dignity. Except for the dress-over-the-head thing. Although, when I fall the dress will come down. Or it’ll stay put and I’ll plunge to my death in my knickers.

Hmm...wait a minute, if I'm so calm, then who's making that horrible shrieking sound?