Curated

  “Water,” he croaks. 

Stephen’s usually smooth baritone now sounds like the brittle snap of kindling in the fire. His lips are cracked, his throat raw. 

“Water.”  

He squints across the wavering flames, eyes narrowing to make out Lita through the haze of smoke. 

“You sure there’s no water in there?” He gestures weakly at the small trunk by her feet.  

“Don’t even start,” she deadpans, shoving the trunk toward him. “For the seventieth time, unless you plan on licking sweat off Henry Cavill’s half-naked body, we’re doomed.”  Her voice is sharp, but exhaustion drags at her tone. 

Lita—thirty-four, dirt-brown skin now caked with more grit than flesh—brushes a layer of sand off her arms. Grey eyes catch the firelight, tired but alert. She raises them briefly to her husband of seven hours and change.  

Stephen sits across from her, 6’2”, mocha skin, black eyes that might have looked polished in another life. Right now, he’s a mess: T-shirt torn at the shoulder, streaks of dried mud along his jaw, a cut above his brow that’s crusted but still angry. He could’ve passed for a model—if models had to survive nights with no water, no food, and the eerie cries of unseen animals circling just beyond the glow of fire.  

Something howls in the dark, low and too close. Both of them freeze, ears straining, eyes darting past the shadows. The sound fades, swallowed by the chorus of crickets. Lita exhales slowly, heart pounding.  And then, Stephen breaks the silence. His voice cuts through her racing thoughts: 

“Remind me again why my nerdy, software-engineer wife has a little trunk full of exotic books and clippings of almost-naked people?”  

For a moment, Lita wasn’t staring at him across a dying fire in the middle of nowhere. She was staring at him across a ballroom, his black tux pressed sharp, his smile wide enough to rival the chandeliers. She remembered the laughter of their friends, the rich scent of vanilla and champagne, the string quartet tuning up for their first dance. That was only hours ago. Now his tux was torn, his face streaked with mud, and instead of champagne, his throat was dry enough to crack.  The memory dissolved as quickly as it came, swallowed by the grit between her teeth and the sound of crickets pressing in.  

“They serve as my muse,” Lita muttered, rubbing at her eyes with dirt-streaked fingers. The gesture was half-weary, half-defiant.  

“For…?” Stephen’s brows lifted.  

“My books,” she said quickly, “which I’d much rather be working on right now than sitting in the middle of nowhere with—”  

“What books?” His voice cut across hers, sharp, confused.  Lita froze. Shite. 

Her eyes flicked to the fire; it was sinking low, sparks bleeding into the dark like dying stars. Crickets chirped in uneven bursts. Somewhere beyond the tree line, something heavy shifted in the brush. Her chest tightened, both from fear of whatever could jump out of these woods, and from the secret pressing against her throat.

“Okay,” she sighed, words tumbling out. “So you know how I supposedly work at AB&C Tech?”  

“With the way you say supposedly, I’m guessing that’s a lie,” he said, voice flat but eyes narrowing.  

“Not a lie,” she corrected quickly, “merely… a stretch of the truth. I used to work there. Nine years. Gave them everything. The pay was good, I was saving steadily, and I’d just been given my own corner office when I quit, about a year ago.” She paused, swallowing against the dryness in her mouth. 

“Why? To write. It’s always been my dream, Stephen, and I know I’m good at it. Why didn’t I tell you?”  Her laugh came out brittle, like glass under pressure.  “Because if I’d said I was a thirty-three-year-old aspiring writer with no job, would you have even taken me seriously? Would we even be here?”  

Her words hung in the air, swallowed by the crackle of the fire. But in her mind, she was back in her corner office. The glass desk gleaming, her name etched neatly on the door. The hum of printers, the quiet envy in her coworkers’ eyes when she’d been promoted. Coffee brought to her desk, the city skyline stretched across the windows.  She remembered the day she resigned. The HR rep had blinked at her in disbelief, shuffling the paper as though she’d made a mistake. Her boss had leaned forward, lips parted, waiting for her to laugh and snatch the letter back. But she hadn’t. She’d walked out of that building lighter, freer, clutching the promise of unwritten stories.  

Now she sat here with sand crusting her eyelashes, her lips cracked from thirst, her husband staring at her like she was a stranger. The contrast was so sharp it made her stomach twist.  

Stephen cleared his throat. “Fair point. What I still don’t get, though, is why you had to spend all those years in a job you didn’t love, when you could’ve just given Daddy a call. I mean, whatever happened to the bald, pot-bellied Igbo man who named you Carmelita because he thought you were too beautiful for a generic Nigerian name?” He rolled his eyes.  

“Erhnn… let’s just say he grew hair and got abs.” Lita forced a laugh, adjusting the brittle pile of grass she’d fashioned into a bed. Her laugh didn’t travel far; the night swallowed it whole.  

Stephen’s voice softened. “Colour me intrigued.”  

Silence stretched between them. Above, the sky was starless, the kind of heavy dark that pressed on the chest. The fire had sunk low, shadows thickening at the edges of the clearing. Somewhere in the distance, an animal gave a long, lonely cry.  She stares blankly at the starless night sky. The crickets keep up their endless chatter, a rhythm against the stillness. She doesn’t have to look to know he has moved closer; she can hear it in the steady thrum of his heartbeat, faint but distinct beneath the sound of the night.  

“I lied, Stephen,” she said at last, her tone flat, almost resigned. “I’m not some rich girl, living off Daddy’s money. I’m self-made. I worked for the life I have.” 

She drew a shaky breath. “I lied about the name, too. I wasn’t always Carmelita. I was Benita. I wanted to change to Rita—I thought it would look better on a CV. The court official made a mistake, so here I am: Carmelita. Lita for short.”  

“Wow,” he manages after a beat. “You think you know someone…”  

Silence settles again, broken only by the fire’s occasional crackle and the chorus of crickets. A twig snaps somewhere in the dark, then nothing. Just the heavy quiet pressing in around them.  

Finally she says, “Remind me how we got here again?” She turns her head toward him, the faintest smile tugging at her lips.  

“Well, my dear Lita—Benita—Carmelita, beloved wife of eight hours and a handful of minutes,” he begins with mock ceremony, “if memory serves, we are here because of your brilliant idea to ‘spend our honeymoon in nature.’”  

He holds up a finger, ticking off the points like a storyteller reciting a tale. 

“First, we lost our way. Then, we asked for directions from strangers who, in your words, ‘looked nice because one of them wore a Modern Family T-shirt—and what sinister person wears a Modern Family T-shirt?’”  He chuckles, shaking his head. “Turns out: a disguised kidnapper. Now you know.”  

His voice dips, carrying more weight now. “We got drugged. We were kidnapped. By some miracle—or maybe Heaven itself—we managed to fling ourselves out of a moving truck in that druggy state and managed to run. And since then…” He exhales sharply, a laugh without humor. “…we’ve been walking. Miles and miles. Until we landed here—in the middle of nowhere. 

“Are you smiling? Yes, you’re smiling! Okay, now you’re laughing. I fail to see what you find amazing in this situation, you know.”  

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, I’m not laughing,” she says, still trying to smother her grin. “But you have to admit this sounds like something out of a movie. From our wedding to being kidnapped and escaping, all in seven hours. We should write a book about it.”  

“I guess,” he laughs grudgingly. “You should write a book about it.” 

Slowly, Stephen’s mood lifts, pulled along by her energy.  

“Yeah, but one thing is still missing though. You. Your part. I mean, it’s my fault we’re here basically. I’ve confessed to living a double life, but you? Nothing. My mysterious, squeaky-clean husband.” She side-eyes him.  

“Tear leather.”  

“Stop joor,” she teases, brushing her leg against his. “Give me something.”  

He falls silent for a while, the fire popping between them.  “My favorite color is pink.”  

She raises an eyebrow. “Hmm. Cute.”  

“I don’t really like football that much.”  

She groans. “Come on now—”  

“I always wanted to be a pasta chef,” he cuts in quietly.  

She squints. “Chef?”  

He nods. “Pasta chef.”  

“Asin spaghetti?” she laughs.  

He rolls his eyes, then lets his shoulders sag. “It sounds stupid, I know. But when I was a kid, cooking was the only time I felt like I wasn’t performing for anyone. No expectations, no grades, no courtroom arguments, no… image. Just me, heat, and food. But then law school was my parents’ dream, and I went along because I had none of my own.” His voice drops lower. “So here I am. A lawyer who secretly dreams about kneading dough, not drafting contracts.”  

She studies him, half-amused, half-startled by the seriousness that has crept in.  

“And that’s not all,” he adds after a pause. The fire throws strange shadows across his face. “I… lied too. I told you my family was comfortable, but the truth is—my father gambled everything away years ago. We were drowning in debt when I got into university. Every case I’ve fought, every client I’ve smiled for… it wasn’t just about ambition. It was survival. I’ve been carrying that weight, hoping one day to wipe the slate clean. 

“That’s why I married quietly, simply. No big reception, no public spectacle. Because I couldn’t bear for anyone to see me as less than what they expected.”  

The words hang heavy between them. The crickets outside feel suddenly louder, the fire’s crackle sharper.  

“Funny, isn’t it?” he finally says, with a dry laugh. “We spend years building these careful versions of ourselves, and it takes one night stranded in the bush, thirsty and broken, to strip it all away. Maybe that’s what the world does in moments like this—forces you to be honest when there’s nowhere else left to hide.”  

The fire crackles. For a while, neither of them speaks.  Lita finally whispers, “Oh.” 

It is not dismissal, not judgment. Just surprise softening into understanding.  

He shifts, staring into the flames. “I haven’t given up on it, though. Once we’re out of this mess, I’m signing up for culinary classes. Even if it’s just evenings, just to start.”  

The silence between them now is different, less heavy, more open. She lets out a short laugh, almost shaky. 

“Well. This has been… interesting.”  

Stephen’s mouth quirks. “That’s one way to put it.”  

She nudges his shoulder. “So what now, Mr. Spaghetti?”  

He huffs, but the corner of his mouth lifts. “Now? We’ve got fire. We’ve got each other. We’ll tough it out tonight.”  

She nods, drawing her knees closer to the heat. For the first time since it all began, the quiet doesn’t feel like distance.