On Second Thought Page 6

  And I’m learning a few things as we climb. One, that balance requires both hands, and two, that I best keep my mind on the path as opposed to following along everything so devastating about her. That firm stance as she grips my hand and lifts me up. Her fitted shirt. The way her body moves, feels when she’s pressed against me. Calves that flex with each step.

  “I’d love to get out of the noise more, the mess,” I say. “It’s a shame you need to hike so far to find this.”

  “Wait until you see the top.”

  “Will you kiss me at the summit as the sun sets?”

  “I’ll kiss you wherever you’d like,” she says. And all I keep thinking is get it together. But I can’t. I can’t keep it together.

  “But once we reach the top,” I say, “it’s all downhill from there.”

  “It doesn’t need to be.” And she’s weaving fingers through mine.

  “I know, I know. It’s all about the journey, isn’t it?”

  “Well, that’s hard to say.”

  It is hard to say. But ten, twenty, thirty seconds later and she still hasn’t turned away. It’s as if she’s waiting for me to say something I’m not really comfortable saying.

  But soon enough, we’re both gazing out at this mountain’s infinite, feeling ever so high as she turns to me and says, “We don’t have to know where we’re heading.”

  And we don’t. That’s right. This feels okay. Because I think we’re heading somewhere. Yet, as I try to pull my thoughts into some sort of beautiful reply, this kiss, this wandering palm and she’s whispering, “Why do I want you…like, all the time?” And my heart feels so heavy that I have to turn away.

  Scuff dirt, kick this off the cliff. And she’s still got her eye on me. Keeping me here, not talking, not helping matters, not carrying on. Listening. But what is there to hear?

  As we manage along the path, and she hops in the lead and glances back with a curious look on her face. “Jenna Paulsen,” I hear. “Does she happen to work in tech?”

  “Why, do you know her?”

  “I used to,” she says.

  Chapter Eight

  The Balancing Act

  Rae

  Let’s see. The last time I saw Jenna, she’d registered for night courses, convinced that a new degree would solve her every life’s problem. And why this topic amuses me, I can’t say. Given it’s quite the bone of contention, making me question whether scaling up a boulder right now is the best activity for us.

  What I seem to remember most about Jenna is how she would always zero in on one thing, convinced she’d arrive at some completely unrelated outcome. Case in point, cutting her hair to get me back, and why? There was no correlation between the two. Not to mention that Carnival cruise, a gift for whatever reason—Valentine’s Week?—which only made matters worse between the two of us, as would be expected of anyone confined within such small quarters for such an unreasonably long period of time. Five days, to be exact.

  Oh, and let’s not forget that shelter poodle she adopted to curb her cravings for evening cocktails. Just drink, I told her. “But night walks,” she said.

  Good luck with that.

  She was outrageously stubborn, irrationally so, with just about everything. But it’s remembering her occasionally unregimented side, that’s where I get into trouble. Because Jenna was my first in a string of train wrecks. Those I didn’t leave for reasons I won’t go into here. But it’s not as if I could confess this much to Madisen.

  “Surely you have a past,” I say, “some of whom you’re friends with—those you regret a little less than the rest?”

  “I regret none of my past,” she says. “So that’s not it. I just don’t remain friends.”

  “I wouldn’t care if you did,” I say.

  “Why, though?”

  “Remain friends?” I say. “There is no why. More like why not?”

  “And how long does that take?” she says.

  “For what?”

  “You know,” she says, “for the two of you to see one another as friends?”

  “Do you ever?” I say joking. But maybe that came out wrong. So after reflecting on this a little longer, I clarify—or backtrack, whatever you want to call it. “That’s to say, with some, you can’t, sure. But most, those who were pretty much incompatible from the start, I mean, some are just wrong, don’t you think? You look back and wonder What on God’s Earth was I doing?” I stop short of blurting out like everyone before you—which wouldn’t be wise to divulge. Instead, “I’m pretty slow when it comes to good-bye. I just don’t see the need. And to answer your question earlier, nobody really left. It just dissolved,” I say, “like they all do. And I think maybe a year, but not exclusive. And on the friendship front, an ex is a friend but not that kind…not like you and Andi are.”

  But I’m not sure how to interpret her laugh. “The line that would never be crossed,” she says.

  “And why’s that?” I say, trying not to sound jealous. Because I’m not. Really. Curious, maybe.

  “I’ve never really thought about it.”

  But if you ask me, if there’s a line, it could be crossed.

  And I don’t know, it must be somewhere along our next quarter mile or so when I find that I’m merely half listening to her goings on about building code and long hours and a quarter past eight—half listening, that is, to those mundane ramblings, when she stops midsentence, and my mind has to wrap back to hear whatever it is she just said—or perhaps what she’s saying. More like, what she’s not saying.

  Expecting she’ll continue when I glance over. But instead she turns away.

  So I ask.

  “What were you about to say?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Never mind?” I say. And she gives me that grin, you know, the overinflated Let’s change the subject one.

  “It was way off topic.”

  “Was it?” I say. And she jumps ahead. “In any regard,” I say, “I guess I won’t count on you to be there for me after our epic fallout.”

  “And you think we’ll have one of those?” she says.

  “You never know,” I say, thinking I hope not.

  “Because I couldn’t imagine you…as a friend,” she says.

  But as we reach the summit, which is more of a flat grassy knoll, one that dives off, a bluff, if you head off too far, I find that I’m more and more intrigued, or maybe I should say concerned, about what she held back just a minute ago.

  Yet here we are, remarkably the only hikers in sight, short of those two, who predictably beat us to the top, now scanning the vast valley and its treetops and rooftops and cleared rectangular farms and cloud shadows. So without a word, I unsnap and unpack as she whips open a blanket.

  Madisen is on her knees right down to that inadequately buttoned tank top, hunched in that way you would to unwrap while taking your first bite. Struggling to hold that sandwich together and all the while naively sharing the edging of lace just beneath a billowing drape of hair, shadowing cleavage, making it all but unbearable to be here.

  And that’s when our friends catch on and decide to make their way over, eventually lazing beside. “Cheez-Its?” I say. “Vegetable Thins?”

  As she slips heel-to-toe until bare ankles cross.

  And lunch goes on like this, with our friends oblivious to our secret glances. As I try to hide this ridiculous grin I’ve had on all day.

  Until a while later after we’ve snapped the plastic cap off another water bottle as we segue into that Tahoe story, the Airbnb, and why I despise tubing and indoor gardenias. “Imagine the six of us crammed into one hot tub with a glass of whiskey,” I say, “during a blizzard, since what else was there to do?” While Vegetable Thins make their rounds and I grab a few.

  Thinking it’s bad enough when she leans in, sharing all that’s plunging. Now I’m back on bikinis. Steamy sauna bikinis. Cold snow bikinis topped with that glass of whiskey.

  And soon enough, once our partners have packed up an
d gone ahead, I’m lying across her lap imagining that. Air rippling. That hit-or-miss glimpse of sun through her hair.

  But it’s not as if I’m not agonizing. Especially given that far-off look, since something’s going on. But I can’t ask. Just let it go. And really, what would I say? And how would that sound? Ridiculous, that’s how. Because it never comes out the way it should.

  And it’s downright gloomy by the time we do decide to head back down, overcast. Her, hoping to fold my blanket in that way you would if you were trying to save space as I collect the rest. And the wind’s picking up.

  But we make our way back to that lonely trail, less a bird or three, hiking along a path so thick, so layered and sheltered, it tugs us along down in its gradual descent.

  “Watch your step,” I say, catching her hand.

  “I’m more adept at hiking than you might think.”

  “Were the famous last words of our slackpacker,” I say.

  “And we all know my reason for that,” she says.

  “I’m sorry,” I say with a wink as a hand brushes hers in passing. “Still I’m grateful you saved me from that extreme trail.”

  “I thought we’d spend more time with them,” she says.

  “Next time,” I say, “since they’re in a pretty bad place if we hold them back.”

  “They’re cute,” she says.

  “Marriage makes everyone cute,” I say. As we fumble along, or at least I do.

  “So,” she says, “you shot their wedding?”

  “Well, sort of.”

  “And when was that?”

  “I was a kid,” I say. “They’re like moms.”

  “And you’re the rebellious offspring,” she says. “I must say, I’m honored. And surprised.”

  “What, that I introduced you to family?” I joke.

  “That,” she says, “and the fact that you’d be nervous shooting their wedding.”

  “Since it was their wedding,” I say, “which you can’t screw up.”

  “You could never screw anything up.”

  “Well, they clearly have no taste.”

  “But they clearly do,” she says, meeting my gaze.

  And full disclosure, I’m starting to think if we keep on, if we continue along this path, we’ll be done and out by two. And do I really want that? Since we have this day, don’t we?

  Not to mention, this bit of rain, as I find a crook, a nook, some brush flattened down enough to tug her in. Still laughing about our rumbling storm as a gush of wind whips in and molds her shirt.

  “This wasn’t in the forecast,” she says. “I did check.” While scouting our way underneath one of those trees with roots resembling balance beams.

  “They never are,” I say.

  And as we take a seat, she’s still laughing and so am I.

  Because this right here could go in so many different directions, couldn’t it? If we wanted it to. As she lifts her gaze, and it’s settling me. But I’m too nervous. So I take her hand, that’s all.

  “You know what I’m not worried about right now?” I say. But I’m wondering again, aren’t I? “How long this storm might last.” About that slip she made earlier. As she tugs the hem on her shorts. What isn’t she telling me?

  Since now, settled in, I’m half-tempted to ask her again. But I’m too afraid of what she might say.

  Because isn’t it always this way. It’s what I do—skipping over it, letting it slide, hoping she means well, means something else. Not wanting to know. Then twisting this to work to my advantage. Until it doesn’t anymore. Until it’s too late. Until she’s gone.

  Those clues that never seem to matter at the time.

  So for the next fifteen minutes, we talk about everything but, as in aloe plants and this paint color named Metropolitan, but it’s really just another white she says. Then stand-up on Netflix and how hetero it is. And movies and television and how nothing’s ever new, and how everything’s remade or rehashed. And how much better we liked the originals, even if they’re bad. And friendships. And why we always run through rain. And why she pulls my sheet while she sleeps. And her perfume, and how I love it, and how I’m getting rain all over me and so is she. And how we’ll never get home. But how we don’t even care and should we?

  Then I bring up transparency, white shirts, and how she’s falling out of hers. And how much better it would be if she just took it off. And how she looks at me. And how it makes me feel, like I’m someplace else. Until I’m wondering if I should care about all of those things she doesn’t want to share with me.

  But I do.

  So I bring it up. And after that, I’m searching her eyes for a response, anything, and it’s really hard to say.

  And she says, “It’s a long story.”

  And I say, “Don’t we have time?”

  And she’s silent.

  So I’m wondering, even as I slip a hand along the bend of her knee, if it’s me. If it’s rash. If it’s futile. If I’m finding things to go wrong. If I’m running away.

  And as I do, she lifts her cap in a breeze and it’s spilling hair all around as she tells me, “It’s complicated.”

  Complicated—but what does that mean?

  It means I shouldn’t have asked, and besides, we have this day, don’t we? And she’s doing this thing, leaning in until I can taste the faded gum on her tongue. Because that crazy rain is holding us back when all we had to do is walk through it, soak our clothes—I mean, we already are.

  Yet we hid instead, back here where I could lift her shirt overhead without anyone ever knowing. And as opposed to going on, to asking or wishing, assuming, I’m pinching that hook at the center of her back. Then straps slip down along her elbows, stopping at the crook. And she falls right out.

  With this spray drenching her skin all the way down the front, and between her thighs. Until she draws me up and we’re standing and hair clings all along her face half drenched. Rain coursing down my hand to the flesh between her legs. It’s weighing at my clothes.

  Knowing in my heart that had we gone in that other direction, she wouldn’t be here, resigned, her slipping out of this, her breasts heavy, her fingers gripping me, unsteady. She wouldn’t have guided my hand here. To unfasten, unzip. To slip inside her. To hear her breathless. Or to taste her. To breathe her in.

  * * *

  The next day, we meet for brunch and she strides into view in that casual way to the crosswalk, watching cautiously as she waits at the curb for brake lights to flash, that hand shading a brow with fingers casting shadows along the bridge of her nose.

  It’s our standard seat at Archipelago. Somewhere beneath the canopy, I always say. And this is your typical weekday with a pinch of damp in the air during that stretch sandwiched too tightly between a.m. and p.m., offering no shadows or reprieve unless you’re tucked beneath a broad-spread canvas, which I am, separated from pedestrians by a draped chain suspended on knee-high posts.

  And I’m listening to that musician play James Taylor. Meanwhile, engines roar along a scarcely populated stretch that goes only in one direction—its line of traffic hush as legs like hers hop the curb to cross its white painted lines. And as soon as she comes into sight, that plunge at the pit of my stomach.

  Catching a draft that’s carrying that scent of everything grilled from indoors. Sweetened with magnolia that blooms right above. As I take a drink of water, then set it down.

  Following meter after meter as she passes—chin tucked, focused more on squares passing underfoot.

  Her stride that shouts, Don’t bother.

  At least until she nears, until she’s making her way around, tucking knees under the table, pulling hair into that mess before she lets it fall over her shoulders, and it’s framing her face, her gaze now resting on the heels of two palms. While our stout waiter tucks in. And she’s ordering her espresso.

  Me, bending across the table to take her hand.

  “So, how are you?” she says.

  “They like your skirt
,” I say.

  “I didn’t wear it for them, you know?”

  And I smile, leaning back. Then cross a leg. As a car pulls up to the curb and some guy gets in and they take off. “I love summer,” I say.

  “Why,” she says. “For skirts?”

  “For that, yes,” I say, leaning in only to realize I’m mirroring her cheesy grin. “And this.”

  “Lunch by sunlight,” she says. But my heart won’t slow.

  “With the occasional storm to cut the heat,” I say, and her ankle brushes mine beneath the table. “Or something like that.” But I can sense my voice waver as I take this in. “It’s just bad for the drive.”

  “I know,” she says, reflecting. Then her phone goes off again. But she ignores it. “And where has the day gone? It makes me wonder why I did this…chose this career. Until I remember, right, I didn’t. It’s good to step back.”

  “When you can,” I say.

  “If you can,” she says.

  “It’s never fun when you’re paid for it.”

  “It’s only fun when you’re paid,” she says.

  “No, I mean, the minute you do it for a living, it loses the thrill,” I say. “But what’d you mean, choosing?”

  “It was never my decision, just expected,” she says. “And I don’t mean to complain. It’s food, this, a roof over my head. So let’s change the subject.”

  “A roof that I’ve never actually seen.”

  “And why is that?” she says.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “You tell me.”

  “Because I always stay at your place,” she says.

  “Invite me over,” I say.

  “To help me repaint?”

  “I can paint,” I say.