I like this. I still don’t love nature, but Levi does, and watching him here, in his element, practically bursting with his own kind of quiet joy, I know I could learn to love it.
On the last day, Monday, he hands me the map and the compass and tells me it’s my job to guide us out of there using nothing but those tools and my wits.
And I do it. I mess it up a few times, but he helps out, gives me tips, and before I know it, we’re back to the trail, our wilderness jaunt over.
“See?” he says as I stuff the map into his pack. “I told you. Just your wits.”
“And a compass. And a map,” I point out. “And some help.”
“I’m going to keep at you until you like it out here,” he says, adjusting his pack on his back. “One day, June, you’re going to wake up and say to yourself, I’d really love to take a hike.”
“I do like it,” I tell him, and I think I surprise us both.
“Even though there are bears?” he asks, eyebrows lifting.
“Well, according to my boyfriend, who is the Chief Arborist of this very forest, black bears are no big deal and I shouldn’t really pay them any mind,” I tease.
“What’s an arborist know about bears?” he asks dryly.
“A lot, I hope,” I say. “Otherwise I’ll probably get eaten.”
We hike the last mile out on the trail, a million times easier than the cross-country trekking we’d been doing, and the whole way we talk about nothing: bears and raccoons and which animals are the funniest and whether cats have a sense of humor. We talk about his brothers and I complain about my dad’s names for his hot sauce, and none of it feels like a secret, clandestine affair.
It feels like he’s my boyfriend and we’re just some couple taking a weekend hike. It feels like this weekend hike could turn into another one and then another, months of weekend hikes stretching in front of us that turn into years.
The thought makes my heart pound, but I ignore it like I’ve learned to ignore anything that isn’t today, tomorrow, maybe the end of this week.
And then, suddenly, we’re finished. Almost without warning the trail ends in the trailhead parking lot where we started Saturday morning, and our adventure’s over. Out of habit, I turn my phone back on as we walk toward Levi’s truck, then stuff it back into my pocket as we sling our packs into the bed.
I’m buckling my seat belt when it dings.
And dings. And dings, then dings again, and my first thought is oh no something happened to my family, so I pull it out frantically, but it’s not my parents or Silas.
Instead I have five missed calls and two voicemails from a phone number with a 605 area code. I scroll down, frowning, as Levi starts the truck, looks over at me.
“Everything good?” he asks, one arm loosely draped over the steering wheel, right hand on the gearshift.
At the bottom of the notifications, there’s an email: Urgent request to reschedule phone interview.
“Shit,” I whisper to myself, already opening my phone.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
I don’t answer for a moment, waiting for this email to load. I’ve only got one bar of service, out here in the middle of nowhere, and it’s taking its sweet time.
“June,” Levi says, low and quiet and patient as ever, and suddenly I can’t bring myself to look at him.
“Everything’s fine,” I say, shaking my head. “I just, um, got some voicemails and an email about rescheduling my phone interview that was supposed to be tomorrow.”
I don’t say for the job above my pay grade in South Dakota. I have the sinking feeling that he knows.
“Rescheduling to when?” he asks, and now he’s not looking at me either, he’s checking his blind spots and his mirrors and he’s backing out into the gravel parking lot.
Finally, the email loads. It’s short, to the point: three o’clock central time, which is four o’clock eastern.
Which is… in seventeen minutes.
“Four?” I say, still staring at my phone. I can’t look at him. I can’t.
Levi clears his throat, looks at the clock on the truck’s dashboard for a long moment, like he’s thinking.
“Service here is pretty in and out,” he says quietly, thoughtfully. “Probably best if we drive closer to town so at least you get a better signal by then.”
I swallow hard, and I start to wonder what I’m doing and why on earth I’m doing it, but I shove that thought back down until I can’t hear it anymore. This is me. This is what I do, what I’ve always wanted to do and what I need to do and by God, I’m going to do it right now and worry about what it means later.