Page 8 of Wild About You

Finn glances at me warily over his shoulder. “I didn’t agree to that name.”

“It was an executive decision.” I wave the statement away.

“Oh, are you the executive of this team?”

“I don’t know, Finn, is a fake important title what it would take for you to give me an ounce of kindness?”

Shocking my sweat-wicking socks off, he stops, then turns around, looking more confused than chastened. “I haven’t been unkind.”

That gets a laugh out of me. “I don’t think there’s a kind way to tell someone you think they’re gonna be a shitty teammate.”

He takes a step in my direction. “Hey, I didn’t say you’d be—”

“Oh, I’m sorry, an incompatible one.”

“Well, do you really disagree?” He’s stepped in again, and I have too, and we’re so close I’m surprised I can’t feel the steam coming out of his ears, nose, probably eye sockets too. I notice, entirely against my will, that his eyes are a deep, dark chocolatey brown.

I throw my hands out to my sides, trying to hold on to my ire. “I don’t know! I guess on principle, I’m incompatible with anyone who dislikes me so quickly for no reason. Tell me, who would you consider a compatible teammate?”

His frown intensifies and he crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t know!” he echoes me. “Someone more…serious about being here.”

The words land like a gut punch. I mean, I knew. I’m aware that’s how people perceive me a lot of the time. But he doesn’t have a clue how much being here means to me, how much I have riding on it. And I shouldn’t have to tell him just to prove I’m “serious” enough.

My face must show the way the insult hit, because Finn seems to deflate a little. He brings his fingers up to the wrinkled lines of his forehead and massages. “We’re wasting time.” Right as he says it, I hear softly tromping footsteps approach, and a team of two guys passes us, giving awkward, no-hard-feelings-but-we’re-passing-you smiles as they go. All the teams have slightly different off-trail destinations on our maps, and while we left the first checkpoint at the same time, we’ve naturally spread out while hiking at different speeds. Due to my partner’s, ahem, tenacity, our team has stayed ahead of most others. Finn is clearly itching to get a move on and keep that lead, but he waits until the others are out of earshot to continue more quietly, “I don’t dislike you. Can we just find our way to the challenge, please?”

I want to spit, but instead I push past him and walk onward, snatching the map from his hands as I go. “I don’t know about you, but I feel like I’m knee-deep in a challenge already,” I mutter.

We don’t speak for a while after that. Still, I barely have time to say friendly hellos to the other hikers we pass, going both directions, even though I want to stop and ask everyone how much of the trail they’ve done, where they’re from, and how they got here—you know, the basics. Finn is keeping a punishing pace, and we’re not exactly on level ground. I can feel my feet shifting in their new trappings, all-important sweat-wicking socks and ankle-stabilizing hiking boots that cost most of my last paycheck. The sales guy assured me these were the most comfortable and secure option on the market, and when I tried them on and walked up and down the store’s fake mountain incline, I believed him. But I’ve owned enough shoes in my life to know that no matter how comfy, most need breaking in—which I didn’t have time for. Hopefully somewhere in my fancy new pack there are Band-Aids.

I try to just push forward, not letting Finn get too far ahead of me. Lest he think I’m not taking the whole walking thing seriously. It isn’t easy, though, and I’m breathing heavily by the time we come upon a stunning overlook.

“Holy…” I pant out as I stumble to a stop, unsure what kind of blasphemy is worthy of this view. A few yards ahead, Finn pauses to take a look, too. I feel him glance my way while I continue to look out over the rolling ridges and mountains spread out before us, everything green and tree-covered as far as the eye can see.

A sense of awe I don’t often feel sweeps over me. It’s reminiscent of my first time seeing a stage show—the first time I can remember, at least, though I know Granny Star took me even before then. We sat in the very back, deep in the shadows where we couldn’t possibly have been seen from the stage, but it felt like the performers were singing and acting their hearts out just for me. It’s like I knew right then, in my too-earnest, too-hopeful little preschooler heart, that my life would never be the same.

I don’t think this is the day I change my entire life path to be a naturalist or anything like that. But I feel the awe. The Oh, shit, has this all been here all along? Just waiting for me to find it? The sense of witnessing something so much greater than myself, and understanding that it can change everything for me, if I let it.

Of course, it also makes me think of my grandma. Yet again. What is this, the sixth time today? That’s about five more than I’ll normally allow. My Granny Star moments are usually limited to when I see my tattoo in the mirror—the one on my ribs that I got in an impulsive moment the summer after she died, with a shitty fake ID so my parents never had to know. It’s an outline of a star and a heart interlocked, like she drew at the end of her signature. The brief physical pain of getting it was a welcome distraction from the deep, lingering emotional wound. The one that, if I’m honest with myself, has never really healed.

Which is why I try my damnedest to ignore it. But I should’ve known that would be hard to do, from the moment I learned we’d be in the Smokies on the AT. Not exactly in her hometown, but awfully close. It doesn’t take a psychologist to anticipate this might dredge some shit up. My eyes struggle not to water against wind and emotion, but it’s my partner’s gruff voice that pulls me out of my feelings.

“You need water,” Finn says. It isn’t a question, and when I think about it for a moment, I realize he’s not wrong.

“Do we have that?” My voice is embarrassingly breathless. I mean, I shouldn’t be embarrassed—I’ve been half running up a mountain. If only my teammate didn’t sound cool as can be.

When I look at him, he’s already lowered his pack to the ground and started digging through it. I take a few steps closer and he pulls out a metal water bottle, immediately passing it over to me. The heft of it tells me it’s full, and when I crack it open and take a sip, it’s amazingly, magically cold.

I finish a long series of gulps with a gasp. “God, that’s good. Did they put a little something extra in there?”

Finn gives me a dry look, and I think he could use a sip of the good stuff too. “No. You’re just dehydrated, and probably need food. Here.”

I try not to let my surprise show at all this…caregiving. Maybe he just doesn’t want to be held responsible if I fall off a mountain or something. After a little more rustling in his pack, he hands over a pouch of trail mix.

“Wow,” I say as I accept it. “How on-brand.”

He grunts. “Hurry up and eat so we can keep going.”

Well, the caregiving was nice while it lasted. While I munch on clusters of nuts, dried berries, and M&M’s, Finn extracts his own snack, a protein bar, then shuffles some things around in his pack before closing it up and shouldering it on. He backs away from the view to go stand on the trail again. Giving off such patient vibes. Such subtlety.

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