Page 48 of Fool Me

“When you regret encouraging this later, I won’t even say I told you so,” she sings and I appreciate the effort she’s making to keep things light.

I shut my door and follow her to the back of the Scout. She takes one backpack and hands me the other.

“Can you?” she asks, holding out her can of bear spray. There’s no reason she couldn’t do it on her own and I’d guess it’s just a way to occupy me, which makes me want to hug her again.

She steps closer and I slide the red bottle in the netting on the strap. She tilts her chin up, giving me a serious look. “If you change your mind and want to head back, just let me know.”

“I promise, I will, but I’m okay—feel better already, in fact. The hug helped.” Masking is fucking real and it’s a hard habit to break. While I do feel better than I did on the drive here, I’m far from out of the woods.

“As much as I hope that’s true, you don’t need to lie to cover for the hard days. Lord knows I’ve been there, and if you ever need someone to just be with you through the muddy parts that leave you feeling stuck and heavy, I’m here.” Harlowe sees right through my attempts to minimize it.

There’s a stigma when it comes to mental health—people don’t talk about it like they should. I used to be the same way.

“My sophomore year of college was hell. For the first time in my life, I was truly alone. I’d lost the two people I was closest to because they fucked me over. I was in the thick of it, only leaving my dorm for class, barely scraping by in my classes, sleeping twelve-plus hours a day.”

Normally, people just want you to be happy, and your mental health struggle makes them uncomfortable. They want you to be fine so fucking bad that they’ll overcompensate by trying to force you to feel better.

Harlowe addressing it head-on instead of just trying to cheer me up is refreshing.

“Thanks for the distraction, and for the offer to rot with me. Mental health is a fucking drag, but brushing it under the rug to make myself more palatable has never helped.”

“All that happens when you ignore it is an ugly festering.” She bends, clipping on Echo’s leash.

“Ding, ding, ding,” I say, the dog leading the way as we start down the trail, side by side. “I was in deep for almost six monthsbefore someone realized how serious it was and forced me to face it.”

“Who was it?” She lifts her chin toward me, watching me as we walk.

“Ray—Dr. McMullins. He’d been calling for weeks about an internship he wanted me to consider. I brushed off call after call, for weeks. When I finally answered, I spoke in grunts and half-sentences. With a sigh, he’d asked if I was talking to anyone. My smart ass retorted that I was talking to him at the moment.”

“Ah, I can relate. I get mean when my anxiety is bad.”

“Mine mostly manifests as physical pain and fatigue. It took a long time to find something that didn’t cause me to feel numb and affect my capabilities at work. But that one snarky remark was the opening he needed to get me to listen to him. He told me about how he’d struggled with depression, how certain times in his life have been worse than others, and how he worked with a therapist and psychiatrist to find a regimen that worked for him. Then he helped me find resources on campus so I could talk to someone.”

“For me it was Dad. My parents are divorced, and they picked the worst possible time to split up—during my awkward teen years.”

A family appears at the bend in the trail and Harlowe scoots closer, making room for them and taking my hand. There’s a lull in the conversation as they pass.

“There’s not a single cell in my body that buys that you were ever awkward.”

She shrugs. “I was a string bean—long and lean until I was almost eighteen.” She glances down at her chest. “I looked like a boy until these sprouted at the end of junior year.”

My eyes follow hers to the valley of cleavage peeking out at the top of her sports bra. If I don’t pull my eyes away, I’m goingto end up going face first into a rock, or she’s gonna slap me. Either way, I need to stop looking.

When I do, I find her wearing an amused look, complete with a lopsided smile that shows off one shallow dimple.

I grimace. “Sorry, that was rude of me.”

“Consider it fake boyfriend perks. You get to ogle me and I won’t knee you in the balls.”

“So generous, and on top of the climbing lessons.”

“Refresher—not lessons. It’s like riding a bike,” she reassures me.

“Somehow, that feels like a gross overstatement. I might remember belay on, belay off, but I’m pretty sure that muscle memory is long gone.”

This time it’s her turn to ogle, and it comes at the perfect time. A group of guys wearing Teton County Search and Rescue shirts appear on the trail in front of us. And, with her hand still clasped in mine, and her eyes raking over my body, we look every bit the new, happy couple we’re supposed to be.

To the three men approaching, it’s imperceptible, but I notice the new stiffness in her posture as soon as she steps closer.

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