Page 35 of Fake Date with the Mountain Man

“So, how does someone who has never even hiked before end up applying for a job with the Forest Service?” I ask when she seems uninterested in learning the difference between skunk and raccoon prints.

Marlow stares straight ahead, letting out a sigh before answering. “I was working for a foster care agency in Chicago and I just needed a change.”

“Yeah, but why the Forest Service? And why Gatlinburg?” I press. I’ve heard her official line before. In Marlow’s typical style, it’s a mysterious half-answer to the question.

“I applied for a lot of jobs in a lot of different places, actually. Everywhere from Alaska to Europe. EverywherebutChicago.”

“Don’t like Chicago?”

“There are a lot of bad memories there,” she says quietly.

“And Hunter was the first to offer you a job?”

“No, he wasn’t the first. I had a couple other offers on the table as well. It was Abby’s program that convinced me to takethis job. Hunter said they could use some help getting it up and running, which meant I would still get to help kids.”

“So, you really like kids then?”

I know I’m asking a million questions. I’m probably pressing my luck with Marlow, but as long as she’s talking, I’m going to keep asking. It’s making her a little uncomfortable. She’s not making eye contact and she’s hesitating before each answer. But if I can crack the mystery of Marlow, maybe I can find more to add to the ‘con’ list until I can stop thinking about her.

“Yeah, I do like kids, but I have a soft spot for foster kids…or any kids with a difficult home life,” she says.

Marlow picks every word so carefully that it’s impossible to ignore the fact that she’s dancing around something. The words ‘soft spot’ stick out to me. She’s used them before, at the wedding after she told that woman off.

“Hey, can I ask you something? You can tell me to fuck off if you don’t want to answer.” I’m really pressing my luck now.

“I love telling you to fuck off,” she laughs.

“I know.”

A beat goes by while I try to pick the best words, the ones that might not piss her off. She looks over at me then trips over a rock and stumbles a couple steps forward.

“You okay?” I ask, reaching out to steady her. It’s a short brush of contact that reminds me how much I like touching her. How badly I want to do more of it.

“Yeah,” she says with a laugh. “What were you going to ask me?”

“I was wondering if there’s a reason that you have such a soft spot for foster kids, besides working with them at your previous job.”

We walk a few steps quietly before Marlow answers with a slow nod.

“I grew up in foster care.”

This is the answer I expected, but it still surprises me to hear her say it out loud.

For a long time, neither of us says anything else. I don’t want to push her any harder, and I’m sure there’s no question that I could follow up with that won’t be obnoxiously redundant to Marlow. She’s probably heard them all before.

We stick to lighter subject matter until lunchtime. There’s a clearing just off the trail where we stop to eat. Marlow perches on a log while I crouch down and retrieve two sandwiches from my backpack. Her face twists up in hesitation when I hold one sandwich bag out to her.

“What’s in it?” she asks.

“Just some ham…bacon...veal…a chicken strip wrapped in bologna.”

Marlow eyes the sandwich like I’ve just handed her an arsenic pancake. She really thinks I would try to feed her meat even though I’m fully aware that she’s a vegetarian.

Then I remember that I did actually try to feed her meat just last weekend at the wedding. Not intentionally, but she doesn’t know that.

“Relax, there’s no meat in it,” I say. “It’s all vegetables, some hummus, a little bit of feta.”

She unwraps the sandwich and takes a bite only suitable for a small mouse. I can’t help but laugh at her. She shoots me a scathing glare in return, but only holds it for a second.

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