Page 10 of My Favorite Bad Decision
“Her father’s here,” Miller says, letting his hand fall. “I doubt he’ll get far.”
“Speaking of fathers,” I say, stepping away to face him, “how is it that you even had my dad’s contact information?”
Aside from the fact that Miller long ago became my family’s mortal enemy, he’s also sort of…fallen off the grid in New York society. I figured he’d eventually join West, Keyes and Greenberg, the powerhouse law firm his grandfather founded, but he hasn’t, and aside from appearances at the occasional wedding, he’s otherwise disappeared.
Miller raises one perfect eyebrow. “Are you under the impression that just because I’m not attending the weekly black-tie Manhattan fundraiser, I can’t still access a number if I need one?”
“Well, I guess I should have known, since you were connected enough to find out I was coming here in the first place.”
His nostrils flare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I release an exasperated huff. “There’s no way you justhappenedto be climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro the same week I was, on the same tour,andthe same route. Someone must have told you, and you did it for reasons that are still unclear but probably involve making my trip worse.”
He laughs. “Your arrogance never ceases to amaze me, Kitten. Do you actually believeyou—a woman I barely knew a decade ago—matters enough to me, bad or good, that I’d fly seven thousand miles and climb for a week?”
I suppose he has a point. “Don’t call me Kitten. And I guess it’s pretty easy for me to imagine you having a lot of free time on your hands and also being infinitely petty. I’ve got ample proof of the latter, after all.”
“Breaking up with your sister doesn’t make me petty,” he retorts, turning away. “And if anyone is stalking anyone here, it’syoustalking me.”
He’s gone before I can form a reply—not that I’d have one. Because while it’s obviously an insane suggestion—not only do I not want to be on this trip, but I clearly had nothing to do with booking it—it also feels oddly as if I’ve been caught at something, though I’m not entirely sure what.
Gideon soon calls our group to the gate, which is an actual wooden arch, tall enough to drive a truck beneath.
The porters, assembled with all the bags on the ground in front of them, begin to sing something for us in Swahili. The only words I can identify are “Kilimanjaro” and “hakuna matata,” so I assume we’re not meant to sing along.
Gerald is clapping as if this is a hoe-down and Leah is doing a cringeworthy dance which I imagine she thinks is “African style.” I want to look at Miller, to see if he’s wincing too, but I refuse. No camaraderie will exist between us for the next eight days, if I have anything to say about it.
When the song finishes, Gideon leads us to the sign marking the distances to each camp until we hit the peak. How many thousands or millions of people have read this sign, have experienced this same swirl of hope and dread in their stomachs? I don’t want to feel as if I’m part of something…but I’m part of something anyway.
We set off along the trail, which is muddy and surrounded on all sides by trees that are dense and green—the flora’s more like something you’d see in Hawaii or Costa Rica than a mountain that will be covered in snow when we reach its peak. Despite the shade, I’m soon sweating. I fix my ponytail, trying to keep my hat from slipping around. My jog bra is clinging to me, beneath my layers. I strip down to my tank, wishing I was less acutely aware of Miller somewhere behind me, possibly watching and judging. I still can’t believe he accused me of stalking, even if I accused him first.
The porters begin passing us, carrying bags on their backs and many balancing an additional bag on their heads. Joseph lopes along beside me for a few minutes, pointing out things I’d likely have missed: sweetly curling little orange flowers called elephant trunks that apparently only grow on Kili, a tree whose bark is used as medicine and is good for congestion.
Joseph tears off a piece and tells me it can be eaten. It tastes a bit like eucalyptus.
“I wouldn’t start randomly putting plants in your mouth,” warns Gerald. “Stick to real medicine.”
“Twenty-five percent of the world’s medicines come from the rainforest,” I tell him. “So yourreal medicinevery likely began here.”
“Keep telling yourself that, kiddo,” he says. “I’ll try not to laugh when you wind up carried out of here on a stretcher.”
If he keeps calling me kiddo,hewill need the stretcher.
He continues on and Stacy moves up beside me. “That guy is already on my nerves and we’re an hour into the trip,” she says, nodding toward Gerald. “And his girlfriend is nearly as bad.”
I grin. “So you’re not going to try to cure Maddie’s epilepsy with mindfulness techniques?”
She laughs. “You heard that, huh? No, I think we’ll just stick with her meds, thanks.”
“The meds control it pretty well?” I ask. “No break-through seizures?”
I don’t want to ruin the Arnaults’ trip, but epilepsy is impacted by altitude—new onset seizures are not uncommon in places like Colorado, when people arrive without acclimating—and I’m wondering how much research they did before they set out.
“She hasn’t had a seizure since we switched meds a year ago.” Stacy glances at me. “Are you a doctor?”
I swallow. “No, just kind of a hobby.”
Medicine is a hobby? Who says that?But I’ve got no idea what I should have said in its place. The truth will just lead to more questions about things I don’t want to discuss. Sometimes it feels as if the harder I try to bury the past, the more the world conspires to dig it right back up.
