Page 15 of My Favorite Bad Decision
I’d sort of forgotten.
My father would say it’s a bad sign, the way I forget about Blake for long periods of time and don’t really need to talk to him, but my dad’s also on his third marriage. It’s not as if he can claim he’s got the recipe for success. And it’s not as if I haven’t thought this through.
It took me a while to start dating after Rob, and it took me a long while to meet anyone I could picture staying with. And I really tried. I dated rich men, and I dated poor men. I dated men who barely spoke and men who wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise. I dated men who couldn’t accept that Iwasn’tdumb, and men who were hell-bent on proving to me that Iwas.
I dated men who were saving themselves for marriage and on one especially memorable occasion, I went out with a guy who asked to use my bathroom and then walked out nude…at the start of the date.
And at last, there was Blake. We went to the same parties and knew the same people. He had a real job and waited until a reasonable point in our relationship to walk out of the bathroom naked. He had interests beyond drinking and football...he ran marathons, he’d just taken up jujitsu. He understood the demands of my job.
I know it’s not perfect. He isn’t Rob. But I don’t need perfect, and I’m not sure I can handle another Rob because I doubt I’d survive losing one.
Blake is sort of the perfect compromise.
This is perhaps the one area of your life where you shouldn’t compromise, Kitty Cat, my father says in my head.
“Shut up, Dad,” I say aloud.
If he’s befriended Miller, he’s got no right to judge me for anything.
* * *
The second halfof the climb is harder now that we’ve ascended two thousand feet. Gerald, who went straight to the front of the group, shouts at us to keep up, earning him annoyed looks from Gideon and the porters, who continue counseling us to “pole, pole.”
My quads ache. I need to pee but don’t want to call attention to it lest Miller notice. Leah is behind me, telling Maddie’s mom that pasteurized cow’s milk has killed more people than the bubonic plague.
It’s no longer cool that I’m doing this. I don’t care about the terrain. I’m definitely not going to grow as a person, nor will I ever forgive my father.
“I’d like to get there before next winter,” bellows Gerald at the lot of us.
I hope Gideon pushes him off a cliff. None of us will say a word.
After a few more hours, we reach Shira Camp One, where we will stay for the night. We are now in the moorlands, not the rainforest. It’s dry and entirely unprotected from the wind, and a fine dust has settled over the tents, the latrine and even Gerald, who despite his whining about our speed, looks suspiciously exhausted.
I climb inside my dust-coated tent and divest myself of my filthy outer layer, then remove my sweat-soaked T-shirt and bra and panties. I wipe myself down with one of my precious wipes, dry myself off, and climb into the woolen base layer I’ll sleep in later. Already, it’s getting chilly, so by the time the sun is down, I won’t be willing to strip out of this stuff again.
Though it’s still light and dinner’s coming, I pull my sleeping bag out and slide inside it, relishing being dry and warm and inert…things I’d barely notice, much less appreciate, at home.
We only hiked for six hours. It seems as if I shouldn’t be as exhausted as I am.
It’s probably the altitude, the stress, the shitty night’s sleep…but what if it isn’t? What if I can’t hack it on this trip and Miller’s got to carry me all the way back down the mountain?
As much as I despise him, as much as I resent the way he’s treating me like a child…there’s a despicable piece of me that’s slightly relieved he’s here.
I don’t know the porters. Who’s to say they won’t leave me for dead if I break an ankle five days into the trip? But even though I hate Miller and he hates me, I know he wouldn’t. No, he’d dump his backpack and climb down with me on his back if necessary. He’d probably bitch at me the entire way, but he wouldn’t stop until I was safe.
I guess he’d have made a really good husband for Maren. I went out of my way to run him off, and I succeeded. Maybe I wouldn’t have, if I’d known how muchworseMaren would end up doing.
These thoughts fade as I sink into one of those deep, sudden afternoon sleeps, the delicious kind you wake from without a clue where you are or what month it is.
It’s Miller I dream about. He’s back in our cottage in the Hamptons and he’s brought me a popsicle just because I love them.
“Why did he bring you one but not me?” Maren asks.
I insist it didn’t mean anything, but it’s a lie. It does mean something. It feels like a diamond ring, a bouquet of roses. And Iwantit to mean something, even if I shouldn’t.
“Kit,” says Miller. “Kit.”
My eyes fly open. It’s dusk, and Miller, who’s apparently been outside my tent saying my name, is warning me that I need to answer or he’s coming in.
