Page 3 of My Favorite Bad Decision
This has always been my issue with Miller West. Too many goddamned things to say at once.
I roll my eyes. “You expect me to believe that you, of all people, love nature so much that you’ve signed up for this of your own volition?”
“Everyone loves nature,” he says. “And why areyouhere? Does Kilimanjaro potentially have a reputable news source your dad can turn into a gossip rag?”
My nostrils flare. My father did thatonce, but damn if Miller didn’t have it locked and loaded for the day we ran into each other.
“It’s none of your concern,” I reply, turning away from him and pulling out my phone.
“Have you even trained for it?” Miller demands. “Your occasional ski trips and Peloton rides aren’t the groundwork you need to ascend to eighteen thousand feet.”
Jesus. My sister dodged such a bullet with this guy.
“Thank you for mansplaining altitude to me, West, but I think I’ll be okay.”
“No, you won’t,” he says, his voice hard. “Go home.”
I gape at him. “Are you serious right now? Do you actually believe you cancommandme to leave like you own me? You couldn’t even command me when I was seventeen.”
His eyes widen ever so slightly, as if he’s been caught at something. “I never attempted to command you when you were seventeen,” he mumbles. “But if you want to die, by all means, be my guest.”
The bus takes off and he starts furiously typing on his phone. I’d tap out a text of my own, except the person I want to complain to is Maren, who’d grow hopeful and dreamy-eyed in response, picturing him confessing his love for her over some fireside chat with me.
Dad
Why is Miller West telling me to make you come home?
My head jerks up. “You texted mydad? Are you fucking crazy? I’m twenty-eight years old. What’s he going to do? Ground me?”
Miller’s hazel eyes are cold, unrepentant. “I’m hoping someone with a little sense will prevail since you clearly have none, and I assume he’s still paying every last one of your ridiculous bills. Maybe you’ll listen to the sound of purse strings tightening.”
“I work for his company and I’m here on assignment. Notall of usare trust fund douches.”
I have a trust fund too, but he probably doesn’t know that. It works.
I pick up my phone.
Because he’s the same fucking asshole he was ten years ago.
Dad
You tell him, Kitty Cat.
I sigh. If my father had orchestrated all of this, it couldn’t have worked out better than it has: he’s forced me to go on this trip with no preparation and has now set it up so I’mfightingto go on this trip, refusing to give an inch.
The only reasonable course of action is to pretend Miller’s not here and push him off the mountain should the opportunity present itself. Because I’ll need character references when it happens, I turn around and introduce myself to the couple sitting behind me, who tell me they’re taking this trip as a ten-year-anniversary gift to each other.
“It beats spending money on diamonds,” says Daniel, the husband.
“Only one of us actually thought that,” replies Deb, his wife, with a tight smile.
Will Blake and I be like this when we hit ten years? Misunderstanding each other, full of silent resentments and failed expectations? I doubt it. Mostly because I don’t expect an awful lot. Entering marriage with low expectations seems somewhat wise. My parents now have eight marriages under their belts between the two of them—maybe the number would be smaller if they’d been more realistic. If they’d chosen a partner the way they’d choose a colleague, weighing the risks and benefits, studying their qualifications.
“Which route are you taking?” asks the woman.
I blink rapidly. I’m notentirelyunprepared for this trip. I know it will take six days up and a day and a half to get down. I know the altitude we’ll reach, and what I need to bring.
But I didn’t realize there was another way to go up.
