Page 3 of Into the Mountains
“I know a ton of people who can fix it.” Her hair is at the top of her head now and her neck is exposed along with the freckles that are scattered there. She’s bouncing around the kitchen, searching the countertops and in a drawer to the far left with one hand while the other holds her hair in place. I spot a bright purple scrunchie on the barstool in front of me. As soon as she turns her back again, I swipe it and put it in my pocket. Just for fun.
“One, as I said before, most of those people are too busy trying out whatever freakish sex position they’re into to come help me with mundane tasks.”
“I don’t think rescuing you from a bird is very mundane,” I respond, trying with all my willpower not to be a leech and latch on to the part about freakish sex positions.
“I’m impressed by your will power,” she admits.
“I learned from the best.”
“I never thought of you as much of a learner, old Padawan.”
“Ah, that’s where you have me all wrong. And isn’t the phraseyoungPadawan?”
“Usually.” She shrugs and continues looking for her not so lost scrunchie.
“So what’s number two?” I ask.
“What?”
“You said one, everyone was too busy in freakish sex positions to help you, so you don’t bother asking.” The second part is an assumption, but she forgets I used to know her better than anyone, even if it was only for a summer. “What’s two?”
She releases a slow breath as she finally gives up on the search for her hair tie. Red strands cascade around her shoulders, falling just above her lower back. A few stray strands brush against her arm, settling into place next to the others. She takes a sudden breath in and turns around rapidly, her hair following her like a river follows its current. Her hands come to rest on the counter behind her and she hesitates for a second, letting my question hang in the air. And instead of answering it, she faces away from me toward the cabinets and her hand dives into one. I let her distract herself and allow the sounds of shifting mugs and clinking ceramic to fill the small space.
Once she’s satisfied with two mugs, she places them on the counter and retrieves a bottle from another cabinet. Unscrewing the cap, she gives a heavy pour in her own mug—a pink ice cream cone on the side withlick me till ice creamwritten next to it.Good to know she never gave up on the puns.
She gestures to my mug, asking permission. I nod, glimpsing the label as she fills my mug halfway. “Jack Daniels? This the best you’ve got?” I tease.
She scoffs. “Like I’d waste my Lagavulin or Jameson on the likes of you.” I wish I could say the insult was strained coming from her—like it was difficult for her to say or come up with—but that would be a lie. She lives to insult me. Call me a masochist, but sometimes I like it a little too much. I smile at her, ready to play whatever game she is.
“I’m surprised you even know what Lagavulin is.”
“Just because I’m awomandoesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a good whiskey, Eli.” Now she’s playing dirty. Because she knows I cannot stand people calling me Eli, which is precisely the reason nobody does.
“I didn’t mean it because you’re a woman,Charlie. I just meant, I never knew you to be a whiskey person and it’s surprising to see that you are.”
“What, because you don’t think people can change?” She leans in, elbows on the island, cupping her mug before slowly bringing it to her lips, taking a long sip.
“Is this why you poured us the drinks?” I ask, because the woman I knew wouldn’t have a drink with me for shits and giggles.
“I figured we might want something strong for this conversation.” And now apparently we are in a conversation. One I don’t think I want to be in. Ever. Especially with her.
“You’re right,” I admit. “We’re going to need this. Hell, we might need more of it depending on which way this goes.”
Her eyebrows rise almost reaching her hairline. “Say that again? And let me record it,please.” She begs.
“Never.”
We let the quietness settle between us again, both taking a few more sips from our mugs. Mine has an octopus swimmingaround with the wordsyou octopi my thoughts. “I see you still collect these.”
“I do.” Her voice is quiet, reflective like she’s remembering something she isn’t sure she wants to.
“Let’s get into it then.”
Without turning her head, she empties her mug with two large gulps and holds it between her hands. “Alright.”
“You left,” I state.
“I left because you were cruel.”
