Page 232 of Burn Bright
“I really love you, Jane,” I tell her before I leave The Independent.
Once I’m back at my brothers’ apartment, I call my Uncle Ryke to meet up. Not for coffee, not for lunch or dinner, but to be outdoors together. What I love doing with my uncle. I finally saidyesto the hike.
He picks me up in his Land Rover, and I sleep in the passenger seat all the way to the Catskills. By the afternoon, we’re on a trailhead called Hunter Mountain Fire Tower. It’s the most challenging of five fire tower hikes. 8 miles. Difficulty: Hard, Sweating in the Cold, Toe Blisters Likely to Ensue. I wore the wrong socks.
He let me choose which trail. I decided if this is my last hike with my favorite uncle—I wasn’t going to let it be easy and end in a handful of minutes.
We talk in Spanish some. Just so I don’t lose the language. It’s partly why my family speaks so often in French. None of us want to forget what we were taught.
“Ya casi llegamos,” he says.We’re almost there.
My boots crunch fallen autumn leaves. “No tengo prisa.”I’m not in a hurry.
Uncle Ryke is textbook definition brooding with constant furrowed brows and narrowed eyes. His unshaven, hard jaw isn’tdoing any favors to lighten the unapproachable demeanor, and despite his “fuck off” aura, I know he’d do anything for me as if I were his own son.
Ryke Meadows is the embodiment of the mountains I love. Resilient, immovable, unchanging. He’s nothing like my father.
Connor Cobalt is the embodiment of the water. Even the calmest rivers can drown with the change in currents. When I was younger, I wondered if my dad felt like he was drowning me—so he made sure I had Ryke. He made sure I had the mountain to lift me out of the swelling tides.
And I fucking love him for it.
That he knew what I needed, and maybe it wasn’t always him, but he never took it away from me. He drew me toward it. He still does.
All those times I spent morning to night at the Meadows Cottage—playing on their makeshift ropes course in the backyard, spinning on the tire swing with Winona, running barefoot through the woods—my parents rarely called me home. They let me stay until I looked down the street and felt a longing tugging me, pulling me, to be with my sisters, my brothers, them.
And I went back on my own accord. Their happiness to see me never withered. It grew and wrapped around me every time I walked through the door.
I had more homes to go to than Harriet. I had an excess of love, and it feels incredibly fucking stupid to willingly walk away.
But I can’t be here. I can’t stay and destroy them. It’s a nagging, suffocating panic I can’t shake. I will never be rid of this monster looming over me until I’m miles away. Until I’mcertainthey’re all safe.
We reach the base of the fire tower, and I take off my baseball cap, wiping the line of sweat off my forehead. Uncle Ryke jerks his head toward the winding staircase. He leads us up the steps.
This isn’t a popular trail during this month. In fact, I think he had to pull strings last-minute to obtain a permit for us to hike it in late November.
No one is here.
As we climb, he peers back at me a few times. Questions are in his knitted brows, but Uncle Ryke hasn’t asked any tough ones yet. He’s not badgering me, but I know the time will come.
At the top, we step into the square structure. All open windows. No glass panes. It’s an empty fire tower and not large. Just a lookout point, really.
I should be staring out at the rolling peaks, the horizon, the cascade of evergreens. Even if it’s a little overcast, the expansive views stretch out to three states. But I don’t care about the trees. There’ll be spruces and dirt and the clouds and blue sky where I’m headed.
There won’t be him. I care about the guy beside me that I’ll never see again.
“Thank you,” I say before he can speak. “For bringing me here.”
“You chose it.” He’s gazing out. “I like this one. Mostly because you’re fucking here though.”
I smile. “I was going to say that about you. Beat me to it.” I suck some water from the spigot of my hydration bladder on my back.
Uncle Ryke rotates toward me now. “How are you holding up?” Of course he’s referring to the frat. My sister. It's probably only been around fourteen or fifteen hours since then.
“I’ve been better,” I admit. “Sorry I haven’t been around?—”
“You don’t need to fucking apologize.” He throws outfuckslike they’re flower petals, not always with aggression. Though, yeah, he can be intense.
“I do, actually.” I fit my baseball cap back on, curving the brim. “I haven’t been a good friend to Winona, and if I had?—”
