Page 39 of Only the Wicked
“You sure?”
I hop on my toes, letting him see I’m good to go.
Yesterday’s scraped knee was the real deal, but the limping qualified as an acting job. I could’ve kept it up through the evening, but then I’d risk not being invited along for whatever activity he planned.
“Great. There’s a place down the street where we can get breakfast to go. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m told we’ll have the best chance of avoiding crowds if we hit the trail early, so I figure we can eat on the way.”
“Works for me.”
In the car, conversation covers the trail options, the waterfalls in the area, and how if it wasn’t for his elbow injury, he’d be climbing mountains.
“Did your father teach you to climb?”
“No. He’s a golfer. Taught me the sport that could help me succeed in business.”
“Are you close?”
“No.”
The straight line of his lips and the flex of his jaw tell me I’ve stumbled on a sore subject that won’t get me anywhere anyway, but before I can redirect, he asks, “What about you? Where are your parents?”
“Alaska.” The lie slips out, as it’s one I’ve told often through the years.
“Get to see them often?”
“No.” At least that answer is the truth. “Do you still golf?”
“Rarely. If I’m away from the office, I prefer something more challenging.”
“Challenging like what?”
“Climbing. A full body workout. Hell, I’d take racketball over golf.”
“You must hate that we have to go hiking.”
He grins. “You’d think. But truth is, I’m perfectly happy spending the day with you. Hiking. It might be because I haven’t slept as well as I did last night…well, not in a long time.” He pointedly looks away from the road and at me. “I think I have you to thank for that.”
My face warms and I place my attention on the window and the passing forest.
His hand falls to my knee and he squeezes gently.
“I hope this trail’s good. It got good reviews.” And just like that, he transitions the conversation back to trails. For the short drive to our destination, we alternate between listening to music and commenting on houses tucked away down gravel roads along the winding road.
Glen Falls Trail, the one Rhodes picked, is a popular one, and although it’s still early in the morning, the gravel parking lot at the base holds quite a few vehicles.
“Let’s hope the trail isn’t crowded,” Rhodes mumbles as he locks his SUV.
I check my phone and slip it into the small backpack I’m carrying that also holds a bottle of water, sunscreen, all-natural bug spray, and Neosporin. He’s got a full-sized backpack that’s stretched with contents, and I’m curious what he felt he’d need on a five-mile hike, but I’ll ask later, when we’re on the hike and I’m struggling for conversation.
Although, the awkward silences I typically experience on dates have been absent with Rhodes. Conversation flows easily, but maybe that’s because I’m not trying to second-guess myself at every turn or questioning if I’m wasting my time.
That’s the therapist you hired way back when speaking. There’s no place for her here.
“There are a couple of less traveled offshoots I found. We can explore those if you’re game.”
“Lead the way.” That’s what I say, but as we approach the mouth of the trail, it’s clear we can walk side by side.
He slaps at his neck.
