Page 33 of Grown-Up Second Chance

Joe and I were old friends. That’s it.

If I kept telling myself that, maybe I’d believe it.

The ground beneath our feet rumbled.

Murmurs circled the geyser as water gurgled and spat a few feet into the air. The sulfur smell increased slightly as the shaft of water drove higher and higher. Soon, it shot high in the air, close to two hundred feet of steam and boiling water droplets bright against the backdrop of distant dark pines.

The geyser dropped down to half its size, then shot up again. Up and down it went, varying its height, putting the dancing Bellagio fountains in Las Vegas to shame.

All too quickly the show was over. People sat still for a few moments, hoping a glitch would occur somewhere in the ground beneath us, and the geyser would begin again. When it didn’t reappear, everyone stirred. We stood up and moved away from the benches.

“Everyone ready for a hike?” Kathleen asked. “There are a lot more small geysers to see.”

“Definitely,” Liz said. “I’m hoping to find some more scenes to paint.”

“I’m game,” Joe said.

Everyone looked at me.

After being sedentary for so long in the Bay Area, I’d been walking every day to get ready for this trip, but hiking still didn’t bring me the same joy it apparently brought everyone else. But I pasted a smile on my face and said, “Sure. Let’s go.”

After crossing the aptly named Firehole River, we once again followed a boardwalk over gurgling mud, while a short distance away steam streamed from deep within the earth through cracked vents. Myriad colors threaded through the area, sometimes surrounding a blue so transparent it looked like the sky right after dawn released her pastel pinks, oranges, and yellows.

Liz had her phone out and was snapping photos that she’d later transform into whatever art she created.

I longed for a decent camera and the time to stand and play with settings to achieve the pictures I saw. Not only the full photo of what lay before me, but the detailed shot, picking out the variations in dried mud, or the moment a bubble popped out of a gray mass.

Joe didn’t hover when I stopped to play with my imaginary camera, but stayed somewhere between my sisters and I so we didn’t lose track of each other. All around us steam misted the air, and water leapt from the ground unexpectedly as pressure built and released. At the far edge of the steamy mess, a few bison grazed, their hides damp with moisture from the air.

I could feel it myself, the thin film on my skin that wasn’t quite water.

About halfway through the trail we’d decided to follow, the three of us waited for Liz while she cataloged the Castle Grand Area, home of three geysers: Turban, Grand, and Spasmodic.

“So, Joe,” Kathleen said. “Are you seeing anyone these days?”

“You mean, like dating?” He looked startled by the question.

“Exactly. Are you dating?”

“No, not at the moment. After my wife died, I was too busy raising my kids. And once they were gone, well, there didn’t seem to be anyone interesting.”

“Good,” was all she said in reply.

Joe and I looked at each other, and he shrugged. I knew what Kathleen was driving at, and I didn’t like it one bit. Not at all.

If I wanted to go out with Joe, it would be on my terms, not because my sister egged me on. Besides, there was not going to be any real dating. We were living different lives. Ships crossing in the night and all that.

Once Liz caught up with us, with unspoken agreement, Joe and I let my sisters go ahead.

“You don’t have to guess what she’s thinking, do you?” Joe said.

“Nope.”

“So what do you want to know, Diane O’Sullivan? My life’s an open book to you.”

“No need,” I said. “We’ve caught up on what’s important. The only thing left is to exchange addresses so we can send each other a Christmas letter once a year.”

“Surely there’s more than that,” he said, stopping and leaning against a rail that kept unwary tourists from falling onto the fragile crust of the surface below.

---