by Amy Waeschle
“Sorry,” Cassidy said quickly, taking the memos from the secretary’s hand.
“Thank you,” the secretary said sternly. She turned and strode back down the hallway, her pumps clicking firmly against the warped floor.
Cassidy closed the door and shuffled through the messages. A tingle of energy zipped over her skin as she picked up the phone.
Pete answered on the second ring. “Hey, thanks for calling me back,” he said.
Cassidy lowered into her sturdy wooden office chair. “Sorry,” she replied, trying to keep her voice steady. She checked her cell phone for messages and was embarrassed to see that it was turned off. “I didn’t mean to give you the runaround. I have this proposal deadline, and I was teaching . . . ”
“No worries. Got time for a few follow-up questions?” he said, not missing a beat.
After the energy that seemed to hum between them after the waterfall, his businesslike tone made her pause.
“It’ll only take a few minutes,” he added.
She could feel the tension in his voice and realized that he was likely up against a deadline, too. “Of course,” Cassidy replied, trying to shift gears.
“Great,” Pete answered. He launched into a series of questions about where her seismic work might be applied. They talked about Etna and Kilauea and she told him about her proposal to join a project there.
“It makes me wonder,” Pete said after a flurry of key tapping. “Does it take some of the magic out of these things?”
Cassidy frowned.
“I mean, is there something a little bit sad about having the tools to predict eruptions down to the last data point?”
Cassidy couldn’t help wonder if this was some kind of trick question. “No, I don’t feel sad that we can predict hazards like volcanic eruptions. There’s still plenty of mystery left in the natural world and terrible danger, too. I don’t call earthquakes that destroy entire cities and kill thousands of people magical. That’s tragic. I’m proud of the fact that our work can help bring more order to people’s lives, and make our world safer.”
She realized that Pete was typing, and while she waited for him to finish, she reviewed what she had said. Did she sound like a self-righteous snob? Ugh, she thought, wishing she could start their conversation over.
“This is great,” Pete said.
She heard a chair creak and imagined him sitting back, satisfied. She understood that feeling—though she couldn’t help but feel apprehensive, vulnerable.
“So,” he said. “Maybe we could grab a beer sometime?”
Had his voice changed or had she just imagined it? “Sure,” she replied, taking a deep breath to squash the butterflies tickling her insides.
“So I can thank you,” he added.
“Thank me for what?” Cassidy asked, twisting the black phone coil between her fingers.
“Sharing your fieldwork with me,” he replied. “The waterfall. Answering my call today.”
“You helped me too. I should be the one buying you a beer. I’ll be hiring former farm kids as my field assistants from now on,” she joked.
He chuckled. They worked out the location, a pub in Cassidy’s neighborhood, and the date. “Okay, well, I should get this story to bed.”
Cassidy’s brain went to the idea of her bed, and Pete in it, and the butterflies took off again. “Uh, right,” she managed, shoving the image away.
“See you Friday,” he said.
“Friday,” she replied.
After they hung up, Cassidy sat back, unable to keep the grin from her lips.
That night, her housemate Emily pounced on the news.
“You like this guy, yeah?” Emily stood in their shared kitchen in her pajama bottoms, bunny slippers, and a hoody with A Woman’s Place is On Top, Women’s Annapurna Expedition 1986 silkscreened across the chest with a snowy peak in the background. She removed a bag of popcorn from the microwave and pulled the top apart.
Cassidy’s cheeks felt warm. “I don’t know.”
“Bullshit,” Emily said, munching on a handful of popcorn.
Cassidy sighed. “He sort of annoys me.”
“That’s nothing special. Most people annoy you,” Emily replied, cocking her eyebrow.
Cassidy grinned. “Guilty,” she replied. But what annoyed her about the journalist was that he seemed to know so much about her life while she knew practically nothing about his. In some ways, it was refreshing to spar with a worthy opponent about scientifically complex topics—her last date had been with a semi-pro skateboarder she had met at a party; he was a good kisser but called her “dude” and thought Charles Darwin was the leader of a 80s butt-rock band—but it also felt like Pete had disputed with her for fun, just to see how she would react. Like he was baiting her, hoping it would produce a juicy quote for his story. Not that she was complaining—most men started to get that dazed look if she talked about her work for too long—but she still didn’t know if this casual date was a polite way for him to say goodbye, or something more.
And if it was more, how much more?
“He’s cute?”
Cassidy pictured his grey-blue eyes and earnest face. “Yes.”
“Polite?”
“Very.”
“Financially secure?”
Cassidy remembered his junky car. “Don’t think so.”
“Huh,” Emily said. “Well, two out of three ain’t bad.”
Cassidy played along by smiling, even though the money thing was not important. Emily didn’t know that she owned the house they shared with two other roommates, Miles and Juno, both of them also graduate students. Cassidy’s accountant, Rodney, who had been managing her finances since her father passed away, had practically ordered her to purchase the home for “investment purposes,” with the promise that she would thank him later. He had even set up a property management company to deal with collecting and depositing rent. After Cassidy had advertised the rooms for rent in the university’s Earth & Space Sciences department lounge, they quickly filled with geology graduate students. The house had since been dubbed “Casa de Rocas,” or “House of Rocks.”
“What are you going to wear?” Emily asked.
Cassidy gave her a look. “How should I know? It’s a week away.”
Emily raised an eyebrow. “Let’s have a look,” she said, heading for Cassidy’s room. “How’s your lingerie collection? Do we need to go shopping?”
“Em!” Cassidy cried.
Emily grinned. “Just teasing, but you really should put some thought into this, you know. I’ve never seen you so worked up about a guy.”
“I’m not worked up,” Cassidy complained, though she realized that this was a lie. Pete had been on her mind since their trip to St. Helens.
“You’ve dated losers ever since I’ve known you, Cass,” Emily said, her tone serious. “I don’t know why, you’re better than that,” she added with an impatient sigh. “This guy sounds like a major improvement.” Her eyes twinkled. “So let’s get you ready.”
Four
Casa de Rocas, Seattle
November 15, 2014
Cassidy walked the four blocks to the Blue Star Café the following Friday wearing the outfit Emily had insisted on: a black V-neck cashmere sweater, jeans, and cowboy boots. The closer she got to the pub, the more frenzied her jitters became. It’s only one beer, she told herself.
The pub was busy, but then she remembered they hosted trivia games on Friday nights in the winter. Hopefully, Pete wouldn’t mind the extra noise.
She scanned the bar but didn’t see him.
The clock told her that she was on time. Should she go to the bar and wait? A few other people were milling about in the entryway, waiting for a table. She watched the door with growing apprehension. After lingering for ten minutes, she hung her coat on a tall rack and stepped to the bar.
Just as she settled onto a stool, she caught sight of someone moving in her direction. Pete rushed to meet her, his bright eyes like beacons i
n the darkened entryway. His sandy-brown hair looked wet, as if he had walked a long way in the rain without a coat.
“Hey,” he said, his smile warm.
“Hi,” Cassidy replied, relieved but hoping he didn’t notice.
“Sorry I’m a bit late.” He placed a manila envelope on the bar and slid onto the stool next to her. “I have this deadline, and . . . I sort of lost track of the time.”
A bartender took their order and moments later two frosty glasses of IPA appeared.
Cassidy pushed her remaining anxiety away with a deep breath. “Is this a pattern?” she teased.
Pete winced. “Unfortunately,” he said. “I’ve even tried setting an alarm but sometimes I just get really focused.”
“That can be good for your writing, I’ll bet,” she said.
“It’s also gotten me in hot water more than once,” Pete said with a sigh. “Maybe this will make up for it,” he said, sliding the envelope on the bar towards her.
Cassidy gave him a curious look, then unfastened the flap and reached inside. A stack of black-and-white photographs from their day in the field slid out. The first showed the waterfall, with Cassidy in the foreground after their swim, sitting on a rock putting her boots on, her damp braid draped down her back; the next showed the first field station, with Helens in the background, the fireweed a grey fringe, the next showed her working intently dismantling one of the seismic stations. The others showed more of the same: Cassidy doing something, or of something scenic.
“These are for me?”
Pete nodded. “The mag didn’t need them, so I thought you should have them.”
Cassidy remembered how the sound of his camera’s shutter had made her frustration flare that day, but eventually, she had forgotten about it. The photos were required for the story, and if the story was successful, then it could help her work. That he had thought to share images of her doing what she loved touched her more than she could express.
“Thank you,” she replied, her emotions swirling inside her.
“Sure.” They talked about her goal to land an academic position somewhere after her PhD. He asked about her family, and Cassidy told him about missing her brother Quinn who lived in San Francisco.
“What’s he do there?” Pete asked.
“He owns a bar. He also parties like a rock star and runs marathons.”
Pete laughed. “Sounds like an interesting mix.”
“He and I both specialize in burning the candle at both ends,” she replied.
After that, however, she shut him down before he could dig too deep. From their lengthy conversations during their day of fieldwork, he already knew that her parents had passed away. There was no need to get into it again.
“Did you grow up skiing?” Cassidy imagined a scrawny Pete flying straight down a ski slope, his skis in a giant power wedge, his legs wobbling.
“My parents are cross-country skiers, still are. I started out that way, but I got hooked on downhill pretty quickly.” Pete looked thoughtful. “In a way, it sort of saved me. Gave me direction.”
“I still can’t imagine you in a strict Catholic school,” Cassidy said, remembering the story he had shared during their day on St. Helens about how daydreaming in class had earned him many painful raps on his knuckles.
Pete gave a chuckle. “That’s why I had to get out. Not sure my dad ever quite got over it,” he answered as a shadow passed over his face.
“My family’s not religious at all,” she said.
“Count yourself lucky,” he said, taking a sip of his beer.
“So, what does the future hold for Peter O’Dea?” she asked.
Pete’s face burst into a grin. “A regular feature in Outside, a column in The New Yorker, maybe a book or two . . . ” He tapped his chin. “And a steady gig with Mother Jones.”
“Mother Jones? That’s a little different than your usual beat,” she said.
He swiveled his beer on the coaster. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said, catching her eye. “I love covering the adventure and environment stuff. But I feel like there’s more for me out there. That I should be writing about things like human rights, corruption, social justice . . . ” He shrugged, looking almost embarrassed.
“Sounds exciting,” Cassidy replied, thinking about this for a moment. “Is it dangerous working those kinds of stories?” She had done her homework on him, too, scanning the collection of masthead icons on his website and skimming the impressive stream of headlines under his bio. His stories covered a range of topics related to the natural world: disasters—she read an impressive futuristic take on a tsunami hitting the Oregon coast, a story on hurricanes and climate change, plus many from the adventure angle: climbing routes, eco-travel, and the like. As a staff writer for the Seattle Times, he wrote about how a new coal plant proposal on Washington’s coast would destroy prime salmon smolt habitat, and another story about an illegal mining operation’s tailings leaching into the groundwater. His freelance beats included stories in Men’s Health, Sunset, Sierra, and Budget Travel.
“No more dangerous than working on the flank of active volcanoes,” he said, eyeing her shrewdly.
Cassidy huffed. “Okay, I might break my ankle one of these days, but getting caught in the crossfire of human rights issues or corruption seems more risky.”
“Ever hear the quote: ‘A ship in harbor is safe, but it is not what ships are built for’?” He shifted on his stool to face her a little more. “A buddy of mine is working as a medic overseas right now helping with the immigration crisis in the Mediterranean.” He licked his lips. “He sends me these messages, and I’m blown away by what he’s seeing. I’ve just got this urge to get over there and experience it.”
“Why don’t you?” she asked.
Their eyes met again, and time seemed to slow. She could almost feel him soaking in her words. “I’m trying to.” His lips tightened and he glanced away. “It’s just hard to compete with the big dogs.”
“But it seems like your friend can give you a unique angle,” Cassidy said. “That has to have value.” Her beer was almost gone, and she found herself wishing for their date to continue.
He shrugged. “We’ll see.” The bartender announced the start of the first round of trivia shortly. Pete held up his almost empty glass. “One more?” he asked.
“Sure,” Cassidy said. “Though we’ll have to either play trivia or speak in sign language—it gets pretty loud.”
“I’ll play,” he said eagerly. He caught the bartender’s eye and signaled their empty glasses.
“Are you sure you can keep up?” she asked, feeling bold.
He replied with a wink. “Let’s find out.”
By the time they left the pub it was almost midnight and Pete insisted he drive her home.
“I’m going to take a wild guess that this wasn’t your first win at trivia night?” Pete asked as they walked to his car.
Cassidy felt a slow burn warm her cheeks. “We made a good team,” she finally answered.
“That we did.”
Their fingers touched, and his hand slid into hers, sending a shiver down her spine.
They reached the Jetta. He unlocked her door, and when he turned back, they were standing close. Beneath the streetlight, his eyes shone with a gravity that stilled her galloping heart. “I had a really great time tonight,” he said.
“Me too,” she replied, feeling the shiver move into her toes.
He stepped closer. She raised her face to his and their lips met. Instantly, his warmth spread through her. They kissed again, longer this time, his soft lips closing around hers. The feeling in her belly intensified and she wrapped her arms around his waist. The next kiss was like a thrilling ride down a river, making the blood in her veins whoosh past her ears. When he pulled back, she felt lightheaded.
“I’ve wanted to do that all night,” Pete said with a shy smile.
Cassidy smiled. She loved the way his body fit against hers, and the way his heat was making
her feel. But as her attraction for him grew, so did her trepidation.
“I was wondering, do you have any plans for Thanksgiving weekend? Baker’s supposed to open. I might be heading up there with a couple of friends.”
“I’ll be up there too,” she said, excited. “The ski club rents a cabin in Glacier every Thanksgiving weekend. I signed up ages ago.”
“Oh, fun,” he said. “Well, maybe we could meet up on Saturday or something.”
“Okay,” she said.
He reached for her hand. “I should get you home,” he said.
She looked at him, wondering if he could sense her emotions. He kissed her one more time, a slow, sweet kiss that made all the butterflies in her stomach fly in formation.
During the short drive to her house, her thoughts waged war inside her head. Did he expect to come inside her place? Cassidy knew what would happen if he did. She swallowed the nervous lump in her throat.
Pete pulled into her driveway and he walked her to her door.
“Well, goodnight,” she said. “Thanks for the ride.”
Their eyes met again and she felt herself falling into his kiss. Their lips touched, his so gentle, but urgent too. Their tongues met and the tingly warmth inside her exploded.
He pulled back. “Goodnight, Cassidy,” Pete said, his gaze lingering a moment longer.
She let herself in. From the doorway, she watched him give her a wave before climbing in to his car, his grin lighting up the night.
Five
Mt. Baker Ski Area
November 28, 2014
Cassidy glided to a stop in the Chair 1 lift line and peeked at the clock on the lift shack’s window: 10:45. She and Pete had agreed to meet at eleven. Did she have time for one more run? Ten new inches of snow had fallen overnight, with more falling throughout the day. Cassidy didn’t want to stand around waiting when there were fresh tracks to make. She would just ski really fast. The challenge of it excited her.
