“By the way,” she says as she watches him stuff everything into the backpack, “since when are you so comfortable reading a topo map?”
He shrugs as he eases the sleeve of saltines down the side of the pack. “If nobody thinks you know how to build a fire, they probably won’t ask you to build one.”
“You’ve been sandbagging us?”
“A little?” he says, peeking at her through the inch between his thumb and index finger.
She has to hand it to him: he hasn’t built a fire the whole trip. “I can’t wait to see what else you’ve got up your sleeve.”
“Come on.” He shoulders the pack and nods up toward the ridge to her left. “Let’s go find some water.”
The dry heat is a welcome change from the humid oven of Houston. She can feel the sun toasting the side of her face, can hear her mother’s mantra. Sunscreen, Miels, sunscreen. You don’t want people cutting on you when you’re my age.
Amelia may be out of sunscreen, but she’s dry. Dry for the first time in days.
Their new route takes them over the mineshaft, then along a slight dip before a steep rise to the ridgeline. A narrow band of trees covers a section of the slope like a brushstroke, top to bottom, and they keep to it as much as possible, even though it means they have to zigzag every twenty or thirty feet in order to stay covered. It’s not just because of the sun, either. The higher they climb, the more visible they become, and if Victor spots them climbing the ridge, this whole evasion plan will have been for nothing.
They stop to rest about a hundred yards from the ridgeline, in the shade of the last tree before their path becomes fully exposed. A hundred yards of rocks and tufts of wild grass. Lunchtime has come and gone with no lunch, and Amelia’s been dreaming of a glass of ice water since they started walking three hours ago.
Santi squints in the direction of Victor’s cabin while they catch their breath. “I don’t see anything,” he says finally. “Nothing that looks like a person, at least.”
“We should go straight up,” she says, pointing to the top. “No zigzag, no rest. Just go.”
“You okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” she says, already knowing how much it’s going to hurt to jostle her arm when she runs.
And it does. Agony the whole way—sharp pains when she bounces and a general burning in between. Fifty yards on, she starts to slow down. Every muscle in her body screams for her to stop, and she doesn’t know if she’s ever going to get enough air into her lungs.
They reach the top and continue for another ten feet down until they’re completely hidden from the other side. Santi collapses next to her, gasping for breath.
“Jesus . . . That was . . . I think I’m gonna . . . pass out.”
Amelia tries to spit, but there’s no moisture in her mouth, so she just ends up moving her tongue all around. She’s sweaty and her throat hurts, and her chest feels like it’s going to explode, and she wishes the rain would return, if only for a few minutes.
This side of the ridge is magnificent. Tiny patches of dirty snow dot the shaded areas beneath the crags on the north-facing end. Rivulets of water run from the snow into a small lake that is somehow both green and blue at the same time.
“So thirsty,” he says with a moan.
She forces a laugh. “I’ll be sure to save some for you.”
It takes them forever to get down to the water. The slope is steeper on this side, rocky and uneven, with only the occasional tuft of grass for a foothold. Even though Santi has the pack, Amelia lags behind, extra cautious with every step because of her arm, and he reaches the lake before she does.
He immediately drops the pack and pulls out the bottle. He gives it a good rinse before filling it, but just when he’s about to put it to his lips, he turns around and waits for her to join him.
“Not thirsty?” she says.
“You’re from the South, right?” He offers her the bottle. “It’s rude to drink before a lady gets her beverage.”
“Such a gentleman.” She can’t help rolling her eyes, but she accepts the bottle and drinks immediately, not even pausing to inspect the water for little crawlies. The sensation in her throat is like the first touch of aloe gel on a bad sunburn. The water’s coolness radiates from there, into her chest, her stomach.
Santi kneels on a small rock at the lake’s edge and cups handfuls of water into his mouth over and over.
“Careful not to drink too much too fast,” she says, stifling a burp herself. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
“I don’t care,” he says with a smile. He scoops a handful onto the back of his neck and then sits up. “I’m going in.”
“No you’re not,” she says.
“Just for a little bit.”
“What about Victor?”
He points up to the ridge. “What was the point of doing what we just did?”
“Still. We should get as far away as we can before dark.”
“I’m filthy, tired, hungry, thirsty. And now, because the sun decided this was a good time to come out of hiding, I’m sweaty, too.”
“The water’s barely above freezing.” She points to the patches of snow across the way, the tiny streams connecting them to the lake. “Look at that.”
“We went on a hike once, my dad and I did. There was a lake with a freaking snow-covered island in the middle—had to be at least 12,000 feet. My dad jumped right in and swam all the way to the island, then he got out and sat on the snow and waved my sorry ass over.”
“Did you do it?”
“Hell, no. I thought he was crazy.” Santi’s laugh is genuine, warm, and completely out of place. He lets it linger for a moment before looking away and shaking his head. “Anyway, I’m getting in this time.”
She says nothing as Santi removes his shoes and socks, then lays his shirt and pants out on the wildflowers.
“You’re going to have to imagine the rest,” he says, now sporting only a pair of blue boxers.
“You’re not worried about shrinkage?”
He flips her the bird and picks his way toward a rocky outcropping that juts out into the lake. He stops at the edge as if summoning the courage to jump.
The blood on his feet shocks her. His blisters have doubled in size—at least—since she last dressed them. They cover his entire heels; it’s amazing he’s been able to get this far.
“Just try not to squeal,” she says.
With a big splash, Santi disappears into the blue-green water. He doesn’t whoop, but his eyes are wide with shock as soon as his head comes back up, and she can hear him bring in air through his teeth. A quick rub of the hair, a doggy paddle to the shore, and he’s out. The whole process couldn’t have taken more than ten seconds.
“I thought you were going to swim to the other side,” she says.
Santi hugs himself and shivers as he steps carefully away from the water. “I’m not insane.”
“Help me take this off,” she says, surprising even herself.
He raises an eyebrow and smiles, but he doesn’t say anything as he unties the strip of T-shirt from around her chest and helps her out of the sling.
After kicking off her boots and laying a sock on top of each, she peels off her shorts, only momentarily thinking of her choice of underwear, the quick-drying poly-pro granny panties she stocked up on before the trip. Black, with a black sports bra.
She knows Santi is watching her. She’s known it the whole trip, since the moment he came into the trailer while she was packing the food. He’s bad at hiding it, like they all are. She knows this, but it doesn’t matter. She raises her shoulder, pulling her elbow close to her body as gently as possible, and eases her arm backward through the sleeve. By the time she gets her shirt off and lays it next to the rest of her clothes, the sun is already prickling the pale skin of her legs.
“You’ll have to imagine the rest,” she yells up at him, and then she jumps.
When she hits the water, it’s as though her body forgets how to o
perate. Her lungs stop working, her skin feels nothing, her heart flutters ineffectively.
For a moment, it feels like she has to get out and get out now. But then that moment passes, and she knows that she has to stay in. This here, this is where she is. She has never felt more present in her life. The lake, the water around her, the stinging in her flesh, so cold it feels hot. But here she is.
She looks up at Santi, relaxing in the sun, and she waves, and he waves back.
Amelia feels the damage to her body. Feels it in the cuts on her face, the muscles of her back. And her arm. She realizes that she’s still holding it against her stomach, even now, and she lets it go, lets it float. Lets the water surround it.
She turns over on her back, taking note of the cloudless sky before closing her eyes, breathing through her nose, arms at her side, legs bent as if they’re dangling off the edge of a bed.
The needles are gone; now she almost doesn’t notice the temperature. She could stay like this for hours. Imagine how good it would feel! How quickly she would heal!
That’s when the gunshot rings out.
40
The National Shooting Center could have been mistaken for a city park. Dogs on leashes, men and women walking hand in hand. A silver-haired lady with osteoporosis pushed a baby jogger that had been modified to carry three shotguns, barrels pointing down.
Amelia wandered toward the main office, already feeling the humidity, flinching instinctively from the constant crack of gunfire. Tyler Stafford was waiting for her on the bench outside, two shotguns laid across his lap. He hopped up as she approached, rested a gun on each shoulder, and leaned forward for his kiss.
She pecked his cheek, thinking it would be the last time, and looked around again as if in a dream. “I can just show up and shoot? Do I need a license or anything?”
“My uncle owns the place, so we’re good,” Tyler said. He motioned to a path downhill with the butt of one of his shotguns. “Come on.”
Ten stations were arranged in a semicircle, all pointing away from the center, raised platforms with wooden lattice on each side. Spent shells littered the ground—green, yellow, and red—like heaps of broken Christmas lights. Young boys in orange T-shirts pressed buttons to release the clay pigeons and marked scores on sky-blue note cards. It was mini-golf with guns.
“This is the weirdest date I’ve ever been on.”
“And you’ve lived in Moscow,” Tyler said. “I’m honored.”
That was the strangest thing about Houston. Sometimes it didn’t seem like the redneck haven she’d always thought Texas would be. Sometimes she and her parents went to literary readings or art galleries or The Nutcracker. Other times she ended up at a gun range with her dualie-pickup-driving boyfriend.
She’d been in Houston for almost two years, had been dating Tyler for a third of that time. Technically, he was her fourth boyfriend since that night at Benny’s, but the other three didn’t last long. She’d tried, but as soon as she felt herself opening up, starting to trust, she’d bailed. Every time. She’d had to bail. Had to protect herself. She wanted to trust Tyler, too, but how could she? How could she trust anyone?
When they reached the first station, Tyler showed her how to load the shotgun, a twenty-gauge with one barrel atop the other. He flicked a lever and the barrels hinged forward, exposing two holes the size of his thumbnail. He handed Amelia a yellow shell, slightly larger than a tube of ChapStick, and another.
She’d come out here to break up with him, but she wasn’t counting on it being so crowded. It would have to be afterward, when they were finished, alone and away from all the guns.
“Don’t be nervous,” Tyler said, reading her face. “You’re going to do great.”
He handed her earmuffs—massive ones, as if they were on an airport tarmac—and when she put them on, it was as if she’d instantly removed herself from the world. The gunfire disappeared almost entirely, replaced by the sound of her escalating pulse.
An orange disc leapt into view from the left. It hovered for a moment, just above the tree line, before gravity took hold. Amelia aimed in the general direction and pulled the trigger. The kick shocked her, engulfed her whole body, tiny vibrations racing from her shoulder down to her toes.
“Aim in front,” Tyler yelled.
It didn’t seem fair that she couldn’t use all her senses. Her movements felt slow and approximate, like she was trying to thread a needle on the moon. The second clay came from the right, at a steeper angle, and disappeared into the brush by the time Amelia convinced herself to squeeze the trigger.
Tyler put his hand on her shoulder and his mouth up to her earmuff. “You’ll hit the next one.”
They moved through the stations. Tyler shot expertly, but Amelia didn’t hit the next one or any of the ones after that. She was too far ahead or behind, not high or low enough. She stopped the gun instead of following through.
At station eight, the old woman selected a pump-action from her baby jogger.
When it was Amelia’s turn, Tyler huddled behind as Amelia brought the gun up and cradled it against her cheek. She felt her elbow begin to shake, her breathing become shallow.
People waited behind them, watching.
This time the clay came from a tower overhead, streaking from left to right. Amelia pulled the trigger.
Tyler at her ear again. “Keep your eyes open.”
“They are open,” Amelia yelled back. “Pull!”
The orange disc sprang skyward from deep within the trees; it seemed to hang motionless at the apex of its flight, at least for a fraction of a second.
A fraction of a second was enough. The clay disintegrated. Amelia broke open the gun, and the spent shells jumped out of the barrel.
She turned and stormed past Tyler, past the father and son waiting in line behind him, past everyone.
Tyler followed. “See how good that feels?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing.” Amelia ripped off the earmuffs and hurled them at the ground. The crack of gunfire was sharper now. “I don’t know what I’m doing!”
“Come here.” Tyler grabbed her hand and pulled her into the shade of an oak tree next to a small pond. “Forget the guns.”
“I can’t do this anymore,” she said. “I just can’t.”
“It’s okay. I know.”
So this was how it was going to end. With her crying—she promised herself she wouldn’t cry—next to a filthy pond while old ladies shot guns all around her. She squinched her eyes closed and counted to three. Eyes open. She was ready.
Before she could say a word, Tyler looked over his shoulder and pulled something from his back pocket. A rectangle the size of a paperback, wrapped inexpertly in yellow paper.
“I like you, Amelia. A lot. You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met before. You’re smart and funny and—”
“Tyler—”
“Let me finish, otherwise I’ll never get it out,” he said with a nervous giggle. “I don’t just like you. I love you. And that’s okay, you don’t need to say it back. Not until you’re ready, if you’re ever ready. I know it’s hard for you to commit—usually it’s the guy who has a hard time—”
He cut himself off, lifted one of her arms by the wrist, and placed the gift gently inside her hand, closing her fingers around it.
“Wow,” Tyler gave a little sigh of relief and shivered as if a chill had gone through him. “I’ve never said that to anyone but my parents.”
He paused expectantly, nodding an invitation to unwrap it, and she let the yellow paper fall like a leaf to the ground.
The flask was stained teak and polished silver, the owl’s wings spread wide as if in flight. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t cry, it was true, but now she didn’t mind the tears as she looked up at him.
“It’s one of a kind,” he said. “Just like you.”
He leaned in to kiss her, and she met him halfway, and if anyone around them was still shooting guns, she couldn’t hear it.
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nbsp; 41
Her body is almost too numb to function, and by the time she thrashes her way to the shore, Santi has already collected her things. He helps her out and then hustles back to his clothes and starts getting dressed.
“How close do you think it was?” she says, shivering in the hot sun.
“The other side of the ridge, at least.”
Her fingers don’t want to bend. She blows hot air on the knuckles of her right hand until she’s able to make a fist. “I told you we shouldn’t have stopped here.”
“Maybe it wasn’t him,” Santi says, a little too hopeful.
“Who else would be shooting a .22 in the middle of nowhere?”
“You’re sure it was a .22?”
She gives him a wry smile. “I live in Texas.”
The combination of numbness, wet skin, and broken arm makes it so that Santi’s completely dressed before Amelia puts one leg in her shorts.
“I’m going to help,” he says, and she nods quickly. There’s no time for modesty now. He holds the shorts’ elastic waistband open and bends over so she can balance her good arm on his back. “Do you need help with your shirt?”
“I’ll manage.”
Santi fills their bottle with lake water and stuffs it into the backpack while she struggles into her shirt. When she’s ready, he motions for her to sit down on the rock so that he can slide her shoes and socks on for her.
“It seems like just yesterday you were doing this for me,” he says.
“That was before you started stealing again.”
“Ahh, memories.” He pulls the knot tight on her second lace and helps her up. “Now your arm.”
She looks up to the ridge, but there’s no movement. Even so, they’re too exposed where they are. “We should get to the trees first. Get hidden. We can take more time then.”
Santi nods and pockets both the sling and the fabric they used to wrap it against her body.
Fighting the urge to look up again, she starts toward the trees, which can’t be more than a couple hundred yards downhill. Slowly at first, but then she finds herself moving faster and faster, starting to panic, imagining Victor cresting the ridge, the glint of the rifle in the sun, the crack of a gunshot.
On the Free Page 18
