by Claire Adams
There is so much that we haven’t experienced together. We’ve never been on a real date.
I’ve come to realize that we simply don’t have enough to build a solid relationship. But hey, we may as well enjoy it while it lasts.
It’s just after dark. If there are any stars in the sky, the city lights have swallowed them whole. The night is cool, but not cold. Traffic crowds the streets below, but I got used to that constant rush of combustion a long time ago.
I’m sitting on the roof, staring up at the sky, trying my hardest to find any stars at all. After a few false alarms (airplanes,) I finally spot one standing there all alone, its light just barely piercing the city’s brightness.
Isn’t that the way it goes?
My phone rings and I answer it, my eyes still intent on the sky.
“Hello?”
“Come downstairs.”
It’s Dane.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Just come downstairs,” he says. “I’ve got a car waiting for you.”
“I’m not really dressed to go out,” I tell him, but he just chuckles.
“Don’t worry about that. It’s just going to be you and me.”
“All right.”
I’ve been waiting for a moment like this, but I’m not sure if what I’m feeling is excitement or anxiety. It’s probably a little bit of both.
I make my way downstairs, but not before stopping by the apartment to check my hair and makeup. For someone who’s given up on an actual love life, I look pretty darn good.
“Oh stop it,” I tell myself aloud. “Quit being a baby and just enjoy the night.”
When I come out of the building, I look for Dane, but don’t see him. There are cars parked out front, as always, but they’re all empty.
My phone rings again.
“Hello?”
“I’m just down the block,” Dane says. “Look to your right. Do you see me?”
It takes a few seconds, but I finally spot him about a hundred yards down the way, waving his hands.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I got ya.”
I hang up the phone and start walking.
When I come close enough to see the car, I’m a little disappointed. He said he had a car waiting for me. I had just assumed that meant he’d gone all out and gotten a town car or something with a driver.
It’s not the car itself that bothers me, it’s the fact that we won’t be able to focus on each other during the drive, not completely.
After everything that’s gone right over the past few weeks, I know how ungrateful I’m being right now. That said, the foreknowledge of this relationship’s end is more than enough to spoil just about anything.
I really had high hopes for me and Dane.
“Hey there, beautiful,” he says as I approach.
“Hey yourself,” I answer, and give him a peck on the lips. “So, what’s the plan for tonight?”
“Well,” he says, “I wanted to do something special for you, but I was having the hardest time figuring out exactly what.”
“And?” I ask, unable to hold back a smile any longer.
“I came up with absolutely nothing,” he says with a laugh. “So, I figured, why not rent a car? That way we can let the evening take us where it will.”
“All right,” I say skeptically. “You do know how to drive, don’t you?”
“Of course I know how to drive,” he says, opening the passenger’s door. “Just fucking get in the car, will you?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I smile.
A minute later and we’re on the road; well, kind of. I don’t know if there’s a game or something, but traffic seems to be extra heavy tonight.
Eventually, we transcend major gridlock and arrive in minor gridlock.
“What kind of music do you like?” he asks.
“I like a little bit of everything,” I tell him.
“Oh, bullshit,” he says. “Everyone says that, but it’s never true.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” I ask, poking him in the ribs.
“No,” he says, “but I am saying you’re full of shit.”
“Pick a station,” he says. “From what I understand, this vehicle is fully equipped with satellite radio, and if you can figure out how to work it, we can listen to whatever you want.”
“I have a feeling you’re going to regret that,” I tell him.
“You know,” he says, “so do I, but I’m pretty sure I’ll survive.”
I’ve never used satellite radio, but it’s not rocket science. I roll through the stations until I land on a death metal song.
I smile and turn up the volume.
“You’re kidding, right?” he asks.
“What?” I tease. “I can’t hear you. I’m too busy rocking out.”
He laughs. “If you can deal with it, I can deal with it,” he says.
He thinks I’m joking.
That misapprehension starts to fade as we go into the second and then third song.
“Do you actually like this stuff?” he asks.
“My brother liked it,” I tell him. “Growing up, he’d always have this stuff blasting from his room. It’s how he and I really became close.”
“I didn’t know you have a brother,” Dane says.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “Whenever one of his favorite bands would come to the state, I was the only 12-year-old girl in the crowd. I never really loved it the way he did, but it helps me feel close to him again.”
“Where does he live?” Dane asks.
“He doesn’t,” I answer.
Maybe that was a bit blunt.
“He died in a car accident when I was 17. Some jackass on a cell phone crossed the middle lane.”
“I’m sorry,” Dane says.
I shrug. “It is what it is. Anyway, I think I’ve had about all I can handle for now. What do you like?”
“You mean music?” he asks.
“No,” I mock, “what do you like in general? For instance, bees: natural wonder or an abomination that the Bible forgot to denounce?”
He laughs.
“I usually just listen to whatever’s on top 40.”
I gag.
“What?” he asks. “Those songs are on the top 40 because that’s what most of the people in the country listen to. Are you saying everyone’s wrong?”
“Absolutely,” I tell him. “Top 40 is the same crap that’s been rehashed and rehashed since the 70s. The only difference is that most of the quote unquote artists on the top 40 now don’t play their own instruments or enter a studio without making sure the autotune is cranked up to 11.”
“I like it,” he says.
“You know what’s happening here?” I ask.
“What?”
“We’re sitting here and out of nowhere, you’ve become the scared little girl. That’s what’s happening.”
He laughs. “What? Just because I don’t like music with someone grunting over the top of it I’m a scared little girl?”
“Well, yeah,” I answer. “Next, you’re going to tell me that fights during a hockey game distract from the integrity of the sport.”
He mumbles something and I turn the radio down.
“What was that?” I ask.
“I don’t like hockey,” he says.
“Oh my God,” I gasp. “We’re in a relationship and I’m the man.”
“Whatever,” he says with a chortle.
“So, where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise,” he says.
“You do know where we’re going, right? I mean, you’re not going to pull over and ask some old lady for directions like a girl, are you?”
All in all, he takes the teasing in stride.
That said, as we leave the city behind, I really am starting to wonder exactly where we’re headed.
“I have a confession to make,” I tell him.
“Yeah?” he asks. “What’s that?”
“I, uh,” I stammer.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know where you’re from,” I tell him. “Where did you grow up?”
“No thanks,” he said.
“No thanks?” I ask. “Were the winters cold in No Thanks, or was it soothingly temperate?”
“Where are you from?” he asks.
“Nuh uh,” I say. “Not only did you dodge my question, but you asked yours without a single ounce of shame for not knowing where your longtime roommate and new girlfriend came from. Try again.”
“Come on,” he says, “it’s embarrassing.”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” I tell him. “You don’t get to choose where you grow up, why would you be emb—oh my God.”
“What?” he asks. He’s visibly nervous.
“There’s only one place I can think that you would actually make you embarrassed.”
“Let’s talk about something else,” he says.
“You’re from New Jersey, aren’t you?”
He scoffs. “New Jersey? Are you kidding me? You know how I feel about—okay, yeah, I’m from New Jersey.”
I couldn’t stop laughing if I tried.
“It’s not that big a deal,” he says. “Like you just said, you can’t choose where you’re from.”
“It’s not that,” I cackle. “I’m just trying to understand why you talk so much crap on the state you’re from? Is it supposed to be Manhattan camouflage or something?”
“Well, yeah,” he says. “When I first moved to the city, I made the mistake of telling a few people that I’m from Jersey—”
“You even call it Jersey!” I howl.
He waits very patiently for my mirth to die down before continuing.
“Yeah, that’s about the response I got. I don’t get why it matters so much, New Jersey’s not that bad,” he says. “Yeah, New York City is awesome, but so is Trenton.”
“You know I don’t care that you’re from New Jersey, right?” I ask. “I’m willingly moving there.”
“Yeah,” he says, “I know. I guess it’s just easier to talk shit on Jersey. But where are my manners?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Where are you from?”
“Oh, that’s really not important,” I tell him.
“Come on,” he prods, “you had a good laugh at the expense of my home state. It’s only fair to share in the misery.”
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not from any of the states.”
I can feel the car slow as he turns to look at me.
“Where are you from?”
I sigh.
“It’s not that I’m ashamed of it. Really, it’s not. I’ve just had about the same experience telling people where I’m from that you’ve had telling people you’re from Jersey.”
I think my renewed laughter is killing any sympathy I might receive.
“Go on,” he says.
“You see, the difference here is that I don’t talk crap about where I come from, I just don’t bring it up.”
“Oh, will you just tell me.”
“Fine,” I say. “I’m from Waterloo.”
“Iowa?” he asks.
“Ontario.”
He’s unusually quiet.
“Canada?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “It’s actually a really nice place to live.”
“People listen to death metal in Canada?”
And so the hilarity begins.
“People listen to all kinds of music in Canada,” I tell him.
“Wait, wait,” he says, trying to regain his composure. “Say ‘about.’”
“About.”
He’s disappointed and it’s lovely.
“I’m sorry, were you expecting something else?”
“I thought you were going to say a boat or a boot. I thought you people had a real problem with that word.”
“What do you mean, ‘you people?’” I ask, feigning offense.
He flips on his turn signal.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“We’re in New Jersey,” he says defiantly.
“Yeah, I got that from the road signs. I mean, where are we going?”
He seems rather proud of himself. “We are going camping,” he announces.
“Camping?” I ask. “I really don’t think I’m prepared for that sort of thing.”
“Not to worry,” he says, “I have everything we’re going to need in the trunk.”
“You’ve been planning this for a while, haven’t you?” I ask.
“A few days, yeah,” he says.
I’m a little nervous, but it is quite the gesture.
We exit the freeway and drive for a little while, death metal still droning quietly in the background. Either Dane’s forgotten about it, or he’s just that into me.
Eventually, we pull into a campground in what’s called South Mountain Reservation. There are a few occupied spots, but all in all, it’s pretty quiet here.
After we get everything unpacked, one thing becomes painfully clear: he forgot to pack a tent.
He offers to run into the nearest town and pick one up, but it’s already getting late and I’m tired.
The air is warm enough, and we have plenty of bug spray, so we just unroll our sleeping bags and spend the night under the stars.
As tired as I am, I can’t keep my eyes closed. The sky is filled with more stars than I remember existing.
For all its simplicity, getting to know Dane a little better and lying under such a bright canopy, this is quite probably the best night of my life.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Eyes of the Morning
Leila
My peaceful sleep is shattered by the piercing cacophony of an alarm clock.
With my eyes still closed, I reach over to hit the snooze button before I realize I’m not in my bed.
Dane is already up, and he’s quick to silence the alarm.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “I forgot to turn that off.”
I rub my eyes and look around.
The sky is growing brighter, but the sun’s not up yet. It looks like it won’t be up for a while.
“You know,” I tell him. “I love the camping idea, but I’m not so much for the early morning.”
“It’ll be worth it,” he says, “trust me. Are you hungry? I packed some food. We still have a bit of time before we need to get going.”
“Get going?” I ask. “Tell me they don’t actually kick people out of here this early in the morning.”
“No,” he says, “nothing like that.”
“Then why the hell am I getting up so early?”
He smiles.
“It’s a surprise.”
I don’t so much stand as I roll and stumble to my feet. Dane pulls a peanut butter sandwich out of the cooler and hands it to me.
We eat and Dane sprays us both with some more bug spray.
“We should probably get going,” he says. “It’s going to be a bit of a hike to where we’re headed.”
“And where are we going?” I ask again.
I realize I’m pestering him, but he’s the one who set the alarm for the pre-break of dawn wakeup.
“Just trust me,” he says. “I promise it’ll be worth it.”
For now, I trust him, but this better be going somewhere. In case it’s not apparent, I’m really not a morning person.
He puts on a backpack and we walk down the dirt path a while until we come to a trail. As I squint to see what’s written on the sign, Dane covers my eyes with his hands.
“No peeking,” he says.
“You know that I’m probably not going to be able to hike very well if I can’t see, right?”
“It’s just until we get past the sign,” he says. “It’ll give away the surprise.”
I walk slowly and can only hope that there aren’t too many signs along our way. This is pretty ridiculous.
After what feels like 10 minutes of walking—probably closer t
o two—Dane removes his hands.
We hike on the main trail for a while before the sound of water gives Dane away.
It’s not quite sunrise, and he’s taking me to a waterfall.
I want to kiss him and praise him for his thoughtfulness, but he’s so adamant that it be a surprise, I don’t say anything about it.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, and my heart skips in my chest.
“I’m feeling great,” I tell him.
“You sure?” he asks. “You seemed pretty tired back at camp.”
I shrug.
“I woke up,” I tell him.
As the sun comes ever closer to peeking over the horizon, my pace naturally quickens. Not knowing exactly where we’re going, I grab Dane’s hand to give me direction.
Ahead, there’s a sign for Hemlock Falls, and I feel myself growing warm at the thought.
“Oh shit,” he says. “Don’t look.”
“Okay,” I say, covering my eyes.
“You saw it, didn’t you?” he asks.
I remove my hands. “Yeah,” I tell him. “Trust me, though, it’s still a wonderful surprise.”
“Here’s another one,” he says. “That’s not where we’re going.”
“It’s not?” I ask. “Then why didn’t you want me to look?”
“Well, the cat’s out of the bag on the waterfall part of it, but we’re going somewhere a little further off the main path,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I found it one summer when my family camped up here. I’ve never heard anybody talk about it, but I know I’m not the only person who’s found it.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
“Well, for one, I’m not that profound a wilderness explorer,” he laughs. “For two, there’s a little handmade sign near the plunge pool. It’s called Winterberry Falls.”
The sky is getting brighter by the minute, and both Dane and I are jogging now.
He leads me down a tiny dirt path that all but disappears after the first hundred feet or so, but we keep going.
I can hear the water in the distance, and my heart is pounding in my chest.
“We’re almost there,” he says, but I don’t see anything.
It’s light enough that I should be able to pinpoint where the waterfall is, but for the life of me, I don’t know where we’re going. I can hear the roar of the water, but it seems to be coming from a great distance.
“Just a little further,” he says.
