by Jenn Bennett
He closes his eyes and then blinks rapidly, gathering himself. Then he nods and steps back, putting distance between us.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just . . . It’s a lot at once, and . . .”
And I can’t function like a normal human being.
He nods. “I know. I understand.”
“Lennon—”
The approaching hikers surge onto our plateau. It’s a group of college-aged boys. Their laughter scatters my thoughts and puts an invisible wall between Lennon and me.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here,” he says, gesturing toward our backpacks. All the emotion disappears from his voice and posture, and he’s back to being unreadable.
I want to scream. I want to beg him to come back. I want to be alone so that I can think through every detail of what just happened. I want to stop thinking.
But I can’t do any of those things, so we return to the trail in silence, both of us deep in thought . . . never closer, never further apart.
21
* * *
After leaving the falls, we hike Emerald Trail the rest of the afternoon, communicating only when necessary, and occasionally delving into safe subjects. The national park system. The weather. We maintain a polite distance from each other, as if we’re just two acquaintances, sharing the trail. As if we didn’t just kiss each other’s faces off. As if my entire world hasn’t flipped onto its back like some stranded, flailing turtle.
Though we pass quite a few hikers, when we get to the end of the trail in the early evening, I’m startled to see not only a ranger station, but also an entire campground bustling with people. A road. Cars. The scent of meat cooking on grills. Music playing in someone’s RV.
“Camp Silver,” Lennon informs me. “The trailhead is here. You need reservations to hike Silver Trail at this time of year. They try to keep the number of people on it at a certain level, so it’s not elbow to elbow.”
“It looks pretty elbow to elbow now,” I say, scanning the campground.
“Everyone wants to walk where Ansel Adams took photos,” he says. “The trail goes up to the Crown, which overlooks the whole park.”
I think I’ve heard about that. It sounds familiar, so it must be a big tourist draw.
“There are campgrounds along the way for people who like a few modern conveniences, but this is probably the biggest one,” Lennon says. “And here’s the ranger station I told you about.”
The station is a small, dark brown log cabin on the edge of the campground. Outside the door stands a board of printed notices—announcements about the weather, the status of each campsite, and which trails are closed. There’s even a warning about a mountain lion in the area, several missing people, and another about a small, twin-engine plane that’s crashed in the mountains. Hikers are to stay clear of the wreckage until the park can arrange to have it transported.
“What in the world?” I murmur, reading the flyers. I’m not sure which notice is worse.
Lennon doesn’t seem worried about the mountain lion, because he taps on the plane-crash announcement and whistles softly. “I’ve heard about stuff like this. The entire Sierra Nevada mountain chain is a graveyard for lost planes. It’s called the Nevada Triangle.”
“Like the Bermuda Triangle?”
“Just like that. From Fresno to Las Vegas—basically, a big dead zone over the California-Nevada border where planes go down or disappear entirely.” The drama in his voice increases. “Some say it’s a combination of rapidly changing weather, strong winds, and hidden peaks. But the whole mountain chain has this spooky Area 51 mythos. More than two thousand planes have gone down here since 1960. Some just fell off the radar, never found.”
“Whoa,” I say, suitably impressed.
His lips pull into a gentle curve—just for a moment. Then he sobers up and goes quiet.
“So, this Silver Trail . . . ,” I ask, trying to recall his map. “Is that where we’d be going to get to Condor Peak?”
He shakes his head. “We don’t have hiking reservations, and it’s headed south. We’d need to go west from here. There’s a smaller trail through the backcountry. I’ve been on it before, so no surprises like the caves yesterday.”
“I see.”
He gestures toward the ranger station. “Unless you’ve decided to go home.”
Have I? I’ve been thinking about that decision the entire afternoon. Along with everything that he told me about homecoming. And about the kiss.
Definitely thinking about the kiss.
I could continue on. (But what if we end up fighting?)
I could call for a ride home. (But what if I regret not staying?)
The energy between us feels heightened, strained, and slightly awkward. But Lennon is patient, not pushing me to decide, and for that, I’m grateful. He glances at his phone. “Still no service. There should be a phone inside the station.”
“I should call my mom, at least,” I say. “Just to let her know I’m alive.”
His gaze intensifies. He’s studying my face, trying to figure out what I’m going to do. If I knew that, I’d just tell him.
“Me too,” he finally says. “And I need to report the abandoned gear Reagan and Brett left behind. Shall we?”
I nod and take a deep, steadying breath as we head to the door to the ranger station and step inside.
The single-room cabin is dim and cozy. Though the floor plan is small, the high ceiling is crossed with rough wooden beams, which makes it feel larger. There’s a small desk at the front and a rack of local wilderness travel books for sale. In the middle of the room, a couple of chairs huddle around an old heating stove, and in the back, near a giant wall map of the park, there’s an old pay phone.
“Evenin’,” a ranger says with a quiet smile. “We’re about to close for the day.”
“We’ll be quick,” Lennon assures him before gesturing me toward the phone, eyes hooded. “You want to go first?”
I make my way past the chairs while Lennon begins telling the ranger about Reagan and Brett’s abandoned gear. I’m worried that the national park might get judgmental about a couple of teens backpacking alone. But it seems fine, because Lennon sounds confident and knowledgeable, and the ranger is taking him seriously. They aren’t paying attention to me, and that gives me to time to take a deep breath and focus.
Stay or go?
Go or stay?
If I stay, I don’t think Lennon and I can just forget about everything that’s happened and go back to being just friends. That much I know. There’s too much history between us, and that kiss pretty much wiped out an entire year’s worth of trying to bury old feelings. Now I’m right back where I was, ribs cracked open and heart exposed.
I wish I could ask Mom for advice, but if she knew I was out here alone with Lennon . . . Well, it’s not so much her I worry about as my dad. But he’d find out eventually. I wish I had time to think out exactly what I need to say to her. Maybe write out a script. But the station is about to close, and if I’m going to call her, it’s now or never.
It takes me a little while to figure out how to use the ancient pay phone, but after reading the posted instructions, I dig out some quarters and slip them inside. Then I dial my mom’s cell phone.
“Joy Everhart,” my mom’s voice says, crackling over the line.
“Mom?”
“Zorie? Is that you? Are you okay?” She sounds frantic.
“I’m totally fine,” I tell her, looking up at the giant map hanging on the wall. “I’m in King’s Forest.”
Her exhalation is loud. “Dammit, Zorie. I was so worried. You didn’t answer my texts.”
“No service out here,” I say. “We talked about that, remember?”
“We did. You’re right,” she says. “But it’s a relief to hear your voice. Wait, did you say you’re in the national park? Why aren’t you at the glamping compound?”
“Um . . .” Do I tell her what happened? I hate lying to her. But if I stay here with Lenno
n, I can’t tell her that’s what I’m doing. Now that I’m forced to make a decision, I close my eyes and just let whatever comes out of my mouth be my choice.
One, two, three—
“Remember how I told you we might go on that backcountry trail?” I say. “That’s where I am. I’m hiking to the star party.”
Oh my God, I’m doing this. I’m staying with Lennon?
I am.
Relief rushes through me, unknotting my shoulders and loosening my limbs.
“I can barely hear you. Did you say you’re hiking to Condor Peak?” Mom asks, her voice going up an octave. “I thought you were taking the bus. Are you hiking alone?”
“It’s not that far and I’m not alone,” I assure her. “Dr. Viramontes and Avani will be at the star party to meet me when I get there.”
“Okay, but who are you with now?”
Crap on toast. Why didn’t I write a script? “We changed our plans for the week. And I’m with a guide, so you don’t have to worry.”
“A guide?”
“Someone who really knows the wilderness. Right now we’re in a campground at a ranger station.”
“Zorie—”
“It’s fine, I promise. There are families camping here and a park ranger. I’m completely safe. Please trust me. I need you to trust me, or I can’t enjoy this. You told me to be careful, not cautious, remember?”
She sighs. “But you are being smart, right?”
“As smart as possible. I swear on my backpack.”
“Oh, good. Okay. All right.” I can hear the relief in her voice. “Hives?”
“Under control.”
“Thank goodness. You have plenty of food?”
“Yep. Still have your emergency money too.”
She pauses. “Are you having fun?”
I glance back at Lennon. He’s several inches taller than the ranger is, and is now pointing out a location on a laminated map on the desk. He is insanely good-looking. I don’t think I allowed myself to think about that too much over the last year, but I’m thinking it now, and it’s making my stomach flutter. That voice, those lips, that—
“Zorie?”
Oh, crap. “What? Oh, um, yeah. I’m having fun.” A snake bite, a bear, and the greatest kiss of my life. “I’m sore from hiking, and I need a shower, but it’s really pretty out here.”
“I’m so glad. That’s terrific,” she says, sounding happy. I like it when she’s happy. She deserves someone better than my shitty father. Lennon’s story about the hotel pierces my thoughts, and the weight of this secret affair is becoming heavier and heavier. But I’m still too much of a coward to tell her about my dad. I can’t do it on the phone, not like this. I’m scared of hurting her, but I’m even more terrified of losing her. So I just tell her what day I’ll be at Condor Peak and assure her once more that everything’s fine.
I’m a selfish, selfish person.
“Baby?” she says, her voice taking on a different tone. “Do you have anything else you need to tell me?”
My pulse increases. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you know I don’t like secrets.”
“I know.”
“And when people keep them, it’s usually for a bad reason.”
Oh, God. Does she know I’m here with Lennon? Or is she talking about my dad’s affair? She couldn’t be. I’m paranoid.
“I know that sometimes it seems like . . .” She pauses. “Zorie, I care about you more than you can fathom. But . . .”
“But what?” Why is there a but?
“I just want you to know that you can tell me anything,” she says more firmly.
“I know that.”
“Okay, that’s all.”
That’s all? What is going on? Why is she being so cryptic? Maybe I should tell her about Lennon. But if I do, I’m worried she’ll tell my dad, and they’ll drive out here and make me come home. I made up my mind already. I know it took me forever, but now that I’ve decided, I really don’t want to go back to Melita Hills.
I hate lying to her.
But I want to stay here with Lennon.
Why can’t this be easier?
The phone is playing some prerecorded message in the background, telling me to deposit more money. “I don’t have any more quarters, so I’ve got to go,” I tell her. “But I just wanted to check in and tell you that I’m safe, and that . . . well, like I said, I have a really good trail guide out here. So you don’t have to worry.”
“Wait! When will you get to Condor Peak?”
“Day after tomorrow. Late.”
“Promise me that you’ll text when you get there.”
“I promise. And I love you.”
“I love you too, sweet thing.” She sounds sad. Or disappointed? “And I miss you. Please stay safe.”
Ugh. She’s breaking my heart. And I don’t even get to say anything else, because the pay phone finally realizes I’m not putting more money inside it and cuts me off. I hang up and lay my forehead against the receiver.
“Everything okay?” Lennon says in a low voice near my shoulder.
“I think so. Hope so.”
“What did you decide?”
I turn around and absently scratch my arm. “I hope you haven’t changed your mind about taking me to Condor Peak, because you’re stuck with me now.”
He sighs. Twice. On a third sigh, his hand tentatively reaches toward the side of my face, and he gently pushes an errant curl out of my eyes, fingers lingering. “I’m glad. Really glad.”
“You are?”
“I am. No presumptions made. I’m not booking us a hotel room, or anything.”
I groan softly, a little embarrassed.
“Too soon?” he says with the hint of a smile.
I shake my head and smile back.
His hand drops from my hair, and a moment of awkward silence passes before I speak again, attempting to move the focus away from the heavy topic of us. “I’m worried that I should have told Mom about the lady you saw last year at the hotel with my father. And about the photo book. I just couldn’t.”
“It’s probably for the best. Some things you just don’t want to say over the phone, believe me. Like, Hey, I’m an idiot who tried to get a hotel room because I have no clue about how to have a relationship, and, oh yeah, I punched your father, and we’re not allowed to see each other. You know, things like that.”
I chuckle a little.
“I still don’t,” he whispers.
“Don’t what?” I whisper back.
“Know how to have a relationship.”
“Oh good, because I don’t either.”
“We’ll figure it out eventually. If you want to, that is.”
“I think so,” I whisper.
His smile is almost shy, but when he sighs one last time, exhaling sharply through his nostrils, he sounds content. And that makes me feel less anxious about everything.
He clears his throat. “So . . . I rented us a campsite,” he says, holding up a small, perforated card with a number printed on it. “Not a presumption, by the way. If you were leaving, I needed a place to sleep tonight, and I really didn’t—”
“Calm down. I believe you.”
“Okay,” he says, and we both smile at each other again.
Focus, Zorie. “Campsite. We’re not camping in the wild?”
“The sites make things easier, so I thought why not take advantage of convenience for a night? And we’re lucky to get it. They were completely booked until the mountain lion scare we saw posted on the board outside. Apparently one tried to attack a small child at another camp.”
I’m suddenly alarmed, but Lennon holds up a calming hand.
“Mountain lions usually steer clear of populated areas, but if they try to attack, small children look like prey in their eyes. We aren’t children. We’ll be fine, especially with all the other campers around. And besides, that report was miles from here, and the little boy escaped unharmed.”
Still n
ot feeling better about this. . . .
“Now skootch,” Lennon says, waving me aside. “Let me call the parental units before the ranger kicks us out.”
I feel strange about listening in to his phone conversation, so I busy myself outside the station, picking up a free park map from a covered plastic box as the sun begins setting, shining warm orange light through the trees. When Lennon emerges, he’s all smiles, poise, and swagger. Whatever was said between him and his moms lifted his mood considerably. But before I can ask about this, he waves the camping permit at me.
“Okay, Medusa. We’re looking for an open site somewhere down there. Let’s make camp. And bonus, there are toilets and hot showers.”
(A) He hasn’t called me that nickname in forever, and (B) showers. SHOWERS!
“You really know how to win a girl’s heart,” I say, grinning.
“I’m trying my best,” he says, and I feel said heart skip a beat.
We wander down a trail through the camp, nodding at strangers who lift a hand in greeting. It must be a camping thing. I’m not accustomed to so much open friendliness among strangers. Don’t these hippies know this is a good way to get mugged? Head down, eyes on the sidewalk—that’s my motto. Then again, maybe they’re so cheery because they all have cars, either pulled up right next to their tents or out in the nearby parking lot, and Car Camping seems to be a completely different ball game. These people have coolers of actual food—not freeze-dried meals—and portable chairs. Since when did I become jealous of a chair and a package of cheap hot dogs? But, gods above, it looks enticing.
“Bingo,” Lennon says, pointing toward a deserted piece of dirt. “Ranger Bob said there were two sites open, and we can choose. I see another one open near the toilets, and I’m gonna suggest we pass on that, because I’ve camped near restrooms before. It’s like sitting near the toilets on an airplane, but worse. So much worse.”
“Say no more. This one smells and looks perfect.” Well, that’s a stretch. It’s somewhat barren, and the sites on either side of it are a little closer than I’d like. But on the other hand, it’s flat, there are no rocks or twigs to clear away, and it has a private picnic table, a bear locker, and a rusty fire pit ring with a grill. “Score. If only we had some hot dogs.”
