by Elaria Ride
“Ok.”
I switch off the ignition and hoist myself out of the car. I lock it behind me and slam the door closed, trying harder than anything to just get this over with. So I set my jaw and march forward, determined to make it down the canyon footpath before the snow gets worse, when Nick interrupts me with that same obnoxious singsong voice.
“Regulation attire onnnnnnly!” he gloats.
I hiss as my eyes flutter shut — but I know he’s right. Official NNS rules stipulate that we must wear uniforms for all potential hazmat cleanups; it’s a great way to prevent contaminants from spreading onto street clothes and possibly harming other people.
But right now? It sucks; I’d wager my boots are still wet, even hours after the coffee incident. Nevertheless, I draw a deep breath and head back to my car. Flurries are coating my hair and shoulders with even greater insistence, but this is the job I signed up for, like it or not.
I feel Nick’s eyes follow me as I open my trunk and take my boots out. Bleh. As predicted, they’re still damp, along with my socks. Gross. I lean against the snowy bumper and take off my heels.
As I do, a weird prickling sensation starts at the back of my neck and crawls upwards, almost like a spider weaving its way into my hair. Ugh. I’d know that feeling anywhere; I’m being watched.
“Something I can help you with, Nick?” I demand, whipping around to face him. By now, he’s brimming with excitement — although I suddenly realize I have no desire to find out why.
“I just uh…” Nick clears his throat, crossing his arms so tightly his hands are shoved into his armpits.
There’s a beat.
Um… ok?!
I turn around again in stunned silence, choosing to believe that’s the end. As I slide a sodden sock onto my foot, I reason that maybe Nick had been trying to apologize — but my reaction made him think twice. Or maybe he really is as awkward as he seems. Or maybe he is ashamed for his behavior.
But just as I’m reaching for my boots, his oily voice cuts into my thoughts.
“I hope this doesn’t ruin your eating plans.”
I pause, hand hovering over my foot. Did he seriously just say that?
Rage pounds behind my eyes as my breath comes in heaving pants. Being weird and awkward and vaguely creepy is one thing, but total irreverence for your co-worker (and supervisor) is something else.
“What did you say?” I growl, clenching my fists at my sides.
Nick’s painted expression of disbelief tells me everything: He knows exactly what he said.
And he doesn’t care.
“I said,” he starts again, his voice filled with false innocence, “that I hope this didn’t ruin your weekend plans!”
I open my mouth to object, but he just gives me a wink and turns on his heel. “Enjoy the storm!” he calls from over his shoulder. “It’s part of your job, after all!”
6
Autumn
I grumble and fume on my way down to the canyon, my feet slipping around my soaking boots. As much as I hate to admit it, that weasel has succeeded in pissing me off.
In general, I pride myself on being easygoing and carefree. I could sum my life mottos up with live and let live, do no harm, and don’t worry, be happy! I’m also used to being called fat; name-calling has been a fixture in my life for almost as long as I’ve, you know, been fat.
Usually, I’m able to justify this treatment knowing that name-callers see me as a threat of some kind: my mother sees me as a threat to her picture-perfect suburban existence. Mean girls in high school had seen me as a threat to their social hierarchy (not that I’d really come close to demolishing that). Sometimes, people just see me as a threat to their perception of what women should look like.
This is far from my first fatphobic rodeo.
But what I legitimately don’t understand is why Nick would be so openly disrespectful, seemingly out of the blue! I see the dude a few times a week, at most. All I really know about him is that he’s a stickler for rules and that he loves telling people what to do. I guess I pissed him off somehow, but I can’t think of anything hurtful I might’ve said over the past six months.
I hate to be a tattle-tale, but I can’t ignore Nick’s comment about “my eating plans,” even if he’d lied to cover it up. I can pretend he hasn’t been weird and creepy since I’ve started, but the dude has officially reached a new level of disrespect. It’ll be awkward to approach Asher and whine about being called fat — but I think I deserve to be comfortable in the workplace, too.
I’ll wait until Monday, though; Asher doesn’t need this childish crap before a blizzard. I square my shoulders and keep marching ahead, only guided by the beam from my flashlight; the snow is making visibility difficult, but I think I can manage until I get down there. Asher and I can trek back up together. The path will be easier to navigate with two people, even if the blizzard is rolling in a lot faster than we expected.
I finally feel a little better as I begin my descent down the concrete steps to the canyon. I’ve always worked through frustrations by developing solutions; I prefer this strategy over dwelling on things I can’t change. My feet are still slipping, I still smell like old coffee, and I’m supposed to be in a warm bath right now — but these problems will be remedied very, very soon.
I step into the snow-covered sheetrock clearing. It’s a few hundred feet wide and serves as an observation deck into the canyon below. A waist-height guardrail wraps around the edge of the rock, protecting any wayward visitors from tumbling over. It really is a pretty place for sight-seeing.
When you can actually see it. And when it isn’t covered in snow.
I sigh as I catch sight of Asher. He’s bent over, picking up the remnants of what looks like a thoroughly enjoyable picnic. Visitors are technically only permitted into this clearing (and into the greater canyon, itself) during guided tours… but at some point in every park ranger’s life, she must confront a very uncomfortable reality: Idiots will always find ways to do idiotic things.
I take a step closer and wrinkle my nose. Oh. The harsh smell of gasoline hits me straight in the face. Nick was right; there really is a gas spill.
“Enjoying the sights and smells of nature?” Asher deadpans, turning to look at me from over his shoulder. A snowflake settles on his eyelash. Shit, he’s attractive. Even when he’s being snarky.
“Not sure if we can blame the grizzlies for this one.”
Asher doesn’t respond; his is face impassive as he offers me a pair of gloves in his outstretched hand.
Back to business, then. Right.
I stride over and accept the gloves with a smile. Killing him with kindness will have to be the name of the game. The EnviroBucket knocks against my shins, so I set it down on the ground before donning the protective gear.
“What do we have here?” I ask, wishing I’d thought to bring a respirator mask; the fumes really are noxious.
Asher kicks his boot at the layer of sand he’s already applied on the spill. “Ghosts of morons past. Looks like some bros had a BBQ with a gas grill. Spilled it everywhere. Cleaned up none of it.”
I nod in understanding; if the spill is severe enough to warrant clean-up, we have a certain protocol to follow.
“Five more minutes,” Asher says, gesturing to the sand. “Then we sweep. And soap. All because some people never learned manners.”
A cutting gust of wind blasts through the canyon, shooting through my soaked jacket and socks. I give an involuntary shudder and try my best to bundle up even tighter. Asher notices.
“Cold?” His brow furrows in concern. I guess he overloaded his system with multi-word phrases, because now we’re back to monosyllables.
I shrug. “There’s nothing for it, I’m still soaking in—”
Suddenly, Asher cocks his head and sniffs. “You… still smell like coffee.”
I arch an eyebrow. I’d have thought that much was obvious. He glances down at my boots and lets out a low whistle.
“Sheesh! Those are wet, too. Why the hell are you wearing those? They could be dangerous out here!”
I bite the inside of my cheek and jam my hands in my pockets. I’m so distraught I hardly even notice that Asher’s voice contains more expression than I think it ever has.
“Nick reminded me they’re regulation,” I note, trying not to sound as bitter as I feel, “and I must wear regulation attire to clean up spills.”
Asher looks at me in disbelief. “Well, that’s ridiculous. Anyone can see it makes more sense to wear dry shoes than it does to—”
“—I know,” I sigh, shifting my weight. It’s really not worth it to rehash this right now.
Asher shakes his head and stares out into the canyon. “I have to talk with him. We wouldn’t want our prettiest ranger to slip right out of her boots, would we?”
What?
I jerk my head up, but Asher’s already facing away, kneeling to pick up trash. For some reason, this lack of follow-through annoys me, too.
I’m filled with the same feeling I used to get whenever a guy looked at me in college or high school. On those rare occasions, I’d known the guy was into me — or at least into some part of me. With the exception of a brief high school boyfriend and a few drunken exceptions, these dudes had never made a single move. I’d always chalked that up to them being worried about being seen with a fat chick (gasp!) and thus unwilling to take things further.
I give Asher a covert glimpse from the corner of my eye as I start picking up trash, too. Is that just what this is… leading a fat girl on? Because if it is, that’s pretty damn sad; I’ve had more success with the random dudes around Biggal Mountain!
I make a conscious choice to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he’s just trying to be nice, maybe he’s just trying to atone for making me stay later. His comment had been fairly innocuous, after all.
Then Asher bends over, and as he does, my eyes glide down his muscular frame before resting on the firm swell of his ass.
“Got another poaching warning before I left the center,” Asher calls from over his shoulder, jolting me from my ogling.
“Oh, yeah?” I take a step closer, trying to keep my voice as neutral as possible.
“Yeah,” he confirms, shaking his head. “People will do anything for a buck.”
I make a face and reach for a discarded banana peel. “How much would this bark fetch on the black market, exactly?”
Asher rises to his feet. He cocks his head, and I can tell he’s a little surprised by the question.
A warm feeling blooms in the pit of my stomach; I have to admit, it’s kind of adorable that the monetary part hasn’t really occurred to him. Asher clears his throat and gestures to a cedar about 50 feet from where we stand.
“Well, as you can see, these trees themselves are huge — and ancient. You’re probably looking at well over 100k per trunk. But really, they’re invaluable, at least from a historical perspective.”
Wow. 100k! More than I thought.
He shakes his head sadly. “That’s the real tragedy. Native Americans used red cedar bark to build entire societies. It probably has medicinal qualities, too. Not that poachers care about things that benefit other people.”
I let out a low whistle and brush some snow away from my eyes. “Damn. And to think, I’d never even heard of plant poaching til I got here.”
Asher turns his attention away from the tree. “Really? I assumed it was just the norm at most parks.” Then he pauses, the corners of his lips twitching. “Kind of like knowing that a parking lot might be icy.”
We stare at each other for approximately two seconds. And then — almost like we’d coordinated it — we both burst into laughter at the same time.
“Yeah, ok,” I relent, blushing. “Maybe I’m not the most informed about the Pacific Northwest.”
Asher grins, and I get yet another glimpse of a life-form beneath his robotic exterior. “Nah, I’m just messing with you. Besides, I’m not informed about anywhere else. Lived here most of my life.”
I nod. He’d mentioned that before, that he’s spent his whole life here on Biggal. I walk a little closer to him under the guise of picking up some stray plastic wrappers.
“Well, you know I’m a Southern girl,” I say through an exaggerated drawl as I bend to pick up the wrapper. “We don’t understand things like snow. Or unsweetened tea.”
Asher laughs and shoves more trash into the bag. Then he swallows. Even in the near-darkness, I can see his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Your accent is adorable, by the way.”
Oh.
I curse that it takes so little for him to make me blush. But at the same time, I can’t deny that Asher isn’t acting embarrassed to be flirting with me. Could this mean he’s actually interested?
Well, what’s another one of my life mottos? You never know til you try!
I give him a soft smile and peer up at him through my lashes. “I suppose that’s… good to know,” I say, brushing some snow off his shoulders. “Most people think I’m an idiot.”
He smiles again, his teeth glinting in the moonlight. “Oh, I always knew you were smart. Maybe not, you know, balanced,” he adds pointedly. I giggle and bite my lip; yeah, ok, I deserved that.
“But yeah,” he continues, grinning. “I’ve never doubted you were knowledgeable, Autumn.”
The word knowledgeable throbs with greater meaning, sticking out of his sentence like a sore thumb. A younger, dumber version of me would have ignored that, but right now, I can’t help but think there’s more to it.
I cock my head, confused. Knowledgeable.
Is he referring to the whole virgin thing? I wince, hoping I’m looking into this too much. It’s embarrassing enough I admitted that in the first place. He probably sees me as his little sister, as someone he needs to mentor.
Then Asher clears his throat, and out of the blue, his face goes rigid as his expression hardens. The moment — whatever it had been — shatters around us, just like every other moment I’ve ever shared with him.
“It’s been five minutes,” he blurts, tearing his head away. Asher draws a deep breath and turns to face the spill again. “We need to sweep.”
I manage a numb nod as my stomach plummets to my toes.
Because despite his kind words about me being knowledgeable, I know he’s wrong — I am an idiot. It’s a mystery why I ever thought someone so removed and so robotic would be into anyone… much less me.
The tension headache I’d forgotten about is coming back in full force. I massage my temples in frustration, willing time to move as fast as it can.
Asher, of course, is oblivious.
He strides over and picks up the regulation broom and dust pan set from the EnviroBucket. They’re both ineffective for what we need (and nowhere near large enough), but with two people, this sweep will be a quicker job than it might be otherwise.
Which works just fine for me: In the equation that describes my life at this moment in time, speed equals faster access to alcohol!
“Sweep or wipe?” Asher asks, broom in one hand, dustpan in the other. A genuine smile fills his face with boyish innocence. Even though I should be a little put-out from his frank dismissal, I still can’t help that I’m attracted to him.
Damn.
So I weigh my options, giving Asher an up-and-down glance. His mixed signals have made it clear he’s not into me — which is his right. But I wouldn’t mind a little eye candy to soften the blow.
“Sweep,” I decide with a shrug, doing my best to look like an innocent country bumpkin. “I’d feel bad about making you get down on your knees, what with those long legs!”
I finish with a polite smile and hope he’s not able to see through the subtext. Bless his heart.
Asher chuckles, and I think my plan worked… but then, just as suddenly, I watch his features soften once more. He drops to a crouch, his eyes never wavering from mine, and that same flirty look — the one I’ve in equal parts denied an
d reveled in — steals across his face.
“Don’t worry,” he says, arching an eyebrow. “I’m very comfortable being… down on my knees.”
Wait, what?!
I blush again, averting my eyes.
God, I’m such an obvious virgin… I hadn’t even thought my suggestion might seem sexual! Naturally I’d wanted to watch him… sweep… but I hadn’t thought of the further implications. Now, I know there’s no way he hadn’t meant his earlier comment about me being knowledgeable.
Shit.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and try to collect myself. I’m filled with an irrational wave of jealousy for my 2-year-old nephew, who still gets to stomp his feet and whine when he’s confused.
Stomping my feet and whining seems appealing, right about now, actually — because instead of addressing a single thing he’s said, Asher just starts sweeping, as casually as you please!
I roll my eyes. This, right here, is why boyfriends have never worked out for me. I’ve never understood why people don’t just go for the things they want in life — and I’ve never cared for the game of hot and cold. And speaking of cold… another frigid gust blows through the canyon, and I shake like a leaf, my teeth chattering. The temperature is rapidly dropping; we need to finish this.
So I take two resigned steps forward and pick up the broom at Asher’s feet; I’m done playing. “Well, let’s get started,” I say as calmly as I can. “We have a job to do.”
Asher blinks up at me and set his jaw. “Right.”
We don’t exchange a single word while we’re cleaning up the mess. It’s nothing but professional; I sweep, he collects the sand, and we move to the next area. We barely even make eye contact — which is for the best. I know firsthand how easy it is to get lost in those eyes.
After he’s done sweeping up the initial mess, Asher pulls out the soap from the EnviroBucket and applies it, starting at the left corner, working his way across. The soap comes in a thick brick — not exactly the easiest to apply. He winces as his fingers scrape across the rock, and without thinking, I blurt, “Wouldn’t that be easier in a squeeze bottle?”
