The Good Widow(36)
About a mile in, Nick and I are in the back of the pack, and I’m still thinking about the way his hand felt when I’d laced my fingers through his—large and rough, but also like it would protect me from anything. George and Nancy are several yards ahead of us, pumping their arms like nobody’s business. And their son is right behind them, taking selfies every few yards, tilting his head until he finds the right angle. When I make a quip to Nick about Parker being obsessed with taking pictures of himself, Nick tells me he’s actually Snapchatting. When I give him a blank stare, he explains what that is.
“He’s texting a group of his friends while on this hike? Shouldn’t he be enjoying the view?”
“Shouldn’t I be saying the same thing about you?” Nick stops and puts his hands on my shoulders. It’s true. I’ve been hugging one side of the trail so hard I think it might be getting the wrong idea.
“I’m freaked out,” I say, but it comes out like a question.
“And you’re going to let that take away the chance for you to look at this breathtaking scenery?”
“No, it’s just that I’m concentrating on not falling off the side of the mountain.”
“What would you tell your students?”
“What do you mean?”
“What would you tell one of your fourth graders if they were scared of something?”
I realize what he’s doing the second I hear the question. Oh, the irony. That I’m a teacher taking care of nine-and ten-year-olds, yet I can’t talk myself off the literal ledge of my own life.
“Touché,” I say.
“That’s not an answer.” He stares at me.
“Fine. I would tell them that fear only lives where you let it. That they can do anything they set their minds to.”
“Good advice,” he says. “Why don’t you take it?”
“Fine.” As the trail gets steeper, I focus on the back of Nick’s legs, how the muscles in his calves flex with each step. From the way he maneuvers around loose rocks and tree roots sticking out of the ground with ease, you’d think he were the guide. I adjust my backpack, which feels like an incubator holding all my body heat under it, and try to match Nick’s momentum. But each time I attempt to speed up, I slip slightly and the rocks give way under my feet. I picture each pebble rolling all the way to the bottom, which is well over a thousand feet, according to Jacob, who has an incessant need to remind us at every marker.
When we hit marker number three, Jacob announces that we’re going to take a water break and instructs us to check out the spectacular view of the island of Molokini. Barbie and Ken pull out a selfie stick, Barbie giggling as she leans in to kiss him.
I think of James and when we traveled together for the first time. Before our first long weekend away in San Francisco, a city neither of us had been to, I said, “I’ll do anything except tours. I don’t like being at someone’s mercy when I’m sightseeing.” His face fell, and he said simply, “Well, I guess we won’t be needing this!” And he tossed a brochure about a tour of Alcatraz onto the table. I immediately told him I was sorry and offered to go, but he refused. I could tell he felt stupid, and after several attempts to apologize, I gave up. And now, as I listen to Jacob ramble about Maui, I have to live with the fact that he’d taken another woman to do the things I wouldn’t.
“You know you’re facing the wrong direction?” Jacob says, sticking out his pointer finger. “The view is thataway.”
I laugh awkwardly. “I know. I’m just a little freaked out about how high up we are.”
Jacob raises a bushy eyebrow, which seems comical against his bald head. “Interesting choice for a sightseeing trip.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you all the way up here when you could be down there? I’m sure you read about the many fine things Maui has to offer at sea level—or below, if that’s your bag.”
I catch Nick’s eye and nod so he knows I need him. Because obviously I can’t tell Jacob the truth: that my husband died on the road to Hana when I thought he was in Kansas and we were still in a pretty decent marriage. And I’m here with his mistress’s fiancé, retracing their footsteps up this west Maui mountain range to try to figure out why they wanted each other instead of us.
Nick drops his backpack in front of us. “Great tour, Jacob,” he says, shaking his hand. “Our friends did this hike in May and raved about you. Said you are an amazing five-star tour guide and we absolutely couldn’t let Jacks’s fear keep us from taking your tour.” Nick puts his arm around my shoulder. “Right, honey?”
“Right.” I lean my head against him, the earlier awkwardness gone. My torso fits perfectly into the groove of his side, and I try to brush off the flash of guilt that passes through me.
Jacob laughs. “Wow. With praise like that, I hope your pals gave me a Yelp review! Who were they?”
“Dylan and James,” Nick says; then when Jacob doesn’t recognize them based on just their names like the others had, he describes them. As I listen, I’m struck by how he speaks about James—as if he knew him his entire life. And I wonder, would James and Nick have been friends under other circumstances? Would Dylan and I have been friends if I’d bumped into her at Target?