The Light Through the Leaves(23)

“No, thanks,” she said.

Her stomach plummeted when the man pulled a flask out of his pocket.

“Maybe a drink?”

She thought of what she’d said to River and Jasper. I’ll be in pretty places, getting better.

But what did it matter what they thought when she’d never see them again? She needed it. Just one more night. To help her through this anniversary.

The man came over to the fire. He held his free hand down toward her, the other clasping the flask. “I’m Caleb.”

“Ellis,” she said, taking his hand.

“Ellis?”

“Yes.”

“Want some?” he asked, holding out the flask.

“No,” she said, surprising herself with how firmly she’d spoken.

“It’s not drugged or anything.” He opened the flask and took a swig, then pointed the open container at her.

“I said no.”

He heard the anger in her tone. “Okaaay.” He slipped the flask into his pocket. “Want to join us next door? We’re just talking and whatnot.”

It was the whatnot that she didn’t trust herself with.

“Thank you, but I’m tired,” she said. “I’m going to bed soon.”

He looked at the small tent she’d packed in. “You all by yourself?”

She’d been asked that question occasionally since she’d started camping and hiking alone in her college years. It always rattled her. She replied as she always did. “Why do you ask that?”

“Well, I saw this beautiful woman over here, and I was wondering if you were with someone. I assumed you were. But I haven’t seen anyone. So here I am, making a total ass of myself. I’m sorry. I’ll go.”

He walked away.

She was afraid she was becoming her mother. A miserable person who poisoned people with her toxic moods.

“I didn’t mean to be rude,” she said.

He turned around.

“I’m having a bad night.”

“Yeah?” he said. “Why?”

“Today is the anniversary of someone dying.”

She had no idea why she’d phrased it like that. But it wasn’t a lie. One year ago on this day, the person she’d been had died. Maybe her baby, too.

Caleb looked into her eyes. “Shit. Want to talk about it?”

“I can’t.”

He walked over and sat cross-legged next to the log. “Want to not talk about it?”

“That would be better. But nothing to drink. I’m trying to quit.”

“Oh god. I’m an ass.”

“You didn’t know.”

He stared at her, genuine concern in his eyes. He was attractive. Thick curls, dark eyes, sculpted face. Young.

“How long have you been in the park?” he asked.

“Two days. What about you?”

“This was our fourth day,” he said. “Vacation?”

“No.”

“So . . . you’re on the road?” he asked.

“I guess so.”

“I knew it. I saw a kindred spirit as soon as I set eyes on you. How long have you been wandering?”

“Since December.”

“Where have you been?”

“Too many places to name,” she said. “New York to New Mexico to California to here—and lots of states in between.”

“Awesome. I’ve been wandering since I was nineteen.”

“For how long?”

“Three years. I can’t live any other way. None of us is meant to. You know that, right? Agriculture turned us into prisoners. We never wanted to grow crops and live in houses. We were nomads for millions of years.”

He adjusted to face her. “You know that feeling you get when you live inside a house for too long? It doesn’t matter if it’s a little apartment or a house or a mansion. You’re gonna feel it. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

She nodded. She had felt it.

“That’s your genetic memories making you see, hear, smell, touch, and long for how we lived for hundreds of generations. Inside we’re still a nomadic species. All people feel it, but most of them don’t know what’s making them want something that’s always out of reach. They buy fancier cars and bigger houses, but it never makes them feel better. They just keep getting more depressed until they die.”

He was more interesting than she’d thought he’d be. And doing a great job of distracting her from thinking about Viola.

He put his hand on her knee. “Hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be a downer when you’re already down.”

“It’s all right,” she said.

He took his hand off her knee and pulled a paperback out of his pocket. It was a battered copy of Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman. “Do you know ‘Song of the Open Road’?”

“A little.”

“How about I read it to you? That poem always makes me feel better when things suck.”

With his dark, melancholic eyes, Caleb was yet more intriguing. How could she say no to a lovely man reading poetry to her? And maybe more . . .

But Caleb looked like he might be a bit grimy beneath his layers of clothes.

“I’d love to hear you read,” she told him. “But now that it’s dark, I was going to take a quick bath in the stream. Do you want to come with me?”