Ten Below Zero(77)

To be clear: we hadn’t kissed. I knew Everett wanted to. But he seemed to respecting whatever it was that was holding me back. And the only thing holding me back was his memory. I was desperate for him to remember. I wanted that look he’d given me, the look with feeling. I wanted it more than anything. And I was still holding onto a shred of hope that he’d remember someday.

And that’s why I was sitting in baggage claim after claiming my keys from the rental car company. My eyes searched the crowd for him. His hair had grown out again, though he kept it shorter than it’d been when we first met.

I missed the long hair. I missed a lot of things. And I tried my damnedest to push it from my head, to focus on what was important. Everett was alive. And he was strong. And he’d listened to me, when I’d made my emotional plea before leaving him in New Orleans.

So when I saw him emerge through the doors into baggage claim, my heart skipped a beat. And I walked towards him, my heart in my throat and my eyes shining.

“Parker,” he said, holding his arms out. I went into his arms. This was my favorite place. He still felt the same to me, even if he didn’t feel the same for me. “You haven’t been hugged enough.” It was something he’d read in the journal, but each time he said it, a fresh wave of tears started.

I pulled away first. “I have the keys to our Jeep. You ready?”

He angled his head towards the baggage carousel. “I just need to grab one bag.”

“Oh, of course,” I said, motioning him along. When he walked away, I missed Everett the *.

Everett had written a lot about me in the journal. But he didn’t write about Picketwire Canyon or our tattoos. I wasn’t sure why. He’d written about the Four Corners, about meeting Mira in Colorado, about how I’d kissed him with feeling in Texas. But it was as if an entire chunk of the journal was missing. He’d left his descriptions of each time we’d had sex, which was embarrassing for Everett to tell me about. It felt like a stranger was reading about our more intimate scenes. But I tried hard. I tried to accept Everett now. I tried not to mourn the Everett who remembered me. But it hurt.

Everett and I met up with the caravan for our trip through the canyon. We stopped at the petroglyphs first. I watched Everett look at them, waiting to see if he made the same comments the first time. He didn’t. He just nodded and we returned to the vehicle.

When we stopped for the arch, my heart started thundering. I grabbed my camera and walked around the car to Everett. “Let’s go,” I said impatiently. I reached for his hand instinctually and he clasped it. We looked at each other and our hands for a second. Everett scrunched his brow. It was the first time we’d held hands since I’d left him in New Orleans. But it felt right, right with the moment. So I tugged him, pulled him along with me.

As expected, everyone clambered up to the arch but I pulled Everett to the view that meant so much to me. “Don’t look at the arch,” I said.

“You’re so bossy sometimes,” he muttered.

“Get over it,” I muttered back. “See this?” I said, gesturing towards the valley in the canyon, the river that cut through it. “This is the Purgatoire River.”

“Purgatoire.” Everett tasted the word and looked at me with confusion. “Like purgatory?”

He was screwing up my speech. It was very Everett of him. “Yes. The Spanish explorers came through here first and their men had a rough time, so they called it a version of ‘The River of Lost Souls in Purgatory’. And French explorers came through and renamed it the Purgatoire River, their name for purgatory. And then American’s butchered the pronunciation so they call this the Picketwire Canyonlands.”

“Slow down, Parker,” Everett said looking at me like I’d grown three heads. “I didn’t know I’d be getting a history lesson.”

I gritted my teeth. I wanted to yell, “You imparted all that knowledge on me, *!” but I kept my mouth shut and breathed in through my nose. “Everyone comes here to look at the arch,” I continued, using my thumb to gesture behind us. “But I like this view myself.”

Everett looked back at the arch and then at the view in front of us. “I agree. I’d rather look at this than the arch.” I wasn’t getting what I wanted from him. I grabbed his hand again. He looked down at our clasped hands and up at me again.

“What is purgatory to you?”

Everett studied me a minute, opened his mouth to say something but closed it again. Something was working its way behind his eyes. “A place to cleanse your soul before being admitted to Heaven.”

My heart leapt. “Yes,” I said animatedly. “One last stop before forever.”

Everett was staring at me. I couldn’t read him, but I wanted to continue. “Come,” I said, pulling him up to the arch. Everett jumped up on the ledge below the arch first and reached his hands for me, helping me up.

“Hey,” I called to a person that was taking photos of the view. “Can you take a photo of us?”

The older woman in her khaki hat nodded and took the camera I tossed down to her. I blew out a breath and turned my head to Everett. I wrapped an arm around him and took his hand and pulled it on my lap, clasping it firmly in mine. My blood roared in my ears. My heart thudded painfully in my chest. I put my lips to his ear. “Everett, look out. Over the canyon, at the river. Look at all of it. Look at this view as this woman takes a photo of us.” I squeezed his hand. “Everyone who sees this photo will see us, underneath this arch. But when you look at the photo,” I swallowed emotion. “When you look at this photo, remember the canyon, the water, and all the beauty in front of us.” I blew out a breath. “When you look at this photo, remember looking out at purgatory with me. While everyone else was looking at the arch, we were looking at that.” And then I closed my eyes. A tear slipped, reminding me of how I’d felt when Everett had said those words to me. The fact that I’d felt at all. One year ago, we’d sat on this ledge together and I’d fallen in love with Everett. I ached for that moment.