The Middle of Somewhere(11)

“There aren’t enough.”

“I’ll get more at Red’s.”

“I thought you preferred the filter.”

She shrugged. Dante bent his head in apology. The choices she would have made at home in preparation for a solo trip were different from the ones she faced now. She’d have brought a smaller tent, for starters. The one she’d purchased when she thought she’d be alone was narrow and low to the ground, shaped like a chrysalis.

The process of divvying up their gear and supplies was what she imagined happened when cohabiting couples broke up: her stuff from before, his stuff from before and, the sticky part, the stuff they had bought together in the buoyant hope they’d never see this day. But instead of books, serving dishes and throw pillows, these were tools of survival. She picked up the compass—a dial set in a rectangle of clear, hard plastic—and closed her fingers over it. She squeezed and the sharp corners dug into her palm.

Dante contemplated his pile of clothing. “Why don’t you take my gloves? They’re warmer than yours.” His eyes asked her to confirm they still shared a life. Mis cosas son tus cosas.

“They’re too big. I’d fumble with everything.” She handed him the car keys. “You might not catch the shuttle to the Valley in time.”

He stared at the keys as if they were runes. “I’ll figure something out.”

Liz placed her fingers lightly on his forearm. “It’s up to you about Muesli. Valerie’s expecting to have him the whole time, so either way.”

He exhaled loudly and stuffed the rest of his belongings into his pack. For now, the cat offering had been enough. He could tell himself that if he had the cat, she would probably follow. He was rushing to leave now. Ripping the Band-Aid off.

She methodically reloaded her pack, working with all the deliberation Dante no longer needed. She positioned each item with care, the heaviest things close to her center of gravity, the lighter things wherever they would fit. The business of getting it right soothed her. She paused to scan the skies. A few innocent puffs of cloud had appeared above Mount Lyell, cloaked in a glacier. She laid her waterproof jacket on top of the bear can, next to her snacks, where she could readily find it.

Dante hoisted his pack onto one shoulder, then leaned to the side and wriggled the other arm under the strap. He clicked the hip belt buckle and straightened his cap.

“You sure you don’t want my phone?” This was tantamount to offering his leg.

She shook her head.

“I’m going to worry about you.”

She could see he meant it. “Don’t. It’s only a walk.” She stepped closer and kissed him. His lips were so warm and tasted of salt. Heat rushed through her body. She stepped back to stop from giving in to it.

Dante’s expression had changed. A moment ago he had been ready to leave without a scene. Now he appeared frozen in place and crushed, and she regretted the kiss.

He said, “Was that our last kiss?”

“I thought you were leaving.”

“I am. But before I go, I want to know.”

“Why is it up to me to say?”

“Because you seem to be making all the choices.”

“It’s a hike, Dante.”

They stood at arm’s length, eyes locked. The river murmured beside them, the only sound.

“Liz,” Dante said softly, his hands on her arms. “Was that our last kiss?”

She spun free. “How the hell should I know?” Turning away from him, she pulled tight the toggle on the main compartment of her pack, tucked in the strings and strapped the top section securely in place. She stuffed two Nalgene bottles into the side pockets and checked her pants’ pockets for her map, pocketknife and lip balm. After she scanned the ground for anything she might have overlooked, she lifted the pack onto her shoulders, clipped the hip belt and slipped her hands through the straps of her trekking poles.

Liz cut diagonally across the meadow. As she rejoined the trail, she looked the way they had come. The trail was empty. She was, at last, alone.





CHAPTER FOUR





Leaving Lyell Canyon should have been harder than it was. She was loaded down—by her pack, by her guilt, by the heaviness in her heart. But when the river gave up its meandering and shrank to a creek, and the open meadows gave way to the forested slope, Liz felt strong. Her legs had been thick with soreness all morning, but now, in the middle of the afternoon, they were ready to climb again. Maybe she was gaining strength. Maybe her body had given up fighting the commands delivered by her brain. Maybe she was relieved Dante was no longer behind her, pulling her thoughts in his direction, derailing them. Maybe she was happier this way.