The Middle of Somewhere(21)

She considered the hypothesis that Payton was attracted to her. She had a history of being the last to know when men were drawn to her, which undoubtedly accounted for how few men she had dated. They had to write their intentions in the sky in plain English if they wanted to get through. If Payton was interested in her, it would explain why he seemed a bit odd. He was sending signals she wasn’t receiving. Hadn’t he just winked at her? And the first day, when she and Dante had left the Root brothers at the stream, she’d turned to see Payton smirking. At the time she’d taken it as a sign of his satisfaction in sending them in the wrong direction, but now she considered the possibility he was checking out her ass.

It was a theory.

She went into the stall for a pee. Her thoughts turned from Payton to Dante. He was making a real effort, and she knew he believed every word he said. But she didn’t get why he’d waited for three days to apologize again, then drive home. Unless he wanted reassurance. She didn’t know how much she could honestly give him. He’d be waiting for her now, worrying about her reaction to his apology and her quick exit. Maybe he had more to say, like that their relationship wasn’t working and he was bowing out. She wasn’t the only one who could make decisions. Her throat closed, and she felt queasy. Well, if that was what was coming, she’d be spared having to break his heart in other ways.

When she came out of the bathroom, she found him sitting on a picnic table with his feet on the bench.

“I have something to show you.” He jumped off the table, unzipped a large duffel bag he’d stowed on the other bench, and pulled out a pair of hiking boots. “These are amazing. So comfortable—and light!” He handed her one. “See?”

She turned it over. The tread was unusual—protruding nubs in a circular pattern. “Interesting tread. But why . . .”

“And look at these!” He showed her a plastic bag full of small bandages. “The man who sold me the boots said they’re incredible.” He pulled one out. “See? They’re gel. They don’t fall off either. And if they do . . .” His hand disappeared into the bag again. “I’ve got this!”

“Duct tape?”

“It’s waterproof and slippery on the outside so it doesn’t rub. And it won’t come off until you rip it off. The man said all the hikers use it.”

Liz put two and two together. “You’re not thinking of coming with me again, are you?”

His face was shining with hope. “If you’ll have me.”

“Dante . . .”

“It’ll be different.” He took her hand. “I promise.”

She looked away. It wasn’t his promises that worried her, but her own. She’d vowed to try to put an end to the careening quality of her life, and was relying on the empty trail in front of her to straighten her path and align her actions with her intentions—or at least provide no impedance to whatever decisions she made, including whether she should stay with Dante, and whether she was capable of becoming anyone’s wife, or mother.

This didn’t require absolute solitude. She expected to meet other people on the trail—had looked forward to it, in fact—but only for a little company, and only on her terms. She wanted to walk through the mountains, her pack on her back, making the small daily decisions about when to stop, which dinner to prepare, where to pitch her tent. Her tent. To do all this in the silence of the wilderness, and sleep alone with only a thin sheet of nylon between her and the star-filled sky. It hadn’t yet been the contemplative trip she’d planned, but neither had she given up. In fact, her hopes had been revived when Dante left in the first place.

Quashing that hope were the Root brothers, who were hiking at the same pace as she was. She wasn’t privy to their plans, but whatever the distance, she expected to encounter them again, perhaps daily—or more. It wasn’t logical to factor them into her decisions, but she also couldn’t ignore the way she felt about them. She didn’t think she could outpace them, and she couldn’t afford to slow down and miss her resupply. Whoever they were and whatever they wanted (perhaps nothing), Payton and Rodell were almost certainly a lasting feature of this hike.

As were thunderstorms. She’d downplayed both their likelihood and their impact on her. Now that she’d had her first official storm-induced trauma, she’d stopped deluding herself.

Between strange men and terrifying storms, quitting was a viable option. She could leave with Dante, take the shuttle or a taxi to Yosemite and drive home. She pictured the long, quiet ride west. She saw herself unloading her pack, the piles of underused gear and uneaten food returned to the kitchen table.