The Middle of Somewhere(53)

Liz hadn’t planned to keep secrets from Valerie and she hadn’t planned to lie to the police. The story about the beer came out of her mouth unbidden. She might have been subconsciously covering herself, so everyone would believe she was the tragic widow, instead of the cheating woman who’d shocked her husband and let him run out the door angry. Let him kill himself. Of course she was relieved she wouldn’t have to get into it with everyone, to explain how Gabriel had ignored her, and how it made her feel. To explain Mike. How could she do that anyway? Her understanding of her marriage, her choices, her goals—everything—had collapsed. She didn’t have anyone she could trust to help her figure it out—her go-to resource had always been herself—so she had buried the truth and let everyone think what they would.

And the lie, as it happened, worked out better for Gabriel. When she confessed to the affair, and used the past tense, she removed Mike from inside their marriage, where he never should have been. She hadn’t meant to put him there, but he was there nevertheless. And because Mike was now out, he had to stay out, and she would stay out of his marriage as well. That couldn’t transpire if the police—and perhaps Mike’s wife and Valerie and the Pembertons—all knew about her affair. He would be everywhere in Gabriel’s life, in the memories people carried of him. Gabriel hadn’t deserved that.

After she called Gabriel’s parents, she returned to the chair she never sat in. The reality of her situation began to sink in. Gabriel was gone, and this part of her life was over. The longer she sat, the more she realized the lie was irrelevant. She hadn’t gotten away with a thing.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN





She woke at dawn to silence. Her head ached, and her mouth felt lined with parchment. The confines of the tent threatened to smother her—she couldn’t face Dante in there—so she grabbed her jacket and pants and crept outside.

The cold air was sharp in her nose. She walked up a small rise and faced east. The landscape stood immobile. She could not detect the slightest sign anything had happened during the night. The mountains remained stolid and mute above the lake, a sheet of midnight blue glass. The stunted trees held their resolute needles.

She returned to the camp, unpacked the cookware and stove, and set the water to boil. Dante squirmed out of the tent and regarded her as she spooned coffee mix into the cups.

“You been up long?”

“A few minutes.”

She filled the cups with water, stirred, and handed Dante his. “What are we going to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought you’d be going back.”

He stared out at the lake. His cheekbones were red where they’d caught yesterday’s sun. The short beard he’d grown since Red’s Meadow—which she had thought sexy—now made him appear to be transforming into someone she might not know. Her throat closed and the skin on her palms tightened. She sipped her coffee to stop from crying. She didn’t want him to go. She wanted him to want her. He didn’t need to forgive her (her transgression wasn’t his to forgive), or understand. Wanting her was enough. It had to be.

“No, Liz, I’m not going back. I promised I would do this hike with you, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

Because he, at least, knew the meaning of a promise.

They ate their breakfast without speaking. Liz carried the dishes to the lake, scooped water into the bowls and mugs, rubbed them clean with her fingers and walked away from the edge to toss out the water. She wiped the dishes dry, stacked them on the ground and stuffed her hands into her pockets to warm them. The tips of the peaks on the western shore, a pair of isosceles triangles, burned orange. The lake surface captured them, every detail of shadowed and sunlit stone painted upon the water, the far shore an uncertain demarcation.

She watched until her fingers regained feeling, then gathered the dishes and climbed to the campsite. Dante was bent over his pack, his back to her.

“How far are we going today?” he said without looking up.

“Le Conte Canyon would be great. So, thirteen miles?” She began storing the dishes and cookware in her pack.

“Okay.” He clicked the straps shut. “I’m almost ready, so maybe I’ll see you at the pass, or later.”

Her hands stilled. She should’ve expected he might not want to walk with her this morning, but the break in their routine unsettled her. He didn’t seem angry, though, and probably only wanted time to himself. Her mind was so foggy she doubted she could manage a conversation anyway. “Sounds good,” she said.