The Middle of Somewhere(81)

He stood there for an unbearably long time, waiting for an explanation she could not summon and that would never suffice. Finally, he picked up a water bottle and his bowl of soup, left the campsite, crossed the trail and disappeared behind an outcropping.

The cold had tunneled in to lie along her bones. She hugged herself, teeth chattering, staring at the spot where he had vanished.

He wouldn’t go far, Liz knew. He couldn’t. There was nowhere for either of them to go.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN





For the second morning in a row, she awoke alone. The light was soft; it was dawn. The sound of rustling nylon and boots scratching on gravel came from outside. She put on her warm clothes and climbed out of the tent, dragging her sleeping bag and mattress behind her. Dante was stuffing gear into his pack, which rested against a pine. A half-finished bowl of granola was balanced on a nearby rock.

“Hi,” Liz said.

“Hi.” His voice was flat.

They’d not spoken the night before. Or, rather, she had said, “I’m sorry,” several times and he had either put up his hand to stop her saying more, or ignored her. Between bouts of crying, self-recrimination and restless sleep, she’d spent the night thinking of what else to say. But if he wasn’t ready to talk, her speeches were irrelevant. She’d have to be patient.

Her clean coffee cup stood next to his dirty one. She checked for water in the pot and lit the burner. “You want more coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

Her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten last night. She poured granola, dehydrated blueberries and milk into her bowl and ate it standing up. When the water was ready, she stirred it into the coffee and chocolate mixture in her cup.

Dante cinched the top of his pack closed and applied sunscreen to his face and neck. His posture betrayed weariness, but he nevertheless appeared stronger than she’d ever seen him. She could discern the outline of his shoulder muscles under his shirt, and his calves were lean and brown. He had been hers. Pride rose in her before she could stifle it. But her shame was close at hand, and sickened her. Dante was too good for her. What goodness she might hold in her heart had been overshadowed by her actions, again and again. She wasn’t a bad person, but she might as well be. She sipped her coffee to stem her tears.

He was ready to go. He swept his hand to indicate the tent and remaining gear. “You got all this?”

“Yes. But, Dante, we should talk.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” He hoisted his pack onto his back and clicked the hip belt. “But I don’t feel like it, Liz. I’m going to walk.” He pointed at the sky. “It’s a clear day, so you won’t need me to hold your hand during a storm.”

She winced. It wasn’t like him to be mean. She had hurt him and he was biting back. “I’ll see you at Wallace Creek, then, if not earlier.”

He nodded, in acknowledgment if not in agreement. He slipped his hands through the loops of his poles, turned on his heels and left her and the empty tent behind.

She finished her coffee and packed everything, working deliberately. There was no reason to rush. She wasn’t chasing Dante. If he needed to—or wanted to—he could camp on his own, without the tent. It’d be cold, but feasible. He had food in his bear can and she was pretty sure he had the water purification tablets. She had the map, but it was nearly impossible to get lost. When it came down to it, they didn’t need each other.

She stowed all the gear in her pack and carried it to the small tarn east of the campsite. The surface was a sheet of steel. The mountains stood mute. Wisps of fog clung to the peaks, claiming them.

The trail to the pass lay to the right but she faced, instead, the way she had come. She couldn’t see far down the trail—not more than a hundred yards—because it snaked around a corner, but she knew the way. The way back.

To what? At the moment, she didn’t care. Like the winter fox that leaves a foot in a trap, she felt lighter. She’d done what she needed to do. It hurt like hell, but what of it?

She imagined retracing her steps, down where she’d gone up, up where she’d gone down, camping first where she had camped last. Perhaps she should walk at night—she had a headlamp—and sleep during the day. Some nights, there would be a moon. She’d enter the tent after dawn and gradually the sun would warm her as she slept. She’d be short of food, but she would need little, light as she was.