Uncharted Territory

4. Garrett

4

Garrett

T he day of the trip, I wake up with a big, stupid grin plastered on my face.

This is the type of work I imagined doing when I started True North fifteen years ago. I never intended to be stuck in an office day after day, but that’s the reality of owning a company, I guess.

It wasn’t always this way. My first office was a sun faded awning and a card table by the lake where I rented out kayaks by the hour. For an extra charge, I’d give lessons or lead tours.

But as the business grew and changed, so did my responsibilities. True North was never meant to be a retail chain. I imagined it as something else. Something both bigger and smaller at the same time. Something that allowed me to be outdoors most of the time, running tours or testing new products. It was na?ve to think that way, but I was young and hopeful.

Then the money started pouring in, and I chased it. I chased it until I woke up one day the CEO of a billion-dollar company at the age of thirty. Three years later, our net worth continues to climb to numbers I never thought possible.

One thing became clear: for a lot of people, the best part of any outdoor activity is buying all the fancy, new gear. Actually using any of it is secondary. Almost every home in America has a box or two of camping gear rotting out in the garage. Most of it has never seen the light of day and probably never will. At least not until they drag it out into the driveway for a garage sale and then impulsively decide to replace it all a few years later.

Obviously, this is good for business, but it’s also the thing I hate the most about the empire I’ve built. My goal when I started this company was to help people get outside and enjoy nature, not to help people waste money on shit that’s piling up in their garage.

That’s why this trip excites me so much. It’s a chance to finally make True North into some semblance of the company that I imagined as a na?ve twenty-two-year-old. It’s a chance to spend some time doing what I love the most, but rarely have time for these days. And it’s a chance to do all of that while surrounded by other people who actually want to get outside and do something, not just impulsively buy a tent or a boat they’ll never use.

Because yes, that sort of thing happens all the time at my stores – especially with boats.

When Emma arrives at the airport, I barely recognize her. She’s wearing jeans, a purple tank top, and a pair of colorful sneakers. Her long, brown hair is tied up in a ponytail, which swings back and forth as she struggles with the weight of the enormous hiking backpack strapped onto her shoulders.

Great. If she’s having this hard of a time just carrying it through the airport, this is going to be a very long trip for us both.

“Morning,” she grumbles as she approaches.

“Good morning.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” she mumbles beside me.

We fall into step beside each other as we make our way through the airport. This isn’t our first time travelling together, but this trip is a far cry from our typical overnights in big cities and nice hotels. We usually give each other a lot of space when we travel together. Hopefully, we can find a way to make that happen on this trip as well. I have my reasons for bringing her along, but none of them involve getting too cozy with my assistant. Even if they did, Emma would sooner push me into a blazing campfire than huddle together for warmth.

Neither of us says anything to each other while we check our bags and file through the security checkpoint. When we reach our gate, we sit a chair apart and scroll through emails on our laptops, occasionally muttering, “I’m on it” or “I’ll reply to them.”

It’s not all that different than our normal Monday morning meetings, aside from the low rumble of rolling suitcases and idle chatter surrounding us.

The sharp click of Emma’s fingernails against the keyboard draws my attention to her nails, which are painted a weird, pale shade of blue.

“Those aren’t fake nails, are they?” I ask with a disapproving frown.

Emma barely glances over at me and never stops typing as she shakes her head. “No, it’s just polish.”

“You put on nail polish to go on a three-week camping trip?”

“No, I forgot to take my nail polish off after my boss decided to drag me along on a three-week ‘work trip.’” She abandons her typing to make air quotes around the last words. When she drops her hands, she splays her fingers over the keyboard and frowns down at the glossy, blue tips for a second before she resumes drafting her email.

“Are you insinuating that this is somehow not a work trip?”

“Not the type I signed up for,” she retorts.

“And what exactly did you think you were signing up for, Emma? We’re in the business of outdoor recreation, not luxury jet-setting. I regret to inform you that my work – and by extension, your work – might not always involve five-star hotels and room service.”

“Believe me, I regret that too,” she quips, not bothering to look in my direction.

“Is this how it’s going to be the entire trip?”

“No…it’s probably going to get much worse than this,” she says humorlessly. “It is three weeks, after all.”

“That’s your own doing. You could have spread the trips out if you preferred. I told you that in the email.”

Emma snaps her laptop closed and shoves it into her bag. She stands abruptly and announces, “I’m getting a coffee,” before walking away.

I was hoping for three weeks of peace and quiet in nature, but there’s one serious flaw in my plan…and she’s storming off towards the Starbucks right now. I thought she’d be over it by now. A lot of people would kill to get paid for doing something like this, but if Emma is going to kill anyone, it’s obviously going to be me.

A quiet chuckle floats over from the row across from me. I look up at an elderly woman with her gray hair cut close to her head and a big grin on her face. She’s wearing a tan vest with at least four thousand small pockets on it, knee-length khaki shorts, and bulky hiking boots that look like they’re more likely to snap her frail ankle in two than help her climb anything.

“My husband and I used to argue like that,” she laughs.

“We’re not married,” I say, motioning vaguely in Emma’s direction.

“No judgment here,” she smiles. “People aren’t as quick to get married these days as we used to be.”

“She’s my employee.”

The woman keeps smiling as if she’s in on some sort of secret joke. Emma probably slipped her a twenty just to make sure I didn’t get a single moment of peace on this trip.

“That’s how Bernard and I met, too,” she says. “He owned this little Italian restaurant. I was a waitress there, but it wasn’t long before we were sneaking off to his office to share a cannoli.”

I shift in my seat and clear my throat. “We aren’t…sharing cannoli.”

Christ, are we talking about dessert or sex here? I’m not particularly excited to discuss either with a stranger at the airport, especially an eighty-year-old woman dressed like Crocodile Dundee.

“What am I hearing about cannoli?” Emma asks cheerfully as she navigates through the aisle of outstretched legs and scattered bags. Her bright smile is aimed solely at the woman sitting across from me. It fades the moment that her eyes slide over to mine. The subtle, familiar scent of her perfume lingers as she passes by and settles back into her seat. Only Emma would wear perfume to a camping trip.

“Do you like cannoli, dear?” the woman asks Emma.

The image of Emma licking cream off a cannoli pops into my head. I squash it immediately. Training myself not to think of Emma that way hasn’t always been easy. I’ll be damned if all my work is derailed by an Indiana Jones’s grandmother and her strange knack for sexual innuendos.

“Of course,” Emma smiles. “Who doesn’t love cannoli?”

Me. I don’t. Especially not at this moment.

“Well, then you have to go to Manetti’s in Aurora.”

“I will definitely remember that. And who should I say sent me?”

“Doris Manetti,” the woman says, extending her left hand across the aisle to shake Emma’s. “I owned the place with my husband, but our sons mostly run it now.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Doris. I’m Emma, and this lump of grump over here is my boss, Garrett.”

What did she just call me?

I hardly think I’m lumpy.

Regardless, Emma usually keeps the blatant insults to herself.

Emma and I lock eyes for a split second before I reach out to shake Doris’s hand. Her delicate, liver spotted skin sags around her fragile bones. I try my best to get away with a quick, loose shake but Doris summons all of her strength to squeeze my fingers tightly and jostle my hand about. Emma suppresses a smirk as she glances down at our hands.

“It looks like you’re dressed for adventure, Doris,” Emma says. “I’m guessing Vegas isn’t your final destination today?”

“Nope, I’m headed for the Grand Canyon.”

“That’s where we’re headed as well.”

“I’m doing a three-day rafting trip,” Doris says.

“Us too,” Emma beams. It’s the only time I’ve seen her look happy about this trip. “Is this your first time rafting?”

“Sure is,” Doris nods. “My husband passed away last year with a few items still left on his bucket list, so I’m checking them off for him.”

Emma’s posture sags slightly. Her smile doesn’t disappear, but it morphs from big and bright to something more subdued. “I’m so sorry to hear that, but I think that’s a lovely idea. I’m glad I get to be a tiny part of it.” She wets her full, pink lips before she speaks again. “In fact, I’d love to offer you my seat in first class.”

“Really?” Doris asks, her eyes wide and somewhat misty. “I’ve never flown first class before.”

“Then I insist. It’s seat number 3B.”

“No,” I say firmly, catching both women by surprise. Emma’s expression hardens as she stares at me like she’s trying to figure out how to maim me with her little green plastic stir stick. “Take my seat instead. I’ll sit in the back.”

“Oh, that is so nice of you!” Doris says as she nearly bounces right out of her seat.

Nice? Sure, we’ll go with that.

As long as it means I don’t have to spend the next hour hearing about her husband’s cannoli.