8. Garrett
8
Garrett
“ M y Pomeranian keeps pooping in my shoes,” a woman tells me as I’m shoving some gear into my bag. “How can I get him to stop?”
I hardly spare the woman a glance before looking over at Emma. Our eyes connect for a second as Emma suppresses a smug smile and turns her attention back to her own pack.
“You could try closing your closet door,” I grit out.
Between our guide referring to me as Mr. Kumquat and people inundating me with dog training questions these past three days, I’m more than ready to wrap up this leg of our trip.
Emma, on the other hand, seems to be having the time of her life. She’s endlessly amused by my aforementioned predicaments, but also seems to be genuinely enjoying the trip. We’ve kept our distance since our argument the first night, which is probably for the best. In fact, it’s given me a lot of time to think. Bringing her on this trip was a mistake. Even if she’s making the most of it and managing to have a decent time, being here together is clearly getting to us both. It’s only been three days, and it’s already put a huge crack in our precariously professional relationship. I’ve touched her breast, for god’s sake. And she’s called me every name in the book, which both pisses me off and makes me oddly fond of her.
So yeah…this isn’t working at all.
If I could magically transport Emma back to Denver right now, I would. But we’ve got a nine-mile hike ahead of us today followed by a private jet lined up to take us to Moab. All I can do is hope that the pilot won’t object to an impromptu stopover in Denver to drop her off before I continue onto the next leg of the trip.
“Alright, folks,” the guide hollers over the group, “time to head out. Everybody packed up and ready to go?”
Judging by the collective muttering he receives in return, I might be the only one who’s actually excited for this hike. Well, me and Doris, who is doing a strange sequence of stretches as she consoles Emma.
“Don’t worry, it won’t be as bad as you think,” Doris tells her.
Emma nods vaguely while staring off at a high point in the canyon as if she’s hoping that her previously untested teleportation powers might suddenly kick in. She sighs and tosses her bag over her shoulder, following the crowd up the start of the dirt trail.
I lag behind, even though I could easily outpace everyone else in this group. It’s pretty clear that I’m the only person here who regularly hikes this sort of trail.
Our guide makes everyone stop for a break after the second mile. The collective panting and wheezing of the group nearly drowns out the sound of the river below us. Everyone chugs water and wipes sweat off their forehead and necks. That’s when I notice Emma’s face, which is roughly the color of a tomato.
Shaking my head, I walk over to her and break our unspoken vow of silence toward each other. “You should be wearing a hat. Didn’t Taylor give you one?”
Emma frowns at me. Her giant, dark sunglasses make it hard to tell, but I’m pretty sure she’s rolling her eyes as well.
“I didn’t ask her for one,” she says with some hesitation.
I sigh and drop my pack to the ground. When I pull out a navy blue baseball hat and try to pass it to Emma, she stares at it like it’s a wad of old, chewed up bubblegum I just scraped off the bottom of my shoe.
“Just take it,” I huff.
“I’m fine, really…”
I almost just plop the damn hat on her head and walk away, but I won’t risk accidentally touching her again. The last thing I need is to know what any other part of Emma Carlton’s body feels like, even if it’s her forehead.
“You’re getting burned, and I don’t want to listen to you complain when your skin starts peeling off. Just take the hat,” I say.
Reluctantly, Emma reaches for the hat. She inspects it as if she’s worried it might be full of spiders then places it carefully on her head.
I can’t help but laugh to myself. This woman thinks that I am the devil, and so far, this trip is doing very little to improve her opinion of me.
After the fourth mile, we stop to rest again. It’s been pretty flat for the last mile, so everyone is in slightly better shape than before. But by mile six, the group looks like a bunch of withering zombies shuffling up a hill. People are covered in a heavy coat of sweat, dirt, and despair. A few look like they might not make it, including Emma.
It's the last bit of confirmation I need. I really did make a mistake bringing her here – in more ways than one. And now, if she has to be air-lifted out of this canyon, I won’t be able to argue with Emma’s assertion that I am a total asshole. Plus, she’ll probably sue my company for every dime its worth once she gets home.
“Want me to take your pack?” I ask, trotting over to her.
“Why? What are you going to do with it?” she pants.
I plant my hands on my hips and grind my molars together. “I was planning to throw it over the side of the canyon and laugh maniacally as you walk back down to the bottom to retrieve it.”
She looks at me like that is exactly the answer she expected.
“I’m fine,” she says, hesitantly chewing her lip.
“Emma, I’m joking.”
She eyes me warily. To be fair, joking isn’t really our thing. I suppose it’s a good sign that she’s not so far into the stages of heat stroke that she can still manage to hate me with such vigor and refuse a simple favor.
“You can’t carry two packs,” she finally says.
“Yes, I can. It’s not a problem.”
Emma pauses and glances up at the top of the trail in the distance. Her fingers twitch against the straps of her bag like she’s about to take it off and hand it to me, but then she lets her hands fall to her sides and sighs. “It’s fine. I’ve got it.”
“Suit yourself,” I shrug, even though it takes every ounce of my patience and self-control not to rip the bag off her shoulders myself.
I may be an asshole, but I’m not unreasonable. This hike would be difficult for anyone who isn’t in peak condition. Emma’s pack is heavier than most, considering that she’s got three weeks of clothing and a laptop stashed away in there. I’m not faulting her for struggling, but I’m sure as hell faulting her for not accepting my help. I know it’s pointless to argue with her though, so I turn to Doris instead.
“What about you?” I ask. “Want me to take that bag off your hands for a while?”
“Nope!” Doris chirps. “I packed light, and I’ve been training for this. Every morning, I walk at least four miles on the treadmill at the senior center. You should train next time, too. I’ve been outpacing you the entire time.”
This earns a small, discreet smile from Emma, who is obviously aware that I’m hanging back from the group to avoid nine miles of small talk with Carl and the Pomeranian lady.
“Noted,” I tell Doris as the guide instructs everyone that it’s time to start walking again.
I trail behind the two women, watching with growing anxiety as Emma’s steps become less steady. She stumbles a couple times, and at one point, I’m pretty sure she twists her ankle but shakes it off. Her pack isn’t helping matters. The straps are narrow and cheap. I can see the way they’re digging into her shoulders even from a couple dozen feet behind her. There are no obvious brand markings on it, but as soon as I get back from this trip, we’ll be pulling whatever brand it is from our stores. True North sells some of the best hiking bags on the planet, so I’m not sure why Taylor would give Emma some cheap, terrible pack for this trip.
Our breaks become more frequent over the last three miles. Every time we stop, I ask Emma if I can take her bag, and every time she tells me no. At this point, it’s as much about figuring out who made the damn thing so I can banish it from my stores as it is about helping her out.
The final mile is bleak. Everyone else is gassed out. The steep switchbacks are earning a steady stream of curse words from the group, who collectively sound like a flock of disgruntled geese honking and wheezing their way up the trail. The guide sets an easy pace, hollering platitudes of encouragement to the group and reminding them all to keep drinking water.
Emma is shuffling up every incline and pausing at every turn. Her skin is beet red, and her chest is rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.
When the end of the trail finally comes into view, everyone shuffles up the final switchback with a little more vigor and then promptly plops down on the benches at the top.
“You okay?” I ask Emma as I walk up and stand in front of her. Her eyes flick up to meet mine as she nods breathlessly. Then, just when I expect her to unleash a string of expletives at me for dragging her along on this trip, she smiles. It’s a big, genuine smile – the type I never get from her.
“Holy cow,” she pants. “I can’t believe I just did that.”
“Yeah,” I barely manage to say. All my other words feel strangely lodged in my chest. Maybe the hike got to me after all. Or maybe I’m just not used to Emma looking at me like she’s not two seconds away from pouring a bucket of holy water on my head and hoping that I go up in flames.
“Stand up,” I say.
“Garrett, just let me have this, okay? Let me just enjoy the moment.”
I shake my head. “Stand up,” I repeat. “Trust me.”
Well, that’s a laughable request. Emma barely tolerates me, much less trusts me. Still, I’m her boss, so she rolls her eyes much less covertly than she thinks and stands up. I lead her over to the edge of the rim and point towards the river, which has been reduced to a small blue line cutting through the bottom of the canyon.
“Look, that’s about where we started out this morning,” I tell her.
Emma’s lips part in a sweet little gasp as we both stare out at one of the most beautiful views on Earth.
“Wow,” she says quietly. “I can’t believe I made it up here, honestly.”
“I can.” The words hang between us, sounding far too sentimental and complimentary, so I add, “You’re too stubborn to give up.”
Emma crinkles her eyebrow and glances up at me. Just when my brain is dangerously close to drawing a cheesy parallel between the color of the river and the color of Emma’s eyes, a crotchety voice startles us both.
“Alright, you two…time to come clean.”
We both glance behind us and see Doris standing there.
“Come clean about what?” Emma asks.
Doris takes a few steps closer and lowers her voice. “I know that you two aren’t professional dog trainers.”
“Why do you say that?” I ask.
“Well, this one here talks about her cat like he’s the second coming of the Lord,” Doris looks at Emma and then at me, “And you…I’m not convinced you’ve ever even seen a dog.”
“I’ve seen a dog,” I say a little too defensively.
I’m about to add that I actually have a dog when Doris interjects with a click of her tongue.
“Something’s fishy,” she says. “And now that this trip is over, I want to know the truth. Consider it a new item to check off my bucket list.”
“Doris, we really do work together,” Emma says with a laugh.
“But you’re not dog trainers,” Doris states defiantly.
Emma and I exchange a look.
“No, we’re not dog trainers,” I finally say.
Doris scoots a little closer as if I’m about to tell her something epic. I’m pretty sure she thinks we’re foreign spies or something.
“We work for an outdoor recreation company, and we’re scouting new partnerships,” I say. “We didn’t want the tour guide to treat us any differently or let the word slip to their corporate office.”
Admittedly, Doris looks a little disappointed by my admission.
“And you two are actually dating, right?” she asks, wagging her finger between Emma and me.
“No,” we both rush to say at the same time.
“We just work together,” Emma adds.
Doris ponders this for a second and nods. “What’s your real name then?”
“Garrett,” I say.
“Good, Benedict Kumquat is a stupid name,” she says very matter-of-factly. “You should come up with a better alias for your next trip…and make sure you train a little harder, too.”
“Okay, um…thanks,” I say. How am I supposed to respond to that? Am I supposed to apologize for my fake name and lack of knowledge about dog training?
Doris turns to Emma and fishes something out of her bag. “Here’s my card, dear. Don’t forget to look me up once you’re back in Colorado and stop by one day for some cannoli. It’s on the house. If this one doesn’t come around eventually, I’ve got two sons who’d love to meet you.”
Then Doris winks and waves us off. A van from the nearby hotel is already waiting for a few people from our group and Doris is the last to board.
Beside me, Emma lets out a sharp, full laugh.
“What is it?” I ask, glancing down at her.
“Here,” she says, passing me a business card with Doris’s face on it next to the words: Doris Manetti, Cannoli Queen of Colorado.