22. Garrett
22
Garrett
“ B lob Pigeon?”
Emma’s eyes go wide, and she bursts into laughter beside me when the guide reads my ‘name’ off the roster.
“That’s a typo,” I say like a broken record. “It’s Garrett Smith.”
The guide looks thoroughly unamused as he scratches it out and scribbles down the correct name.
“Says here you booked two tents,” he says tapping the clipboard with his pen. “Is that a typo as well?”
The guide eyes the sliver of space between Emma and I, apparently determining it isn’t enough to warrant separate tents. Every ounce of me wants to tell him that it’s another typo, but Emma answers first.
“No, that’s right,” she says quietly.
“Alright, head over there and they’ll get you all set up,” the guide says, motioning with his pen toward another man in a polo with a bunch of gear spread out in front of him.
We thank the guide and make our way over to the other area.
“Blob Pigeon?” I mutter to Emma once we’re out of earshot. “Pretty disappointing compared to Billowbottom and Dinglewood. You’re slipping, Emma.”
She laughs again. “That was an actual typo. It was supposed to be Bob. Not my most creative moment, but I was short on time – hence the typo.”
“And Pigeon? Was that a typo as well?”
Emma shakes her head and flashes a coy smile in my direction. “No, it was just the first thing I saw when I looked up from my computer: a big, greasy pigeon sitting on the window ledge.”
“I’m sure you’re about to tell me how it reminded you of me,” I predict.
She hesitates for a few seconds, biting down on her lip before answering. “The red eyes. I assume all of Satan’s minions have the same eye color.”
“Well, at least you’ve downgraded me from the devil to one of his minions. That’s progress, I guess.”
Emma glances up at me. The corners of her mouth dip into a frown and her eyes crinkle with guilt.
“You know I’m only kidding, right?” she says.
“I know.”
That’s as close as we come to talking about what happened on the plane.
I want to talk to her about it. To tell her that I’ve been dying to kiss her for a year now. That I’m dying to do it again. But the words stay stubbornly lodged in my throat, maybe because I’m worried that I won’t like her reaction. Last time we kissed, she barely spoke to me the next day. This thing that’s happening between us feels like it’s hanging by a thread, and Emma is the one holding the scissors.
Instead of talking, we’re all short glances and tight smiles as we gather our supplies and add them to our packs. Emma struggles with the tent. Her bag lacks the adequate clips to keep it securely in place, so with every small movement, it shifts and throws her slightly off balance. I help her adjust it over and over again, still hoping for a glimpse of a tag or any indication of who made this horrible product.
Mostly though, I’m just looking for any reason to be close to her. Searching for a tiny sliver of what she gave me on the plane.
Eventually, we’re going to have to talk about this. In the meantime, I’m holding onto a shred of hope that Emma won’t brush it off as another meaningless mistake. Call me delusional, but that’s where I’m at right now – pathetically basking in the glow of every little smile she gives me and hoping that my fingers might brush her shoulder when I adjust her tent for the eighteenth time before the hike has even started.
A group of about two dozen people gathers around the two guides. It’s more people than I would prefer on a backcountry hike like this, but right now, my preference is anything that gives Emma and I any sense of privacy. A larger group does exactly that. People are more likely to keep to themselves than try to get to know everyone else in a group like this.
“We’ve got an easy day ahead of us today,” one guide announces. “It’s just over eight miles until our first campsite. After that, we’ll be hiking an average of twelve miles for the next few days. Everybody ready to get started?”
Emma’s eyes flare.
“Twelve miles per day ?” she asks, glancing up at me.
“You’ll do fine,” I assure her. “Twelve flat miles are easier than the nine uphill miles you hiked at the Grand Canyon.”
She worries her bottom lip between her teeth and stares out at the start of the trail. I motion for her to follow me, and after adjusting her pack on her shoulders one last time, she does.
This tour is the one I’ve been looking forward to the most. I’ve visited Yellowstone before, but never gotten past the huge crowds and popular trails. A backcountry tour sounded more like my speed. I’ve been excited to get out and explore parts of the park that most people never bother to see. But now that I’m here, I’d give anything to be back on that plane with Emma.
We walk the winding trail in silence, through knee-high grasslands and along a stream under a canopy of pine trees. We stare off at distant mountains and endless greenery, occasionally commenting on something then quickly returning to awkward silence.
I hate it.
I hate that we didn’t finish what we started, and I hate that I don’t really know where we go from here.
I’ve spent a year denying my feelings for Emma. Pretending they don’t exist. Putting up a wall to protect us both. Clearly, none of that worked. The only question that remains is whether Emma feels the same.
“Is that a garbler?” she asks out of the blue.
I squint up at the spot where she’s pointing but see nothing. “What’s a garbler?” I ask.
She shoots me a curious look. “A type of bird…isn’t it? Back in California, you pointed to a bird that looked an awful lot like that one up there and called it a red-crested garbler.”
Oh. Right. A garbler is a bird I made up.
“Actually, I don’t know anything about birds,” I admit.
Emma’s pace slows to a near stop beside me. “Then why did you point it out?” she asks, looking amused. “Did you think you just randomly developed some sort of bird identification superpower?”
“No, you caught me staring at you, so I pretended I was looking just over your head at a bird in a tree.”
“Oh,” she says, clearly caught off guard by my honesty. Pink rises in her cheeks as she stares up at me. Flustered, she turns to glance ahead at the group then back at me for a second before she starts walking again. I fall into step beside her. The sound of dirt crunching beneath our shoes is the only noise for several minutes.
“Do you think we should talk about it?” Emma eventually asks without looking over at me. I know she isn’t talking about birds this time.
“I’m not sure, to be honest.”
“Me neither,” she says quietly.
Four hours later, we arrive at our campsite for the night. It’s a large clearing surrounded by pine trees, not too far from a creek. As predicted, most people stick to their own groups as they get to work setting up camp for the night. I suggest a spot tucked away on the edge of the clearing with plenty of space from the rest of the group. Emma nods in agreement.
I set my pack down next to a tree and unclip my tent. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Emma doing the same with much less luck. Her tent has been falling off that bag of hers all day, but now that she actually wants it off, the straps are tangled up around it.
“Want some help?” I ask.
“Nope, I got it.”
It takes every ounce of self-control not to march over there and cut the damn thing loose for her. But if I possess the self-control to send her back to her seat on that airplane, I can get through this as well. I can’t presume to know how she’s feeling about any of this. If she needs some space, I’ll give it to her.
My tent goes up quickly. Emma glances up at it from her spot on the ground, where she’s on her knees wrestling with the pieces of her tent. The tent is winning.
“Are you sure you don’t want some help?”
She huffs a stray piece of hair out of her face. “I think I’m missing a piece,” she says, inventorying the heap of unassembled pieces laying in front of her. “Maybe it fell off on the trail somewhere.”
“Which piece?”
“The rod that goes through the middle,” Emma says, motioning toward my tent.
“Oh. So, just the part that holds the whole thing together then?”
She shoots me an annoyed glare, but the corners of her mouth twitch with amusement.
“Mind if I take a look?” I ask.
“Be my guest.”
I drop to my knees beside her and get to work separating the pieces. There’s no denying that her tent is in way worse shape than mine. Maybe it’s just the luck of the draw, or maybe it’s because her tent has taken a good whomping today. Either way, if True North decides to partner with this company, an upgrade is certainly in order. Amongst the tangled mess of pieces, I eventually locate the one we need.
“Here it is,” I say, reaching for the pole.
“That’s too short,” she retorts.
I grab each end and pull it apart until the pole is fully extended. Emma’s mouth pops open into a cute little o-shape.
“I didn’t know it did that,” she says defensively. “It’s my first time putting a tent together.”
“Grab that piece over there,” I say, nodding to the wad of fabric on the ground. “Thread it through right here.”
Emma follows my instructions. Her fingers lightly brush mine as she starts threading the pole through the fabric, and our eyes catch on each other. Hope floods my chest but vanishes just as quickly when she blushes and looks away.
A few minutes later, her tent is standing a couple feet away from mine. The air around us is thick with tension. We stand too close and stare at the tents too long, and I can’t help but wonder if it was a mistake to put them so close together.
The caveman in me wants to pull Emma into the tent and finish what we started. The CEO in me worries that I’ve made a mess of things with my most valuable employee.
“Thanks for your help,” Emma says.
Her gaze lingers on my face for a few seconds. When I look down at her, my heart hammers in my chest. Her tongue darts out to moisten her lips as her chest rises and falls with shallow breaths.
“No problem,” I murmur.
Electricity flows between us. Her hand dangles at her side, inches from mine, but my fingers still twitch at our proximity. I shift slowly to face her, and Emma follows suit. The scent of her overwhelms me, sunshine and strawberries wafting past my nose. The ghost of her taste fills the corners of my mouth.
And just when I think we might kiss again, the guide bangs a metal spoon against his canteen in the distance and hollers, “Dinner’s ready!”
Emma jumps a little and whips her head in the direction of the noise, looking every bit as annoyed as I feel at the moment.
“I guess we should…” she trails off when she looks back towards me.
My eyes flick over her face one more time, then I nod, “Yeah.”
Dinner is angel hair pasta with rehydrated sauce and vegetables. Typical trail food, but far from what anyone actually craves after a day of hiking.
Emma and I sit on a log by the fire, not quite touching. She pushes the food around on her plate with a frown between tiny bites.
“Don’t like it?” I ask, stabbing a piece of broccoli with my fork.
“It sort of tastes like salty paper towels.”
I laugh at her assertion. “Yeah, dehydrated food takes some getting used to. I have some trail mix in my bag if you want something else.”
Her smile is weak and fleeting. “No, this is fine, thanks.”
After dinner, everyone breaks off with their individual groups and starts getting ready for bed. We have an early morning and a long hike ahead of us tomorrow.
Emma and I walk back to our tents. The only light that remains is the flickering campfire in the distance. The only sound is a chorus of crickets and the low hum of conversation in the distance. We come to a stop in front of our tents, neither of us knowing what to say.
Emma is the one to finally break the thick silence. She rocks on her heels, a nervous little smile breaking through, as she says, “So…bed?”
“Yeah, we should get some sleep.”
Big, blue eyes hold mine, searching for the answer to a question she didn’t ask. I almost ask if she’s changed her mind about the separate tents. After a moment, she clears her throat and nods. “Good night, Garrett.”
“Night, Emma.”
Sleep doesn’t come quickly. I lay awake, staring up at the nylon roof of my tent for a long time. A few feet away, Emma’s tent rustles with the sounds of her getting ready for bed, presumably changing into her pajamas and brushing her teeth before she slips into her sleeping bag.
Then, quiet.
Scenes from the plane play on an infinite loop in my head. The way she felt, the way she tasted, the way she sounded when she was about to come.
Before I know it, I’m hard again. I won’t lie – it’s been a rough afternoon of keeping my thoughts and my erection at bay while being in close proximity to Emma the entire time.
Even now, alone in my tent, there’s not much I can do to relieve the situation. Not with Emma sleeping so close. Instead, I force my eyes shut and try to think of something else. Anything else.
Dehydrated pasta sauce.
Types of trees. I can name maybe four.
Something else.
But there’s only Emma front and center in my brain. The best I can do is steer my thoughts of her away from what happened on the plane earlier.
The way she rolls her eyes when she thinks I’m not looking.
The way her nose crinkles up a little when she calls me names.
The way she looks at me sometimes, like maybe she doesn’t hate me after all.
It works, and eventually, I find myself drifting off to sleep. Then, a noise from a few feet away jolts me awake. A soft moan – and if I didn’t know better, I’d think it was my name.