Chapter Sixteen
I’m lacing up some hiking boots when there’s a knock on my door. It’s not him, I know, because it’s fifteen minutes before we are supposed to meet, and the tenor of the knock is different.
I open the door, and it’s Elise.
“I hear that you came into the diner this morning with a tall and dangerously gorgeous man,” she says. “Not my words.”
“Who told you that ?”
“Mary.”
Mary, the owner of the diner and Elise’s former boss. I didn’t even see her there.
“Mary is a snitch,” I say.
“Tell me,” Elise says, her eyes glittering brightly.
I sniff. “I may or may not have had breakfast this morning with Nathan, and now we’re going to Joshua Tree.”
“Oh my God,” she says, her eyes going wide. “You slept with him.”
“I did,” I say, unable to keep a somewhat smug smile off my face.
“Good for you,” says Elise. “I thought you were a nun.”
“The same can be said about you,” I say.
“I have a reason,” she says.
She means Emma.
I know she’s not meaning to be hurtful. How could she? She doesn’t know.
I haven’t told her, and that’s my choice. My way of coping. When I got to Rancho Encanto, I was floundering. Swimming against the tide of my life. I set up the motel, I got my life in order, and it’s felt really nice to lie here in more still waters ... floating.
I realize it’s been a lot of floating. I’ve found a writing routine that works. I don’t deviate from it. I love what I write, but I have other ideas. Still, writing something new, finding an agent, all of that sounds like paddling, and I’m resistant to it.
Telling anyone here my story sounds like paddling.
I turn my focus to her.
“Yeah. I know you have great reasons. But don’t you ever miss it?”
“Yes. I do. A lot. That’s why I have a vibrator. It doesn’t give me any trouble.”
I hard relate to that. I also know it’s still lonely. Even when the vibrator is very good.
“You could—”
“Stay out of my personal life,” she says, “or I will be all up in yours aggressively.”
“Isn’t that what you’re doing right now?”
“Maybe,” she says. “Or maybe ... Yes. I am. I’m curious, and I want to live vicariously through you.”
“He’s hot, it was fantastic, he is proportional.”
She presses her hand to her chest. “That is what I love to hear. We do not like hearing that a handsome man is very disappointing.”
I lift my brows. “I heard about that a lot when I lived in LA.”
She snorts. “Oh, please. Tell me which actors are disappointing.”
I shake my head. “No. Because it’s actually just really sad. Some guys have to wear modesty garments not to hide their junk but to hide their shame.”
“That’s hilarious.”
“Well . . .”
She pauses for a moment. “You don’t really ever talk about LA. I bet writing for TV was interesting.”
“It was sometimes,” I say.
Maybe it’s because my past is encroaching that it doesn’t feel sacrilegious to mention it at all. “There were some fun things about it. I met some interesting people. I got to write on some really great TV shows. But ... everything has to end, right?”
“Not everything,” says Elise. “At least I hope not, unless you’re planning to leave.”
I shake my head. “I’m not. I just mean ... There are moments when you can definitely feel that a phase of your life is over. I don’t even like talking about it because I prefer to be in the present.”
“I get that. With Emma ... It’s so hard. I’m thinking about the future all the time, and I’m thinking about all the things I’m not giving her, and everything I’m not doing right. I need to tell you something. I need you to just ... I love Ben,” she says.
“I know,” I say.
“No, I’m in love with him.”
I nod and say again, “I know.”
“How can I be a partner, a wife, a girlfriend, whatever, and a decent mom? I already feel like I’m stretched to my limit.”
“That’s because in your mind, all you can see is a relationship that’s as toxic as the one you had before. Her dad didn’t help you with anything. Being with him made everything harder. I’m given to believe that’s not how love is supposed to be.”
I think back on my relationship with Christopher. He hadn’t made everything harder. For a long time he had made things good. I feel a swell of emotion. Maybe this is why I avoid thinking about it. Because it’s easier to make him a villain. Instead of just someone who was walking on broken glass the same way I was.
“I really think that what you could have with him ... It could be real. It could be functional. He likes you. Sometimes I think that is the wildest missing piece to relationships. Someone feels like they love you, or they want to sleep with you, but they don’t like you. He likes you. I also think he might love you.”
“This conversation wasn’t supposed to be about me,” she says.
“Yeah, but we’re friends, so we’re not keeping score.”
I’m so grateful that I have her. She’s been there all these years. I guess I’ve been there for her too. But she really doesn’t know how much she means to me. I’ve stopped short of telling her.
I stop short of telling her a lot of things.
“I want to believe what you believe, Amelia,” she says softly. “I want to believe in romance novels and friends to lovers and happily ever after.”
My heart gets tight. I think of her life, which hasn’t been easy—I know it hasn’t. Emma’s dad really sucks, and Elise’s heartbreak was doubled because he didn’t just hurt her, he hurt their daughter.
“Elise,” I say. “Whatever happens with you and Ben, you already have a happily ever after.” I try to force a smile, but it’s hard. I feel pressure against the backs of my eyes, and I take a deep breath.
“Someday,” I say, “we’ll have a whole conversation about LA. About who’s well endowed and who isn’t. Today, though, I’m going to go on my hike. I want you to think about Ben, and everything you deserve.”
“You’re wonderful,” she says. “I’m grateful I have you, because if ... if I try something with Ben, and it goes bust, at least he’s not my only friend.”
I laugh, because what else can I do?
“Human hearts are absurd,” I say. “I think if Ben likes you enough, no matter what happens, he’ll still be there for you. Even if you give this a try and it doesn’t work romantically. I think with the two of you, it wouldn’t destroy your friendship.”
“You make him sound like the perfect guy.”
“Well, let’s not get loopy, but he’s pretty awesome.”
“So the thing with Nathan ...”
“Just sex and ...” I wrinkle my nose. “He’s helping me with something.”
“What?”
“We really don’t have time to get into that right now. I’ll update you after the hike,” I say.
Unless I’m having sex. But I don’t say that part.
Elise and I walk out of the room together, and that’s when I see Nathan, standing in the courtyard, surrounded by the cribbage ladies.
“Just move it slightly to the left,” Lydia is saying, guiding his movements with the overhead string lights.
“No to the right ,” says Gladys.
“Please, give the man his due respect,” I say.
“We do respect him,” says Lydia. “And all the time he must spend working out.”
“I’m so very sorry,” I say, moving over to him and taking his arm reflexively. The gesture is not lost on the ladies. “They’re incorrigible, and I feel like I have to warn you that they’re just objectifying you.”
Wilma huffs. “We are frail, darlin’; we need a man’s help.”
“Somehow I think you all do just fine on your own,” Nathan says.
“I wouldn’t know,” says Wilma. “I always have a man when I need one.”
I’m about to take Nathan by the arm and lead him away when Emma and Sofia come flailing across the path, with Angel close behind them.
Nathan looks down at the scene, and I’m surprised when he smiles at their antics. I can’t quite parse the feeling it gives me to watch them play. It’s like the peak of joy mingled with the pit of sadness. A valley with a beautiful view.
“He’s a pirate!” Emma shrieks.
“I’m a monster!” Angel shouts back.
Emma stops and points at Nathan. “No, he’s a pirate.”
Then she and Sofia run away, giggling loudly while Angel stumps after them.
“A pirate?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe it’s a vibe.”
I sort of wish he were a pirate, in one of those old-school romance novels. Then he could take me off to his pirate ship and we could forget about practical things like reality.
“Plundering and ravishing is something I’m known for.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” I say, my cheeks getting hot.
We walk out of the courtyard and into the lot.
“We can drive my car,” I say. “If you want. It’s a lot of dirt roads, and I have my little Jeep.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Sure.”
We get into my car, and I pull out of the parking lot, taking the familiar road to Joshua Tree.
“I have a pass,” I say. “I love to go up there. It’s beautiful when it rains.”
“I’ve been,” he says. “It’s just been a while.”
“Really? You haven’t visited in the summer when you come here?”
“No. I haven’t been in about ... nine years.”
“Oh,” I say. “That is a long time.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “So, what is the deal with all the people who just live in your motel?”
“Oh, well, I think Jonathan and Joseph have always loved the desert. Albert, like I said, may be on the run from the law. The older ladies are all widows.”
“Odd, living in a motel, isn’t it?”
“I guess,” I say. “But I do, so I can’t really throw stones.”
“I just mean . . .”
“I think it’s a little less constricting than assisted living, and none of them need any medical help. They have a sense of community, and the rooms are small enough, and they get maid service. They’re not alone. I think that’s important. Alice is in her nineties. She was with her husband for a long time, and when she lost him, she lost the life she loved. She moved to the Pink Flamingo, and she made friends. I’m grateful, because those women are the first healthy maternal figures I’ve ever had.”
“Right,” he says, sounding distracted. “You mentioned that your mom ...”
“Yeah,” I say. “She’s a whole thing.” I’m silent for a moment. “What about your dad?”
“My dad’s career military,” he says. “So that’s what he wanted for me.”
“Military,” I say.
I saw the military in him the night of the fire, and I see it now. Tall, broad shoulders, muscular. There is something hard and dangerous about him. But at the same time, he doesn’t possess an ounce of military precision. He isn’t the type to follow orders.
“Yeah, it’s a family thing, not just a me thing. I’m a West Point grad. I did my four years. And that was it. When I tell you that is not good enough for Captain Richard Hart, I’m not exaggerating.”
“Sorry. That must be difficult. My mom didn’t even have any expectations of me—she just didn’t seem to want me there. Especially after she and my dad split up. He had an affair. So, my experience of men and fidelity is ... limited. But you know, my dad ended up with this great woman. She’s really nice. My mom is a sour cow. Even though what he did was wrong, I ... I don’t blame him. It’s a tough one.”
“Family is complicated,” he says. “My mom was ... She was always great.”
“Sorry,” I say. I pick up on the past tense even though it goes by quickly.
“Yeah. Well. That’s the natural order of things, right?”
“I suppose so,” I say.
It hits me now, how long it’s been since I’ve done this. Not just the sex. I was extremely conscious of how long it had been since I’d done that. Talking to a man while being naked with him is still so fresh.
Except I’ve never done it quite like this before. Aspects of it feel inside out.
I don’t know him. That’s the thing.
I turn the radio on, and it’s country music. I don’t touch the dial. He doesn’t either. I wait to see if he makes a comment. About playlists or his favorite kind of music, but he doesn’t. Normally, I would plug my phone in. Normally, I would select one of my carefully curated playlists. This is a test, though.
I forget that almost immediately because “Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)” comes on, and I’m too amused, singing loudly, and though he doesn’t join, he does laugh, and I consider that a victory of sorts.
When we pull off the main highway and hit the dirt road that will take us to Joshua Tree, I feel a change in him. He doesn’t say anything, and that doesn’t really surprise me, because he seems wedded to saying nothing when possible, about anything.
I show my card and ID so that we can get in, and as we drive by the large boulders and beautiful Joshua trees, I’m consumed by the same sense of awe I always get when I come here.
The desert healed me in so many ways.
I look at him to see if he’s having the same experience I am, but it’s impossible to tell.
“Do you know where you want to go?” I ask.
“Just driving around is fine,” he says. “Stop where you feel like it.”
For some reason, I feel like he isn’t telling the truth, but I also don’t think he’s going to actually tell me what he thinks. I pull off the road in front of one of my favorite spots. There are trails around some massive boulders that look like they were dropped there by a giant divine hand.
I suppose that’s a testament to how I like to think about the world. But I don’t think of the minerals and scientific process by which rocks are formed.
I prefer to think in terms of the fantastical. Because no matter what, I prefer to believe in a little bit of magic.
He takes out his phone and snaps some pictures as we walk through the dry brush. Uncharacteristic clouds gather overhead, and it adds to the moodiness, both of the landscape and the moment.
We get back to the car and begin to drive, and the rain starts to pour down, even as the sun shines. I look across the way and see a rainbow stretching over the tops of the Joshua trees.
“Wow,” I say. “I’ve never seen that before.”
He says nothing. He has grown more and more quiet over the course of the day.
I stop the car so I can take pictures of the rainbow. I realize he’s doing the same, even though he doesn’t add commentary.
The rain stops as we drive on ahead to one of the hiking trails. We get out, and I stretch my arms and legs, mostly because I have this reckless energy in my body and I need something to do with it or I’ll throw myself at him. Kiss him, maybe, or worse, just hold him. “Do you want to do the hike?”
He looks at me, and there’s something like wonder on his face. “Yeah. This ... I did this hike.”
“Oh?”
“Last time I was here.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well, are you interested in doing the hike again?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s do it.”
We fall into step as we make our way up the narrow, rocky path. “Watch for snakes,” I say. “But not armadillos.”
“There are no armadillos here,” he says.
“Obviously, Nathan, that’s why you don’t have to watch for them.”
I take a step, and my foot comes down on a rock. I slip forward, and he catches me by the arm. I look up at him. He’s gazing down at me in a fury.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Careful.” He doesn’t release his hold on me, and he doesn’t sound angry. I don’t feel like he’s mad at me, but he’s definitely mad. Maybe at the rock. I can handle that.
We continue the trail together, and he keeps holding on to me. His hold transitions from the hard grip that kept me from falling to a looser grasp on my hand. It doesn’t feel quite like holding hands in the traditional, sweet sense.
It feels more like he doesn’t want to lose track of me.
There’s something I find sweet about that. Maybe I’m deluded because I’m so attracted to him. Maybe I want to spin a one-night stand into gold.
But he’s so difficult I can’t help but find the strangest things endearing. Taking me to breakfast. Bringing me here. Looking angry at the ground because it almost made me fall. The scenery is familiar. He isn’t familiar in it.
Experiencing this with Nathan is new to me, and I can’t help but look at him against the grand jewel of the sky, the strength of his body in contrast to the rocks, and the way he stands tall and straight next to the gnarled Joshua trees. This is my world. I’m captivated by the sight of him in it. The trail takes us to a flat plane through what might count as a grove of Joshua trees.
We stop when the trail ends, looking around at the vastness.
I don’t know what drives me to do this, but I take his other hand in mine.
I haven’t experienced romance since I started writing it. But I know how I would write the scene.
My heroine would be nervous and filled with trepidation. She can’t see what the hero is thinking.
My heart is involved, which I didn’t really want. I now have to resist thinking of him that way.
He’s not the hero of my story. I have to remember that.
He’s a secondary character walking through the pages, on his way to his own story, but for some reason it doesn’t feel that way. I don’t know whether I’m happy or a little bit sad that all these years and all these changes haven’t done anything to make me cynical when it comes to romance. I have waited, maybe subconsciously, because part of me knew I could never be neutral about it. Part of me knew I could never take feelings out of sex entirely.
Until I know what I want, it seems like maybe I should. Instead, I decide to hold his hands. Instead, I look at him, and I let him see some of the feelings turning around inside me. Feelings I don’t even have a name for. Feelings I maybe don’t want to name. For one moment I expect him to turn away. There is a conflicted, dark look in his eyes that is so strong I’m sure it’s going to win. Then he lowers his head and kisses me. There in the desert, with nothing but the Joshua trees and crickets to bear witness.
It’s deep, intense. Harder and more passionate than I would ever expect from a kiss that can’t lead to sex.
His lips are firm and certain, his tongue sweeps over mine, and I feel a wave of need rise inside me.
Then he steps away and drops my hands.
I wish I knew what he was thinking. But I don’t ask. I recognize that the frustration I feel with the brick wall that is Nathan Hart is actually frustration with my own fear.
I’m walking carefully around the hallowed ground he stands on, because I know there are land mines.
I’m afraid of losing him before I have to.
I am going to lose him.
He’s leaving at the end of the month, and he isn’t coming back. He made that very clear. If I connect the dots in a logical way, then I have to come to grips with the fact that the only reason he actually kissed me this time, the only reason it went this far, is because he isn’t coming back. It’s not a coincidence.
It’s him making sure I can’t confuse this with something more than temporary.
And I’m still afraid to lose him any sooner than I have to.
I am, in fact, terrified of it.
Something happened just now, but I can’t parse what it is, and I’m afraid that if I ask, he’s going to turn and walk into the desert and I’ll never see him again.
So I don’t ask.
Instead, I allow the walk back to the car to be entirely silent, with no mention of armadillos, and no holding of hands.
I take us back to the motel after.
“Thank you,” he says. “I need to go and get work done.”
Let me in.
“Okay,” I say instead. “Will you text me?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says.
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t come to my room that night, and I text him a reminder about the dive-in movie and the barbecue tomorrow, but I already know he’s going to try to avoid it.
Breakfast was a fluke.
Today was a fluke.
Whatever progress I thought I made with him, it wasn’t real. There’s really no such thing as progress to be made. He’s going to leave here and never come back. It was research for books all along. It was never fate; it was never me.
He didn’t choose it.
I can’t write his story. I can only write my own.