3. Lila
THREE
LILA
The horrible wheezing following me around would be the perfect soundtrack for a horror movie if I didn’t know it was coming from a short, harmless woman’s pathetic lungs.
Mine. My lungs are making the awful sound.
We’ve been walking for hours at what Deena assures me is a leisurely pace. We’ve paused regularly to admire the views, but I’d give anything to sit down somewhere. I’ll take the dirt at this point. Shannon was right—my pride has abandoned me in the literal dust.
My thighs ache, my lungs ache, and don’t get me started on my back. I’m in pretty good shape, but I’ve never gone through a yoga class with twenty-five pounds of gear strapped to my back like I’m relocating a comatose bear cub.
Yeah…no. I probably shouldn’t think about bears too much. Mitchell said sightings on this trail are rare, but I’m sure the more we talk about them, the more likely we are to jinx ourselves. I don’t want to run across a bear mafia looking for a fight.
I’ve snapped dozens of pictures of forest paths and soggy meadows to use for the website mock-up I’m making, but so far, I haven’t witnessed the wonders of the great outdoors. Maybe that’s more of a third-day sort of thing. Wouldn’t want to just hit me with it on the first day and leave me in awe the whole trip.
That won’t stop me from finding a way to write some enticing copy when I get home. Something like: Come to the wilderness. We have bugs!
I think the stitch in my side is affecting my brain. I pause on the trail to dig my fingers just below my ribcage.
Grant stops a pace behind me. “Doing okay?”
Since the couples are up ahead, laughing over all the impressive hikes they’ve been on and stunning mountains they’ve climbed, Grant’s become my default walking buddy. I wish he weren’t—back here, he’s got a front row seat to all the sweat pouring off my body and the excessive panting I’m doing. Plus, I can’t forget the way his smile vanished off his face when we were introduced.
But for now, I’ll focus on the fact I’m not alone, and therefore less vulnerable to the bear mafia.
“I’m good.” I flash a big smile, still hoping for the shot of faux happiness that’s supposed to come with it.
A little line cuts across his forehead. Even that stupid line is attractive on him. “You’re wincing. Do you want to stop?”
“Me? No way. This is the face I make when I’m enjoying fresh air.” I take a deep lungful to demonstrate my enthusiasm for it, but the pain in my side ramps higher. “That’s crisp.”
His low chuckle does criminal things to my insides. Doesn’t my body know it’s in distress out here? I could be dying, and it’s swooning over angular jawlines and pillowy lips. Get your priorities in order, body. Survival first. Then, if we’re lucky, comfort. Somewhere way down the line is reacting inappropriately to strange, egregiously handsome men while in dangerous situations.
I start walking again so we don’t get too far behind. Deena and Mitchell check in on us periodically, but I don’t want them to have to halt the whole procession for us to catch up. Especially since us means me . If Grant really hasn’t been on a hike before, he sure doesn’t seem to be feeling the effects of his first one. I’m halfway tempted to ask him to carry me.
I wouldn’t .
But I bet he could .
“It should only be another two miles to the campsite.”
If I don’t die from exhaustion, this man is going to kill me with his soft Texas accent. Campsite doesn’t sound like a place where teens go to get murdered when he says it.
“And that will take us…?” I rasp.
“Longer than average.”
I can’t argue there. We’re dragging, and we haven’t been out here all that long.
“Especially if we see any more birds,” he adds.
I would stand up straighter to glare in his face if I didn’t have a million-pound pack on. When this trip is over, my spine will be so compressed, I’ll be an even five feet tall. I can kiss those extra four inches goodbye.
“Birds are freaky. You saw how close the last one came to me.”
“Yes, I saw.” He’s trying not to smile, which just emphasizes his full lips, and I hate it.
“They have bony feet and sharp claws, and zero reservations about drawing blood.” I shudder as if a creepy little bird just strutted all over my grave.
“Do you get into a lot of fights with birds?”
I purse my lips. “Just once or twice.”
His head dips down as though he’s trying to draw my eyes to his. Ha. No, thank you. I’d be safer with the bloodthirsty birds.
“Once or twice?”
“Birds are territorial! That’s a scientific fact.” Probably.
“And?”
I barely have enough oxygen to keep walking—should I really use up my precious reserves to tell him about this? Yes. Because talking about old humiliations might distract me from my current humiliations.
“The first time was in a zoo aviary. I was ten. My mom had braided a sparkly ribbon into my hair, and one of the birds wanted it. Not the best day at the zoo.”
Beaks and claws filled my nightmares for weeks afterward. Needless to say, I never wore a ribbon in my hair again.
“Sounds pretty scary for a little kid.”
“Having a bird bigger than my head claw at my scalp unlocked a core memory.” Birds are evil, end of story.
“What about the other incident?”
I guess if I’m going in, I might as well go all the way in. “I was at a home improvement store a few years ago, and two starlings attacked me in the garden center.”
“Out of nowhere?”
“I didn’t start it, if that’s what you’re asking. They probably had a nest in one of the displays or something, but the experience kind of killed gardening for me.”
And was deeply mortifying as I ran around screaming trying to bat off the tiny things, but that part goes without saying.
“Your grudge against birds is understandable. I’ll keep an eye out for you.”
“If you see one coming, you have my permission to throw me to the ground. Just knock me flat. Don’t even ask.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
Far ahead, just before the trail disappears between the trees, Mitchell turns back to watch us. I wonder if he’s got a timer set to remind him to look for us every twenty minutes. He raises a hand in the air, our Trail Dad making sure we’re okay. I wave back, indicating we’re not dying yet, and he continues on .
“Kind of nice of them to keep checking in on the slowpokes.” Even if my all-clear wave feels overconfident. A lot could happen in the next hundred feet of trail. I squint into the nearest trees, refusing to think about how many winged menaces might be hidden in there.
I live my life ribbon-free now, but I’m sure a bird could find something offensive about me if given the chance.
“Wandering off the trail and getting lost is a bigger danger for us than even coming across a b?—”
“Ha ha, it’s hilarious I’m afraid of birds. I get it.” I scowl at Grant. He doesn’t need to throw my well-earned phobia in my face.
He’s quiet for a minute as we trudge on, that crease stuck on his forehead. “I was going to say, ‘if we come across a bear.’”
“Oh. That…makes more sense.” I’ve done that once already—I expected him to have something cutting to say, so I beat him to it. Guilt digs into my stomach along with the backpack strap. He’s not the one who deserves to be on the receiving end of my pent-up retaliations. Three years with an increasingly critical ex has left me a little testy. “Sorry. I think I’m getting hangry.”
Grant stops and gestures at his pack. “There’s a granola bar in the side pocket.”
“I don’t want to take your food.” I didn’t even think to bring extra food. Horizon Hikes’ website makes a big deal about providing all of our meals from scratch. No single-serve dehydrated meal packets here. But we’re not having lunch until we get to our first campsite. I passed on snacks before we left, and am only now realizing what a mistake that was.
“You need to eat. Please. Take it.”
I stare at the little zipper on his pale brown pack, debating whether or not to accept his offer. It’s not like there are extras out here if he runs out. My stomach growls its vote, and Grant’s head tilts down, his eyebrows lifting in an “I told you so” move .
“Listen to your body and give it what it needs. You’ll feel better.”
I finally cave and unzip the pocket. He’s got five granola bars squirreled away in here. At least it’s not a single solitary bar, but he probably brought one for each day because he knew he’d need them.
My hand freezes mid-air. “I don’t like cutting into your supplies. I’m really fine.”
“Lila.” His voice hits an unexpectedly stern note. “Take the granola bar.”
It’s probably unwise to argue with him…and I don’t really want to, anyway. With snackies in sight, my stomach is growling worse than ever. “Do you want one?”
“No thanks, I’m good.”
My hand finally darts into the pocket to grab a bar. I zip the pack back up, and we continue on. “Thank you for sharing your loot. How did you get away with bringing extra food, anyway? Deena didn’t even want me to bring underwear.”
“I didn’t tell her.”
“You’re such a rebel,” I tease.
His wide grin holds a hint of mischief. “Bad to the bone.”
I can tell already Grant Irwin is not the bad boy type. He’s more of a Clark Kent, minus the glasses. Even his granola bar flavor of choice fits the persona: vanilla. The bright yellow label says it’s high-protein and gluten-free, a very sensible option on the trail. If I’d brought snacks, they would have been the kind slathered with chocolate that probably sap your energy more than they replenish it.
I take a bite and chew. And chew. And chew some more. His gaze is heavy on me as I try to choke down the snack he so generously offered.
“You don’t like it?”
“It tastes really healthy.” It might be the driest thing I’ve ever eaten. But I need the calories, so I keep swallowing it down.
Grant chuckles. “You don’t have to finish it.”
I cover my mouth so I don’t spit sawdust at him. “I don’t mind. It’s good.”
“Your face tells a different story.”
That story is probably titled I Deeply Regret Putting This in My Mouth.
Even with a little bit of food in my stomach, I’ve lost what scrap of enthusiasm I had for the day. Especially when I have to fumble around with my hydration pack’s bite valve every time I want a drink of water. Who thought using SCUBA gear the wrong way was a good idea?
He notices me sucking away at the dumb thing, but I throw a hand up between us. “Please. This is humiliating enough without an audience.”
He averts his eyes. “It can be a little awkward.”
“A little? It’s like a bunch of guys sat in a room and said, ‘What’s the least-convenient way to drink water?’”
“Maybe, but it’s the most convenient way to carry a large volume of water in a backpack.” He takes a sip from his own hydration pack as if proving his point. The long tube snakes from the large water bladder hidden in his backpack to where he bites the end with his white teeth.
I should not be noticing this guy’s mouth so much. My eyes are constantly either on his lips or that dimple in his chin. You’d think I haven’t been around a man since I moved back to Sunshine six months ago.
After the way things blew apart with Josh, I haven’t been looking. Dating’s a risky road I’m not ready for yet. But it’s hard not to be at least a little bit interested in a guy with a perfect dimple in his chin and a secret snack stash, no matter how disgusting the snacks are.
No. This line of thinking is unproductive. In five more days, Grant Irwin from Texas will be heading back home. There’s no point in thinking a single one of those thoughts.
Except…okay. The dimple really does it for me.
“Is it bad that I’m glad I’m not the only newbie?” I blurt out just to shut up my racing brain. I stuff the granola bar wrapper into my pocket to dispose of properly later. “I was afraid when I signed up for this everyone else would leave me in the dust with their amazing survival skills.”
“You’re making light of my survival skills after I gave you a clandestine granola bar?”
See? Only Clark Kent and his newspaper reporter vocabulary would throw out the word clandestine when talking about snack food.
“I’m just saying, I wasn’t sure anyone else would be new to all of this. I’m happy that it’s not just me out here taking notes on how the outdoors works.”
“You’re taking notes, are you?”
“Oh, yeah. Rule number one: always accept offered snacks.”
Eventually, we see Mitchell waiting on the trail for us. When we get closer, he waves us toward a small path off to the left and passes us each a baggie of trail mix.
The trail mix includes chocolate candies. Bless him.
“Campsite’s this way.”
“Best words in the English language,” I say with a heavy sigh. Sleeping on the ground still sounds awful, but it will get me off my feet, and that’s not nothing.
We follow him along the spur path well off the main trail to a clearing where everyone else has pulled off their packs and found spots to sit down. For turning sixty, every last one of them looks way more spry than I feel after hours of hiking. Deena and Mitchell are probably a bit younger than the couples, but since they chose to do this as their job, their enthusiasm for it makes sense .
Quickly unbuckling my chest and waist straps, I start to slide the heavy pack off my shoulders. As soon as the weight shifts, I lose my balance and almost tumble sideways into the dirt.
“Here.”
Grant’s voice is at my back. Suddenly, my body feels like it could float into the sky. I can’t help the little groan of relief I make as he lifts the weight off my shoulders. It’s a better rush than any massage. I spin to find him setting my pack down next to me.
“I almost landed on my face.” Truly, my conversation skills with this man are unmatched.
He’s already abandoned his pack a few feet away. I would ask how he got out of his monstrosity so easily, but the answer is pretty apparent beneath his slightly sweaty shirt: big old muscles. Which I try not to ogle like a weirdo, but my eyes have minds of their own.
“The extra weight makes it easy to get off balance.” He offers me a small smile that starts that floaty feeling all over again.
Nope. I’m going to chalk that up to the fresh mountain air. I turn around to search for the best spot to sit down. This is technically a work trip, and I need to stay focused. I’m here to learn about outdoorsy stuff, not get all moony over Grant Dimplechin and his amazing voice and uncanny ability to lift heavy packs like they’re nothing.
“How’s our caboose holding up?” Scott’s perched with his wife on a fallen log, grinning at us between handfuls of trail mix like he’s hoping I might break down in tears.
I find a dry, smooth rock and sit down. My butt’s probably going to go numb in about two minutes, but at least my feet can relax. I’m immensely grateful I took Mitchell’s advice and walked around in my hiking boots every day after I signed up. My feet still ache, but they’re not covered in blisters.
I don’t think. Kind of afraid to check.
“We’re doing great,” Grant says.
“Totally invigorated.” I sound like a goof, but they already know we’re on the struggle bus. No need to indulge his morbid curiosity.
Mitchell’s sprawled right in the dirt with his elbows on his knees. “After we set up our tents and have a quick lunch, there’ll be time for a short hike with good views of the Three Sisters.”
“It’s one of my favorite spots on this trip,” Deena adds. “It’s also one of the last spots where there’s reliable cell service. If you need to check in with anyone, I would advise you to do it there.”
I pretend to be engrossed in picking through my trail mix, searching for the chocolate candies. We’ve barely sat down, and they’re already talking about heading out again. There’s no way I have the desire—or, maybe more importantly, the energy—for an optional hike just to see the nearest mountain peaks I’ve seen a thousand times in my life.
But…if the views are as good as they say, pictures would be useful for my website proposal. If this were any other type of company event, I would want to get the full experience so I can market it properly. Ugh. I should go with them. Even though nothing sounds better right now than taking a nap in my tent. Which I hope is self-assembling or something because I don’t have the first clue how to set one up.
I barely listen to the couples talk about Yosemite, the Tetons, and other places they’ve explored across the country. Mostly, I’m thinking about how sweaty I am, the total lack of shower facilities, and how gross I’ll be by the end of the week. I kind of need Mitchell to set up our horror show of a toilet, too. I am not going the personal-hole route .
My attention focuses when a big black ant crawls across my leg. I flick it off. Then I notice a second one. And a third. Looking down, I freeze as my brain catches up to the fact that I’m covered in giant ants.
I shriek, shooting to my feet. Ants rain onto the forest floor as I run my hands down my legs. Spinning in a circle, I swipe at everything I can. My skin tingles as though they’re everywhere . They really might be. I start breathing too fast, sweeping my hands over myself again and again, but they keep marching on.
Someone’s saying something, but I can’t focus. My brain’s too busy with the very important task of getting these bugs off me.
Grant catches my forearms, his eyes snagging mine until I stop squirming. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
My instinct is not to believe him—I’m swarming with bugs—but he’s so calm and collected, I can’t help but trust him. I nod, not even sure what I’m agreeing to.
He brushes quick swipes down my back and legs while I try not to completely lose my mind. His hands dust over my butt, and even in my freaked-out state, I can tell he’s being totally clinical instead of taking advantage of the situation. His touch ghosts over the front and back of my clothes in swift motions.
“That’s it,” he says. “They’re gone.”
My heart’s racing, and my skin isn’t convinced yet that there’s no more threat. Adding to my embarrassment, my hands flutter between us like I’ve had five cups of coffee. Grant’s steady presence is comforting, though, and something inside me starts to settle down.
“Think that will go on her blog?” one of the men says behind him. Low laughter hums through the group, and I kind of want to crawl into a hole somewhere.
Except, of course, that hole would probably be filled with more ants.
For just a second, something very non -Clark Kent-like flashes in Grant’s eyes. It’s angry and protective, like it’s costing him not to turn around and say something back. But it’s gone again in a moment as he ducks his head to inspect me, nothing but concern in his expression now.
“Are you okay?”
Other than the racing heart and slightly shaky hands, there’s no harm done. The ants didn’t bite, thank goodness. “I think so. Thanks.”
His smile just might be my undoing. “In some cultures, black ants are lucky.”
“Why do I feel like you just made that up?”
He smiles, leaving me hanging on whether or not I can expect good luck on my trip out here. We draw apart, and I skim my hands down my legs again, just in case. Pretty sure I just unlocked another core memory. Thanks very much, wilderness.
“Whether you’re setting up your tent or finding a place to sit, it’s smart to check your surroundings.” Deena launches into a tip I wish she’d offered before we got to camp. “You probably sat down in the middle of their trail to food. Ordinarily, that’s all they’re after.”
She’s right. The scattered ants have already formed back up into a long line winding its way past the rock I’d opted to sit on. I shuffle around, looking by my feet, half-expecting the forest floor to be crawling with more bugs, but I don’t see anything.
Doesn’t mean they aren’t there, though.
Eventually, I pick a safe-looking section of dirt and sit down again to comfort myself with the last of the chocolate in my trail mix. My heart rate’s finally back to normal, but my skin keeps crawling as though tiny feet are walking all over it.
“So,” Scott drawls, “how are you enjoying yourself so far?”
Honestly? I already regret this trip.