3. Ivy
three
Ivy
Beck closes the passenger door, and I realize I've made a tactical error.
I failed to consider that in the four summers I've known Beck Hale, we've never been alone for more than two minutes.
There's always been Reid. Or Tessa. Or half the crew. Now it's just Beck and me. And after this morning, I'm considerably more aware of him.
The crew house disappears behind us as the road curves through the trees. Music plays quietly through the speakers. After a few bars Beck starts tapping his fingers on his jeans, in sync with the music.
I glance over. “Who sings this?”
Beck glances at the radio like it's obvious. “Fleetwood Mac. Everyone knows this one.”
I'm not so sure about that, and it gives me an idea. I reach for the radio and change the station. A guitar fills the truck. “Okay. Who's this?”
Beck listens for maybe four seconds. “Eagles.”
I wait. The singing starts. Eagles. I change the station.
“Johnny Cash.”
Again.
“Creedence Clearwater Revival.”
Again.
“Willie Nelson.”
“You didn't even give that one a second.”
“He has a distinctive voice.”
I narrow my eyes and continue to scan stations.
Beck smiles. “What are you doing?”
“Finding your weakness.”
“You’ve got five more miles.”
“Plenty of time.”
The next station is commercials. The next is talk radio. Then I catch the middle of a song I don't recognize. “Ha. This one.”
Beck listens.
I wait.
His forehead creases slightly. “Ice Spice.”
“Who is Ice Spice?”
“Rapper. Bronx. Blew up a couple years ago.” He says it nonchalantly, like I've asked him to name the sky.
“Ok. You win.” I turn the radio off, which feels like the only remaining move I have.
“I didn’t know it was a competition.”
“Everything is a competition.”
By the time Timber Creek comes into view, any awkwardness I expected from being alone with Beck has disappeared.
The town sits in a valley surrounded by forested slopes, with one compact main street and several smaller roads branching away from it.
Hanging flower baskets line the sidewalks this time of year.
Pickup trucks share parking spaces with SUVs carrying kayaks, mountain bikes, and cargo boxes.
A family in matching Montana T-shirts waits outside the coffee shop while two Forest Service trucks roll through the intersection.
Summer in Timber Creek.
I pull into the gravel lot beside Mercer's Market.
Beck studies the building as we get out. “This is the grocery store?”
“And general store.”
“Looks small.”
“It has everything we need.”
He follows me toward the entrance. “Everything?”
“Within reason.”
A bell jingles when I push open the door. “Morning, Ivy.”
I look toward the register. “Morning, Marlene.”
Marlene Mercer is restocking a display of huckleberry jam near the counter. “You're back for another summer.”
“Couldn't stay away.”
Her attention shifts to Beck.
I don't miss the question in her expression. “This is Beck. He's working with Blackpine for a while.”
“Welcome to Timber Creek.”
“Thanks.”
Marlene looks back at me. “If you're buying for the crew, I got another delivery of eggs yesterday.”
“You know us too well.”
She laughs and goes back to stocking the jam.
Beck pulls a cart from the row beside the door.
I take the folded list from my pocket. “Eggs first.” Six dozen eggs go into the cart.
Beck stares at them. “Six dozen?”
“You live with Reid.”
He considers that. “Good point.” Then reaches into the cooler and adds another carton.
I smile. We work our way through the store. Bread. Milk. Cereal. Fruit. Sandwich meat. Cheese. Pasta. Coffee.
Beck pushes the cart while I check things off, but it doesn't take long before he starts grabbing items on the list too.
“Two of these?”
“Three.”
He adds another loaf of bread.
“Apples?”
“Bag and a half.”
“That's a weird quantity.”
“Nolan eats them like they're going extinct.”
He puts two bags in the cart. By the time we reach the middle aisles, the cart is full enough I'm rearranging things to make room.
“Ivy?”
I turn.
Mrs. Caldwell is coming toward us with a basket over one arm.
“Hi.”
“I thought that was you.” She gives me a quick hug. “How's graduate school?”
“Good. Almost done.”
“Is this your last summer at Blackpine, then?”
“Probably.”
She smiles. “I bet your parents will be happy to finally know where you’ll be settled.”
“That assumes I know.”
“You'll figure it out.”
“I hope so.”
She pats my arm. “Tell Reid I said hello.”
“I will.”
After she leaves, Beck looks at me. “Do you know everyone in this town?”
“No.”
“Hey, Ivy!”
I turn. A man at the far end of the aisle lifts a hand.
“Hey, Gary.” I wave back. Then I slowly turn back toward Beck.
His mouth has curved into a grin.
“Okay. Maybe I know most of them.”
He doesn't say anything.
“Don't look so pleased with yourself.”
“I didn't say a word.”
“Your face did.”
We keep moving. The vitamins-and-supplements aisle comes next, which means dealing with Reid's requests. I stop in front of a wall of protein powder. “I have no idea what kind of protein powder Reid wants. There are ten different kinds.”
Beck looks over my shoulder. “Chocolate whey isolate.”
I glance at him. “What?”
He reaches past me, grabs a black container, and puts it in the cart. “That's what he buys.”
“You know Reid's protein powder?”
“I live with him.”
“I've lived with him too.”
“I guess I'm more observant.”
I give him a look, unconvinced, though I'm secretly a little impressed.
He smiles and picks up Reid's preferred toothpaste without consulting me.
There's something oddly reassuring about it. Beck doesn't just know my brother in the way people know coworkers. He knows what toothpaste Reid uses. What protein powder he buys. Probably which side of the bed he sleeps on. Maybe even how much bacon it takes to wake him.
I move farther down the aisle.
Beck stops. “You have Dr. Squatch?”
I turn around.
He's staring at a shelf of soap and deodorant.
“Try not to sound so shocked. Timber Creek has indoor plumbing too.”
“Now you're just showing off.”
I laugh and toss sunscreen into the cart.
Beck picks up a bar of Dr. Squatch soap, then deodorant. He puts both items in the cart.
A few aisles later, I'm searching for the industrial quantities of toilet paper required by eight people living in one house. The only large package left is on the top shelf. I reach for it. My fingertips brush plastic. Almost. I stretch higher. Still no.
An arm appears above my shoulder. Beck steps in behind me and takes the package down without straining for it. He's close enough I catch a clean, woodsy scent.
If that’s Dr. Squatch, I can’t argue with why he wanted it.
He holds up the enormous package between us, enough toilet paper to survive a minor apocalypse.
“This?”
“Yep.” I take it and shove it under the cart and follow him.
We're almost finished when we reach the section Mercer's reserves for touristy items. Montana magnets. Huckleberry candy. Fishing-themed mugs. T-shirts. And Bigfoot. So much Bigfoot.
Beck slows.
I know what catches his attention before he reaches for it.
A dark green T-shirt hangs from the display. A Bigfoot silhouette strides across the front beneath large white letters. WORLD'S HIDE-AND-SEEK CHAMPION.
Beck holds it up. “Okay. That's pretty good.”
“You want one?”
He studies it for another second. “Tempting.” He puts it back.
I pick up a Bigfoot magnet. “So what's the professional opinion?”
“On magnets?”
“On Bigfoot.”
He looks at me.
“You've spent years in places most people will never set foot in. Have you ever seen one?”
“Bigfoot?”
“Yes, Beck. Bigfoot.”
“Nope.” His answer comes too quickly.
I narrow my eyes. “That sounded suspicious.”
He picks up a package of beef jerky. “I've seen some things I couldn't explain.”
I lower the magnet. “Like what?”
“Ask me again after you've spent a night alone in the backcountry.”
I stare at him.
He puts the jerky back.
“That's not an answer.”
“Sure it is.”
“Was it an animal?”
“Maybe.” His expression gives me nothing.
I can't tell if he's messing with me. Which probably means he is.
Then he spots something hanging beside the T-shirts.
He takes it off the hook. The package reads SASQUATCH CALLER and includes a picture of a Bigfoot standing between two pine trees.
Beck turns it over. Then he drops it into the cart.
“Why do you need that?”
“I don’t. Nobody needs it. That's not the point.”
I shake my head and push the cart toward the register.
The back of the truck is packed by the time we leave Mercer's. Ice in coolers. Grocery bags wedged around them. Toilet paper occupying an unreasonable amount of space. And one Bigfoot caller I refuse to accept responsibility for.
We head back toward the crew house with the windows cracked. The drive is quieter this time, but not uncomfortable.
I glance at Beck. “What do you do in the off season when you're not jumping out of airplanes into burning forests?”
“Ski patrol.”
I look over. “Seriously?”
“Most winters.”
“Where?”
“Depends on the year. Montana. Colorado. Wherever I get a good seasonal spot.”
“That sounds cold.”
“Says the woman studying wildlife in Montana.”
“Wildlife doesn't require me to strap boards to my feet and throw myself down a mountain.”
“Ski patrol doesn't require that either.”
“I feel like skis are fairly central to the job.”
“They help.”
I smile and look back at the road. “So that's your whole year? Fire season and ski season?”
“Mostly. Sometimes there's a gap between them. I pick up whatever makes sense.”
“You like moving around that much?”
“Yeah.” There's no hesitation in his answer. “New places. Different crews. Keeps things interesting.”
Beck has always seemed to exist in motion. A few days here. A fire somewhere else. Winter in another mountain town. It fits him. He glances at me. “What about you? You're almost done with school?”
“I'm finishing my graduate degree in wildlife biology.”
“Then what?”
“The question everyone keeps asking.”
“You don't know?”
“I have ideas.” I turn onto the road leading back toward the Blackpine crew house. “Just not a zip code.”
“And this is your last summer with the crew?”
“Probably.” Saying it out loud still feels strange. Blackpine has been the most consistent part of my summers for years. Next year could look completely different.
Beck nods. “Big change.”
“Potentially.”
We drive another mile beneath tall pines.
This morning was supposed to be groceries.
That was it. Instead, I learned Beck has an absurd amount of music stored in his head, buys expensive, albeit nice-smelling, soap, refuses to rule out Bigfoot, and thinks novelty wildlife calls are a sound financial decision.
I've also learned something more inconvenient. He's easy to be around. And I like him. Probably more than is useful.
When we pull into the crew-house drive, Nolan is outside. He spots the truck and waves both arms. “Finally!”
Within seconds, the front door opens and people start coming toward us.
Reid heads straight for the groceries. “Did you get my toothpaste?”
Beck hands him a bag.
Reid looks inside. “Protein powder too?”
“You owe me.”
“I always knew you cared.”
Nolan pulls a bag of chips from another sack.
Cassidy comes outside carrying a stack of beach towels. “We're leaving for the lake in twenty.”
The yard immediately gets busier. Coolers open. Grocery bags get sorted. Dani starts looking for the ice. Reid disappears inside with his toothpaste.
I look at Beck.
This morning established two things. Beck Hale is still every bit as attractive as I remember. And being alone with him is more fun than I expected.
Now I'm about to spend the afternoon with him at Alder Lake. Where, presumably, the man will be wearing only swim trunks.
Fantastic.