Chapter 20 Sadie
I wake with a pounding headache, intensified by the bright morning light. I really wish I’d remembered to wear my sleep mask.
Thorn never made it to my tent last night. Matteo pulled him aside after s’mores, and I waited as long as I could without it being totally obvious that I was waiting for him. But then everyone eventually split off for bed, and they were still out talking somewhere, so I headed to bed, too.
I thought for sure Thorn would make his way back to me at some point, especially after I explicitly told him he was welcome—and after the shower incident, which I still can’t get out of my head.
I replayed it over and over again before falling asleep: the lizard, the terror, the slick floor, the shower curtain.
Thorn’s big hands on the bare skin of my back, steadying me.
The look on his face, slack-jawed and vulnerable and smitten, that made me want to kiss him right then and there.
How it felt like it was just the two of us in a dream world when we joined the group back at the campfire—how disorienting it was to be around the others after having such an intimate moment on our own.
It’s back to business as usual today, though.
I make a pour-over while Silas and Hunter drink their coffee in silence—Silas is probably already on his second cup, while Hunter prefers to sip his so slowly it gets cold.
Zoe’s over in the wildflower field leading Emma, Trey, and Parker in a sunrise yoga session.
Joshua’s sulking, as he has been ever since the epic meltdown he and Zoe had a couple of nights ago, gnawing on one of the bison-bacon-cranberry protein bars he loves so much.
Do they make him feel like more of a man in the wake of his relationship crisis?
I have to assume so, since they sound utterly disgusting.
I don’t see Thorn anywhere.
Matteo’s here, though. He looks exhausted, no trace of his easy smile or the buoyant energy I’ve come to associate with him.
“Can I sit?” I ask, gesturing down at the blanket he’s spread out.
He nods, then takes a bite out of a protein bar with the same logo as Joshua’s.
I sip my coffee, follow his silent gaze.
I have no idea what he’s looking at.
There are so many things I want to ask: Where is Thorn? What did they talk about for so long last night? Why does it look like Matteo just crawled out of a grave?
In the end, I settle on something neutral and practical: “Are we still heading out by nine?”
“That’s the plan,” he says between bites.
By the time I’m packed and ready to go, Thorn still hasn’t come back to camp. I’ve been hyperaware of his absence for the last half hour, ever since I realized he was a no-show for breakfast. I hope he’s okay.
My pack feels unbearably heavy today—those switchbacks really did a number on me. The thought of carrying it on my aching shoulders for even five minutes makes me want to cry: I wish I could go back to Past Sadie and tell her she should really think twice about packing all the things.
But it’s not like I’ve regretted the stuff I’ve packed.
I’ve been glad to have spades of clean underwear, breathable pajamas, my touch lamp, and all the snacks that keep me from fainting after hours of being out on the trails.
My Neosporin and Band-Aid stash has come in handy for my blisters, my sleep mask has helped me get some decent sleep, my face wash and dry shampoo and wax strips and nail polish have all helped me combat the ick I feel when sweat and dirt start to cling too much to my skin.
I could go on.
That said: I have a choice to make.
We’re only halfway through the trip, and I think my body might just go on strike if it has to carry this much weight for the rest of our time out here.
I sigh, knowing what I have to do.
There’s a Little Free Library over near the gazebo; it caught my eye last night on my way over to talk with Thorn, a number of colorful spines just begging me to take them.
But alas, I don’t think I’ll be taking anything today.
The little glass-paned door creaks on its hinges when I open it.
Wild and Eat Pray Love are the first to go.
I slide them onto the top shelf—right next to three other copies of Wild.
I’m sorely tempted to take two romance novels I recognize from Instagram to replace them, but both are hardcover Book of the Month editions, even thicker and heavier than the paperbacks I just put on the shelf.
I take a long look at my pack, mentally going over the inventory of its contents. The problem with being a chronic overpacker is that everything feels necessary: I chose each item for a reason, and have made use of almost everything.
If I’m honest, though? Not all of it is actually necessary.
Caden once made a comment that stuck with me: “What’s going through your head when you stuff your bags with all of this shit?”
It felt like a barb then, and it still feels like one now.
My answer to that question has always been that I like to be prepared for everything that might come up.
Cold at night? That’s okay, here’s a thick hoodie and pajama pants and cashmere socks.
Picky coffee drinker? Not an issue—here’s how I make it on the road.
Not sure what I’ll want to wear ten days from now? Pack everything I own!
Yesterday, though, after seeing Brittany almost fall over the edge, I spent the rest of the hike thinking about how you simply can’t prepare for everything—some things just happen.
It terrified me. And it made me think, maybe at the root of my desire to be prepared…it’s fear driving me.
Fear of not having everything I need to be comfortable.
Fear of not having everything I need to survive.
Fear of being in a situation where something comes up that desperately needs a solution—and me not being able to fix it.
So many what-ifs.
I thought I was challenging myself by coming out here, leaving behind the things that make me feel safe and happy and whole.
And it has been a challenge, don’t get me wrong.
In a lot of ways, though, I think I’ve insulated myself from having to deal with the things I fear most. Doesn’t it just prove Caden’s point—that I’m too high-maintenance, too extra, too much in general—if I’m only able to survive out here if I have a backpack full of emotional support items?
Screw it. It’s time.
I keep one pair of pajamas and leave the rest in a neat stack at the base of the Little Free Library.
I leave my fuzzy slippers, my wax strips, the remnants of my nail polish.
I weed out more than half of my clothes; someone is about to hit the lululemon jackpot, and it makes me want to cry thinking about how much money I spent on all of that just to leave it behind.
It only gets harder from there.
I leave my Viktor & Rolf Flowerbomb perfume behind, along with my entire stash of makeup except for a tin of coconut-lime lip balm.
Finally, I unload every last bit of coffee, my pour-over setup, and my one-of-a-kind ceramic mug that miraculously hasn’t been crushed yet—the artist who created it always sells out within minutes, and I was over the moon to finally snag it during his most recent drop.
My pack is a sad, deflated carcass just begging to be fed.
I’m tempted to stuff everything right back inside—but then I see the journal Thorn gave me, peeking out from underneath A Hiker Girl’s Guide to Bugs & Berries, the pocket-sized nature handbook Abby gifted me before I left for the airport. It feels important to keep both.
I’ve kept up writing in the journal twice a day, even if it’s just a single line.
(See: the entry from yesterday morning, right after Thorn left my tent, that simply reads Thorn is a good kisser, and I want to do it again.) Every time I open it, my memory flashes back to what he said when he gave the journal to me: People like you tend to get a lot out of journaling.
I think you’d be surprised to read back over it after the trip ends.
I haven’t read back over anything I’ve written, not yet, but I already know he’ll be right.
“What happened here?” a deep voice says behind me, one I’d recognize while half asleep, or probably even after being shot with a tranquilizer dart.
I turn and see Thorn, dripping with sweat, his expression stormy.
“I could ask the same,” I say, gesturing to his soaked shirt. There isn’t a cloud in the sky. “Did another lizard try to attack you in the bathroom?”
He laughs, though the crease between his eyebrows doesn’t totally disappear. “Needed to let off some steam. Ran three miles.”
“You ran three miles…even though we’re about to hike all day?”
“Maybe not the smartest thing I’ve ever done,” he replies. His eyes drift down to the pile of clothes at my feet, then back up to my face. “And…this?”
“My shoulders are killing me,” I say with a shrug.
He softens when he notices all of my coffee stuff. He picks up the beautiful mug, turns it over to examine the happy-face sunrise that peeks out from under the cheery little rainbow, the puffy white clouds, all of it painted by hand.
“You’re leaving this behind?” he asks. “All of it?”
I really don’t want to, I think but don’t say. But I think I should.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I am.”
He’s scanning the shelves of the Little Free Library itself now, pausing to take in the stash of makeup and perfume I stuck in there, when—out of nowhere—he bursts out laughing.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he says. “You had four copies of Wild with you?”
“What? No!” I protest. “I only had one. The others were already in there, I promise!” The fact that I’m not the first one to bring a copy with me only to leave it behind halfway through a hike suddenly strikes me as hilarious, and now I’m laughing, too.
“And the Eat Pray Love?”
“I think you already know the answer to that,” I say, conceding my defeat.
His smile lights up his entire face. “I knew you had both books with you!”
“And I have had the most painful blisters for days now, and I should absolutely have invested in some hiking boots like you said,” I go on, because why not. “You were right about everything. Literally everything.”
He bites back a smile, and probably an I told you so, too.
“I would remind you to make good on the bet we made,” he says, gesturing to my sad pile of coffee gear, “but it looks like you did that on your own.”
I’m sure he knows it isn’t that much of a sacrifice to leave my coffee beans behind, since the coffee bros have been more than generous with theirs—but I don’t feel the need to bring it up, especially since I went back and forth for a good five minutes about whether I should put it back in my pack after all.
“I feel like we need a moment of silence for all this stuff,” I say with a sigh. “A funeral of sorts.”
Thorn holds a finger up as if to say be right back—and when he returns, he has a fistful of wildflowers.
“Don’t tell anyone about these,” he says conspiratorially. “It’s illegal to pick them out here.”
I laugh. “Thank you for risking your reputation.”
He grins, then tucks the makeshift bouquet into the cone-shaped coffee dripper I use for my pour-overs as if it’s a vase.
At the last second, he plucks a single flower out of the bunch—a lovely shade of blue with white at its center—and tucks it behind my ear.
His skin brushes mine, and my cheeks grow hot.
“Won’t this be a dead giveaway that you deserve prison?” I tease.
His eyes are playful, flirty, intense.
“I can take it back if you—”
“No.” I bat his hand away. “I’m attached, it’s too late. And I’ve already said goodbye to too much today.”
He glances down at my stuff, then back up to me, probably wondering how on earth the Sadie standing before him is the same Sadie who arrived in California nearly a week ago.
That Sadie would never have even considered leaving more than half her pack behind at a campsite, let alone actually followed through with it.
Honestly, I’m as surprised as anyone.
“Maybe I should put some things back in?” I say, wistfully eyeing my perfume. It’s such a small tube, I’d barely notice it. Why did I take it out in the first place, again?
Thorn puts his arm around my shoulder and sighs.
“Sorry, Sadie,” he says with mock solemnity. “I try not to make a habit out of digging up what’s been laid to rest.”
I snort. “Fine. But when I smell like nature and everything in it within a few days, just remember things could have been different.”
His gaze locks with mine. “You’re perfect just the way you are,” he says.
I wait for the punch line—nature smell and all, I expect him to add—but it never comes.