Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
HAWK
“They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too much to be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects.”
~ Jane Austen
I’d agreed to this stupid hike for one reason and one reason only: today was my dad’s birthday, and there was no place I’d rather spend it than on Fogg Peak, surrounded by the tall trees and shining water he’d loved. But I hadn’t wanted to come alone.
Knox or Webb or even Emma would have been here in a heartbeat if I’d asked them, but something had held me back.
My dad had bonded with each of us in our own unique way.
My brothers, who’d all been forged in our dad’s broad-shouldered, larger-than-life mold, right down to his Sunday green eyes, shared his passion for business, or the orchards, or white-water rafting, or racing ATVs through the Averys’ field of silage corn at twilight.
Emma had been his spitfire princess, and they’d shared a love of animals and a passion for justice.
Dad and I, though… we’d had Fogg Peak. We’d had “Come for a walk with me, Hawkins?” We’d had fox tracks in the winter and loon calls in the summer, swollen rivers in the spring and foliage in the autumn, and he’d made all of it magical.
In his quiet way, he’d taught me that humans go through seasons, just like plants do, and sometimes needed to be dormant before they could grow.
He’d taught me about animals adapting to their environments and that the very same things that made me feel so different—my shyness, my shortness, my bookishness, my plain brown eyes—were the things that made me special.
He’d taught me that nothing stays the same forever—not sunsets, not trees, not people, not even the rocks under our feet—so you needed to appreciate things while they lasted and embrace change when it comes.
He’d taught me that most things weren’t worth fighting about but that some things, some people, were.
I hadn’t hiked for years after he died. I’d thought the magic of the mountain had died along with him, and it would be too weird, too sad, for me to go without him. But then Jack had come into my life one cold winter’s day a few years later.
Hiking with Jack was very different from hiking with Dad but every bit as magical.
Our hikes had started out as group events with my siblings, but even back then, the two of us would end up hanging back or outpacing the others, off in our own little world as we shared our thoughts on everything from books and recipes and geology and bug spray to what it felt like growing up without a dad.
Our viewpoints were often different, but I’d never doubted for a minute that Jack saw me. That he liked me. That I didn’t have to censor myself or project some happy, carefree version of Hawk Sunday in order to please him. That we fit together, easy as breathing.
Despite all that had happened last weekend, it had felt right to have him with me today, when I was feeling overly emotional and on edge, because Jack was my person. My constant. The North Star that my internal compass had aligned itself to long ago.
But it seemed I’d underestimated the nuclear fallout that one teeny-tiny, super-casual request for no-strings, cherry-popping sex would have on our seven years of devoted friendship and understanding because every word the man uttered today seemed to prove that Jack and I did not fit. Not today, anyway.
“You’ve always been honest with me,” Jack said, his blue eyes wide and worried. “Even if I, ah… don’t always react the way you wish I would. You know that you’re one of the most important people in my life, right? So if there’s a problem, you should tell me.”
I studied his handsome face for a long moment, deliberating.
What the heck was I supposed to say to that?
Did Jack really want to know how I was feeling?
I’d told him about my “problem” last weekend, and look how that had turned out.
Did he want to know that I was mortified and heartsick over his rejection?
Or that I’d tried so hard to give off what Crys had called a “subtle yet unmistakable fuck-me vibe” this week that I’d practically thrown out my back accidentally-on-purpose dropping things so I could bend over and show off my ass?
Did he want to know I was hurt and angry at his lack of support at the town meeting?
Or that I’d gotten nowhere in my plan to thwart Evola because I’d been working too many shifts to seek out Ms. Fortnum at the Apple of My Eye, and when I’d texted her about getting our environmental group back together, she’d replied with a cryptic “Plans have changed, sweetie. Msg u l8r. Hookers r assembling!” as though meeting with the other octogenarians in her fiber-arts group was more important than saving Fogg Peak?
Did he want to know that my regular volunteer gig leading hikes with the Mini Nature Scouts had gotten canceled thanks to an outbreak of Norovirus, so I hadn’t been able to speak to their parents, or that Uncle Drew had been so busy at Sunday Orchard he hadn’t listened to a word I said when I tried to explain my concerns?
Did Jack want to know how sad and confused I was that he was suddenly treating me like all the people in my life who gave me loving, protective head-pats while ignoring my opinions?
Did he want to know that a tight, hot ball of anger and resentment had formed in my chest, making it hard to be my usual positive self? That I was getting so sick of my own attitude I’d started visiting the self-help section of the library?
Just like the other night at the town meeting, I had the creeping suspicion that talking to Jack would make me feel worse instead of better.
He wanted the security of our uncomplicated friendship back, and for today, at least, I wanted that, too. So I smushed all of those feelings into a little ball and swallowed them.
“No, Jack,” I said, turning back to the trail and focusing my attention on the path. “There’s no problem.”
It took a solid half mile of walking—okay, stomping—uphill before the rhythm of my footsteps, the spicy fern scent of the air, and the pleasant strain in my lungs and muscles as we navigated the steepest switchback started to work their familiar magic on me, taking the edge off my jangled nerves.
Up here, walking on mountains that had been formed eons ago, under the shelter of trees that had stood for centuries, my problems felt a bit smaller.
We passed a small clearing where summer flowers carpeted patches of virgin earth, and shards of sun cut down through the leaves to catch on delicate petals and stems.
“Purple hyssop,” I said, breaking the silence at last to point out the native flower. “It’s on Vermont’s list of threatened plant species. I talked to Maryanne Kopra about doing a unit study with the Mini Nature Scouts about these endangered plants and how precious they are.”
Jack hummed thoughtfully and paused to inhale the sweet licorice smell.
We continued along, my eyes roaming the area around us, searching for changes from the last time we’d hiked this particular trail up to the peak last summer.
When planning out the hikes Jack and I took, I usually stuck to lower-elevation trails during the cooler seasons, saving the higher elevations for the summer months.
After a curve in the trail, I stopped and squatted down. “Drummond’s rock cress. This one is on the endangered list, too.”
“Oh, right. I recognize this one. Pretty,” Jack said, admiring the white flowers.
“It is.” I glanced up at him. “Hard to think that a year from now, a trendy barrel sauna might be sitting here instead of this plant, huh?”
Jack nodded, frowning in concern, but it felt like that concern was more for me and my inevitable disappointment once the resort was approved than the fate of the plants themselves.
“They really don’t need to build so high up the mountain,” I said stubbornly, as though we hadn’t discussed this a dozen times before.
“What if they kept the resort buildings clustered around the primary area of Coster’s Meadow?
As much as I’d hate to lose the vistas from that little valley, at least it would make more sense than clear-cutting the ridge. ”
“It’s an alpine resort concept.” Jack’s voice was infuriatingly patient and oh-so-reasonable, as usual. “I think setting it among the trees on the ridge is sort of the point, Bird.”
“Well, then, they can change the concept. That’s what all these town meetings have been about, right? They’re supposed to listen to us. To give us a voice. We get to have the final say. But if no one speaks up, if no one seems to care, why would they—”
Jack gripped the straps of his pack tighter. “Or maybe people in town care about more than one thing. I keep telling you, it’s not a black-and-white issue for most folks. There’s a huge financial benefit to the resort. There’s lots to consider.”
That phrase again.
“Assuming people are considering things and not dismissing it for all the wrong reasons,” I grumbled.
Financial security and stability were important—of course they were!—but it wasn’t as though the survival of Jack’s business depended on the resort. Panini Jack’s had become a local institution, and folks lined up for a table on a weekend morning, even in the off-season.
I was trying to look at the situation maturely.
To not be selfish. To tell myself it was okay to disagree and not let my hurt over Jack’s rejection get all twisted up with his dismissal of my fears about Evola.
To remind myself that Jack cared about me lots and that he’d proven it over the past seven years by treating me like an intelligent adult, by listening when I talked, by giving me a job at his diner, by asking my opinion on all the tiny details of his home renovation.
But I was too emotional for this logic to really penetrate.