Chapter Twenty-Six
Though my memory of it is vague, the trail isn’t new to me.
I know I’ve been here before with Mom and Dad, and we took the very same path to see the waterfalls.
I’d never been the biggest fan of hiking—I like skyscrapers and concrete, not bugs or muddy paths—but as I climb the switchbacks behind Parker’s unwavering form, I have to admit, this isn’t so bad.
Although the trail is a little steep, and I brake to find my balance now and then, it’s true that it’s beginner-friendly, and I likely won’t be falling to my death.
I take time to soak in the landscape near Oneonta Gorge, unfolding across the nearby railroad like spawning on a stunning new map in an open-world game.
Mossy rocks verge on the footpath, and among the lush ferns are speckles of white—little explosions of snowberries.
The bigleaf maples tower overhead in vibrant bursts of gold, their freshly fallen leaves crunching under my shoes and reminding me why autumn has always been my favorite season.
A narrow ravine comes into view as we arrive at Ponytail Falls, where the steady stream of water gushes over a cavern created by centuries of geologic force, a small wonder shaped by basalt lava and time.
The trail continues behind the falls and through a low-ceilinged rock chamber where hikers pass behind the cascade.
At the water line, a small crowd snaps photos and dips their toes into the swimming hole.
Parker is already taking careful steps toward the waterfall. I survey the damp path and wet rocks ahead, and my heels take root.
“Um, you go ahead. I don’t think I can get down there.” I point to my sneakers. “I’ll just hang back and read.”
“Read?”
I take my phone from my back pocket. “I have a couple Adagio articles that I can get a head start on.”
He lifts a casual shoulder and then descends to the overhang easily. I find a rock nearby that looks dry enough and not too mossy and take a seat. Tapping into my email, I locate an article about the link between Jurassic Park and a generational boom in paleontologists.
The scent of the gorge is earthy, with a hint of rain. It’s well past noon, but when a breath of wind passes, the air still feels like a brisk morning. It fills my lungs like a subtle, but addictive menthol. I wonder why I don’t read outside more.
When I glance at Parker, he’s still standing in the cavern, pacing from one side to the other, occasionally stopping to observe the waterfall. His face tightens in concentration every now and then, until his gaze drifts to me, and our eyes meet.
Parker climbs back up the trail to my little refuge on the rock.
“This is nice,” I say.
“I told you.” He glances at the waterfall, then back at me. “It’s nicer once you get close to the water. Come on.”
“But my shoes,” I persist. “What if I slip and hit my head on a rock? Or what if I step on a slug?”
Parker offers me his hand. “I’ll make sure you don’t slip.”
“Can you make sure there are no slugs?”
“Dani.”
I stare at his hand, and my heart takes the tiniest of leaps.
“Don’t let me fall,” I say, reaching for him.
His sturdy fingers fold over mine, and my hand suddenly looks so small.
Parker’s grip feels strong and reliable, and he holds onto me until we make it to the point of the overhang that’s directly behind the waterfall.
As soon as I’m confident in my footing, I let go of him.
Though the air is muggy down here, there’s something calming about standing in the hollow of the half-tunnel and listening to the roar of the coursing water.
Somewhere tucked away in my bedroom, I’m sure there’s a photo of me with Mom and Dad at this very spot, but why does being here now feel like it’s the first time?
The spray of the cascade wets my face, and I take a step back, patting the sleeve of my coat against my forehead.
Several hikers huddle beneath the falls and ask Parker to take their photo.
He’s generous with his angles, even squatting to get the optimal shot.
Once they leave, he strides over to me, lingering at my side as we watch the waterfall in comfortable silence.
“When was the last time you were here?”
“I must’ve been six,” I tell him, leaving out the details. “You?”
“I used to come here a lot after I quit the team. Everyone wanted me to talk about it, but I didn’t know how. Mostly, I wanted to be alone,” he says, and the look he gives me is a tentative one. “I’m guessing Nathan never filled you in.”
I see his reservations in the uneasy scrunch of his brows. After it came up at the Monosphere event, I wasn’t sure if the topic was off-limits. I still don’t have the confidence to pry, so I shake my head and wait for him to continue.
“Sounds about right. Back then, I swore him to secrecy. I made him promise not to tell you anything if he ever ran into you.” He slides his hands into his pockets. “I was still too embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed?” I repeat. “Of what?”
“I think you know better than anyone that football used to be my life.”
“Really? Did you make it obvious or something?”
That makes him grin.
“Remember when I got the recruitment news? I thought I’d made it.
I had these big, inflated dreams that once I got into U of O, my career would explode, and I’d be on my way to going pro.
Everyone around me said the same—my parents, coaches, teammates.
Then I got redshirted my first year and realized how terribly not special I was. ”
I pick my words carefully. “I’m no expert, but to me, you were like, the best of the best. I couldn’t imagine a better player than you.”
“Every starting quarterback in a small-town varsity program thinks he’s the best of the best—until he ends up on a roster with guys from big-city high schools who had access to better training,” he goes on.
“It was the talent gap too. My redshirt year was supposed to help me compete on the same level, but even after all the training, I still didn’t stand out.
The coaches noticed too. I could tell they were second-guessing my recruitment.
I was desperate to prove them wrong, so I trained more.
That’s all I did, every day. It started to feel like I didn’t have a life outside of football. I’m sure you picked up on that.”
“I thought you were frustrated about not having game time,” I say. “We talked on video calls almost every day, but you never mentioned any of this.”
He looks ahead at the waterfall, quiet for a beat.
“In my debut game, I played a few snaps in the fourth quarter. It wasn’t bad, but not very memorable.
The rest of my sophomore season went the same way.
I didn’t get mentioned in any sports articles; I wasn’t on anyone’s radar.
Then between Thanksgiving and the Christmas we were supposed to meet, I tore my rotator cuff.
That put me out of commission for the rest of the season.
And the worst part? I caused the injury myself by overtraining. Ironic, isn’t it?”
There’s a sharp sting beneath my ribs, and I have to stop myself from reaching for him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted to. But every time I pictured the conversation, I’d see myself admitting that I’d been struggling to keep up the whole time. That my debut was actually a flop. That even if going pro were still an option, I wasn’t sure I wanted it anymore.”
He sweeps his bangs from his forehead. They’re a little damp from the misty air.
“I’d have to tell you that I’d given up on the dreams I’d had since we were seven. And I wasn’t sure you’d understand. I was afraid of disappointing you. You know, it wasn’t just the coaches. I cared what you thought of me—more than anyone else.”
“Why me?” I add, “It’s not like I knew much about football.”
“Because it’s you, Dani. Your thoughts, opinions—they all mattered to me. I didn’t want you to think I was a failure.”
I swallow, needing a moment to sort through the revelations. It’s much too heavy to process all at once. “So, that’s why you didn’t come to New York.”
He nods. “I made it all the way to my gate that day. I was lining up to board my flight, and then I thought of you over there.”
He allows himself to look at me then, something changing in his eyes.
“You had everything figured out. You were doing great in school, meeting new people, making yourself at home in this huge city. I was happy for you, but at the same time, I wondered where I fit into all that. It was my own insecurities, because there I was, failing on all fronts.”
He pauses, and I hear the soft shuffle of his jacket, the clearing of his throat somehow magnified.
“Around that time, I received notice that the school had put me on academic probation. If I didn’t raise my GPA, I’d lose my scholarship—and my eligibility to play.
Basically, everything that could possibly go wrong was starting to feel very real.
I knew once I got to New York, I’d either have to pretend everything was fine or admit all of this to you. And I couldn’t do either.”
“I would never have judged you,” I assert.
“I didn’t want you feeling sorry for me either,” he says in return.
“After we stopped talking, I tried to get back on track, thinking that maybe, once I got my shit together, I could face you again. In my junior year, I got another chance when they made me a starter. Unfortunately, I only played two games before my shoulder started acting up again. The team doctor told me I’d have to sit out the season or risk a full tear.
It started to feel hopeless all over again, so I finally quit.
The thing is, my injury didn’t happen during a game, so no media outlets covered it.
To the football world, I just disappeared. And no one noticed.”