Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
My stomach twists as I retreat into my childhood bedroom and pull the door shut behind me.
Giorgio scampers in ahead, stretching lazily in a sunny spot beneath the window, while I glance around at the mostly empty shelves and scrunch my nose at the chemical smell from all the unused sports equipment in my closet.
I’d hoped to find some sanctuary here, but it feels more like stepping into the past and shining a spotlight on all my faults instead.
A ray of sunlight casts a beam of dust over the box of like-new softball gear and catches the sheen off a pristine soccer ball hiding amongst the cheerleading pom-poms sagging in the corner.
It’s all a reminder of the things I tried and promptly gave up on.
Not all of it was bad, though. Our family softball team uniform, a perfect combination of coordinating blues, was one I helped design.
Of course, I wore it while picking flowers in the outfield, too distracted to contribute much else to the game.
My eyes bounce around the room, landing on a pair of sparkly ice skates, the ones Mom bought because she thought the glittery patterns would make the skating lessons more enticing for me.
But this room has also become a storage closet for everyone else’s paraphernalia, I realize, when I spot Juliet’s old ice skates beside mine, worn-in and well-used.
Dad’s hiking bag from a recent trip lies in the middle of the room, a little sun-weathered and etched with scuffs from past adventures.
Hiking is the one hobby the rest of my family all agree on—the universal activity in which they find common ground.
It’s just never been my thing. And I wasn’t blessed with a single thrill-seeking bone in my body.
With the exception of that one time—my biggest secret that I’ll take to my grave—I’ve spent my life trying to be good at something.
I tried to like hiking, too, for the sake of my family. But the blisters and general lack of creature comforts had me bowing out as soon as I was old enough to make up a valid excuse. I would rather hide under my covers and pour through fashion magazines.
Suddenly, the dust feels oppressive, the tiny floating motes tightening my lungs as they snicker at every one of my attempts at significance and coating the memories with a film of failure.
I hastily gather Giorgio into my arms, and with a sharp pivot, I flee from my old room and move down the hall toward Dad’s office. I burst through the door, shoving it closed. The wood is cool against my back. Giorgio snuggles into my chest as I wait for the tightness clawing at my lungs to ease.
But the calm I hoped for doesn’t come; instead, my mind is haunted by the hurtful remarks I’ve heard my family say on repeat, the ones I always brush off by rerouting the conversation with a funny anecdote.
But today’s biting comments echo especially bitterly: You wouldn’t last a day on one of our hikes…
You’d be unstoppable if you just finished something…
I push away from the wall, letting out a frustrated grunt before I place Giorgio down.
I can finish things.
I step toward Dad’s desk, where Juliet’s first skiing trophy shines, not a speck of dust around it.
The day she got this trophy, my world changed.
She had just won gold at some national competition, and my family was practically radiating with pride.
That’s when it hit me. The last time those words—We’re so proud of you—had been meant for me was after my one fleeting moment of achievement that earned me my singular trophy.
That led me to announce, regretfully, that I wanted to pursue sports science and follow in Dad’s footsteps.
They were elated, while I quickly learned that I was making myself miserable.
Hence came the great changing of the majors, during which I kept hoping I’d discover a passion for their passion—telling myself that the “style stuff” could just be a hobby.
Like I said, I’ve earned my reputation as a quitter.
If I’m not naturally good at something, I can’t see why it’s worth doing.
And if I don't enjoy something, I’ve always believed it means I’m not meant to pursue it.
But maybe it’s worth completing something this once, if only to prove that’s not who I am.
Maybe then I'll have the courage to tell them all the truth.
I lift my head slowly, the sunlight piercing my eyes as it reflects off of the framed photo sitting atop a heavy chest of drawers. The posed shot of Uncle Joe draws me near, with his stocky shoulder tucked under Dad’s arm as they smile at the camera, the Grand Canyon a terrifying beast behind them.
Sinclairs measure worth through achievement, medals, and summits.
They live it, breathe it, tattoo it on their bodies—two of my uncles have the dates of their greatest sporting achievements forever immortalized on their chests. I’ve heard rumors of other areas, too, but I prefer not to think about that.
The glass feels cold when I touch the frame, scrutinizing the terrain that has become an unofficial right of passage in this family.
Maybe this is how I prove myself.
Whether I need this accomplishment to prove to my dad that the Sinclair blood runs through my veins, to soften the blow when I tell him the truth about my career aspirations, or to diminish my guilt over quitting another college major, I’m not sure.
But he’ll see I can finish something when it truly matters to me.
Armed with a new mission, I wipe away my tears and pull my shoulders back. I’ll prove that I can do this.
I grab the laptop from Dad’s desk, opening an incognito window and Googling “Grand Canyon rim-to-rim hike.”
La pièce de résistance.
Dad completed it for the first time when he was only thirteen, and he and his brothers still get together for the one-day hike every two years. I’m not insane enough to attempt that, but I could do it over a few days.
I navigate to a website with all the info, grateful we seem to be within the seasonal window ideal for completing the hike, while the sun is less eager to kill you.
Laughter and shouting from my family trickle down the hallway as my heart echoes in my chest. Am I really doing this?
Scrolling down, I find the preliminary signups and booking reservations for a date two weeks from now, leaving me just enough time to research what supplies I’ll need.
The sun has taken on an orange tint by the time I hit the submit button, and I sit cross-legged on the thick beige carpet with a huge grin.
I’ve done it—every form has been completed, and the hotel and campsites have been booked and paid for.
I may have slightly exaggerated my fitness level, but I’m certain that what I lack in physical preparation, I’ll make up for with sheer determination… and desperation.
Now for the fun part—fashionable attire. I navigate to Pinterest, searching for hiking outfit inspiration because I refuse to look bad in front of any bighorn sheep.
I let out an involuntary squeal of delight. Who knew hiking boots came in such fun colors? I’ve just unlocked a whole new genre of fashion I’ve never explored before.
A knock on the door has me flinching and shutting the laptop as Mom steps inside, the frown on her face morphing to a warm smile when she sees me.
“There you are. Look at you, working so hard,” she says with a glint of the pride I so desperately crave in her eyes. But it’s a knife to the heart. “Surely you can take a break from school on a holiday, Wills.”
She glides over to the desk, stroking Juliet’s trophy affectionately and brushing away a non-existent speck of dust. “We’re playing lawn games. You should join, even just for fun.”
“Sure, Mom,” I smile flatly. “I’ll be right there to make everyone else look good.”
She nods, ignoring my sarcasm before approaching a shelf and straightening more trophies that I’ve never seen before.
I tilt my head to the side. “Where are those from?”
“They’re Kuroki’s.”
“Kuroki has trophies?” I ask incredulously.
“Of course. She won best in show at the Pacific Bonsai Expo.” She smiles, lifting one of two gold cups. She fogs it up with her breath and polishes it over her chest.
The miniature drama queen in a pot has more trophies than I do.
“See you out there?”
“Yeah, sure.”
She lines up the shiny little ego boosters, a wide smile on her lips when she turns to open the door. But before she leaves, she peeks her head back in, her forehead creased. “Did you notice a weird smell coming from Aunt Sheri?”
“Nope. It’s probably just her body lotion that’s gone bad. You know how that happens. Old people, right?”
Mom gasps. “But Sheri’s younger than I am!”
“It’s okay. Juliet and I will take care of you,” I reassure her with a grin.
“Get your sassy butt outside,” she demands, a hint of a smirk on her face as she rolls her eyes and shuts the door behind her.
I open the laptop and log out of Pinterest before scooping Giorgio into my arms and heading toward the backyard.
I’ll suffer through one round of ridiculous lawn games, I tell myself, then I’ll go home and finish my online shopping.
After that, I’m going to prove to the rest of those adrenaline junkies that I’m not a quitter. And I’ll do it with style.