Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
My butt is damp, and it’s not my doing.
And I think Marigold is trying to kill me. First with the back breaking, now this.
Not only is she a hefty girl, but it’s possible she peed herself. Either that or one of my water bottles has leaked, and I now have what Paul Hollywood calls a “soggy bottom.”
One backpack accident could be a coincidence. But two? This feels personal.
Or maybe Marigold’s like me, more comfortable in a boutique than roughing it in the wild.
The crowds have thinned, finally allowing me some of the solo time I’ve been looking forward to having on this trip. My head is on a swivel now, taking in the scenery as it morphs from a confining rock wall to wide open terrain, the trail leading out to the first butte with another plateau.
Who do I talk to about the spelling and pronunciation of butte?
I find a secluded spot off the path and groan like an eighty-year-old man after I pull out a small tarp from a side pocket and lay it flat.
The shop attendant who sold this to me deserves an apology, because I seriously doubted I’d need it and may have thanked him with a smug, bless-your-heart kind of smile.
But the tarp is already coming in handy.
Marigold should be grateful, too, because it’s saving her pretty, wet, butter-yellow tush from developing rusty red dirt stains.
I kneel, unpacking my bag until everything is laid out and I’m forced to assess a flatlay of the choices that got me here.
I lift the cracked water bottle that’s soaked through about half my clothes and my headlamp.
At least my sleeping bag managed to come out unscathed, but the same can’t be said for my underwear.
I reinspect Marigold with a frown and find that the dampness has spread across the back of my bag, but not underneath.
A handful of hikers pass, a few of them glaring at me with equal parts curiosity and fear, like I’m Mary Poppins about to disappear inside her carpet bag. Then again, I probably look like a homeless lady each time I come up with another piece of wet laundry and set it out to dry in the sun.
Peering inside, I continue running my hand along the inside seam, feeling the bottom of the bag until my finger catches on a thread.
I gasp. There’s a false bottom?
“Marigold, you sneaky little smuggler,” I say as I grip the loosened fabric of what I’m assuming is a hidden compartment and tug lightly.
It takes a few minutes of clawing at the thread to pull the sewn flap away. I move the thick fabric to the side to reveal something solid, and I immediately lift the mystery object. It’s a thin metal case, similar to what someone might use to gift a ridiculously fancy pen.
“The heck have you been hiding in here, Marigold?”
A cursory glance ensures nobody is watching me, although I’m certain I’m doing a terrible job of not looking suspicious, especially when I’ve just perked up like I’ve discovered a small treasure chest. Marigold forms a barricade as I gently unclasp the lid and hear small folds of tissue paper crinkling when I crack the box open.
“Well, that’s not very exciting.” I glare at Marigold, my shoulders deflating.
I’d hoped to find something more enthralling than a primitive spearhead.
Black, jagged, and shiny, it’s about as long as my hand, weighing the same as a butter knife and seemingly about as useful as a stormtrooper’s armor.
My mouth forms a flat line, and I replace the box with an eye roll, disappointed in the results of my almost thrilling side quest. I continue waiting for my things to dry with my arms resting on my knees and my chin propped in the palm of my hand.
My butt begins to ache from sitting on the hard ground, but at least this is a temporary relief from the weight on my back.
The colors of the rocks shift, tones warming as the sun rises, blues and purples melting away.
Not even the peaches and reds of the rocks against the crystal blue sky can help the muddy aesthetic of every hiker who passes me, though.
There’s the occasional outlier with some green, but my giddiness at the sight of a teal shirt is unmatched.
I barely hold back from applauding the middle-aged man with the bravest of hearts with a wolf whistle.
I feel like I’ve been excluded from a secret club as I watch every variation of earth tone walk by.
With so many possible color palettes, there’s no way a fraction of these people are wearing their best colors.
Why does enjoying nature have to require dressing like you’re auditioning for a role as a mound of sand?
We don’t all have to blend into our rocky surroundings, do we? Not when nature itself speaks in color.
Tiny sprigs of jade green fight for their place amongst earthy red rocks. Birds flaunting wings with hints of iridescent turquoise and violet swoop down.
Everyone should live as their own headline. And dang it, these earthy tones just aren’t for everyone. It frustrates me to watch these people limit themselves to some societal trend, dressing in boring subtitles, when they could be blasting a catchy hook and garnering the right kind of attention.
That killer heat every blog warned me about is making itself known, sucking all the moisture from every pore.
I figure I’ve wasted more than enough time sorting out Marigold’s incontinence problem, and I begin collecting the clothes I laid out earlier, some of them almost crispy as I stuff them into my bag.
I’m staring at her, hands on my hips, lips between my teeth, the prospect of hauling this thing around again not the least bit enticing.
I suddenly wish I’d signed up for that mule service or found a lamp with a genie in it.
I snap a photo of Marigold with the beautiful blue sky and the colorful rockface as her backdrop before stashing my phone in a side pocket.
It’ll be great B-roll content for my Instagram stories when I get a cell signal in a few days.
I close my eyes, smiling at the sun and pretending it isn’t trying to kill me. Instead, I focus on the sense of satisfaction at conquering the first hurdle of this trek.
The water bottle leak may have only been a tiny hurdle, but still, I didn’t give up.
“You waiting for it to sprout legs and walk the rest of the way?”
I gasp, spinning to find Jack, arms folded, glaring at me.
“Jeez! I could have fallen to my death with you sneaking up on me!” I scold with my hand on my chest, clutching my invisible pearls.
One eyebrow lifts as he leans barely an inch to the side, peering behind me. “By slipping into the canyon that’s twenty feet away?”
I don’t suppress an eye roll before pulling Marigold onto a nearby rock and doing a very unladylike squat to slide my arms into the straps.
Why is this thing so heavy?
I’ve just laid everything out, and the math doesn’t make sense. Maybe I’m just pitifully weak. My lips roll in with the effort to stand once I have the buckles secure around my waist.
The momentum propels me forward, causing my knee to buckle like someone’s kicked me from behind.
In an instant, Jack’s hands are once again at my arms, holding me up as my face is smushed against his chest. If I didn’t have Marigold strapped to my back, I’d curl my arms around his waist and feign a swoon, then blame it on the heat later.
What? It’s a very nice chest.
Jack clears his throat.
Boundaries, Willow.
Most of the effort to hoist myself upright comes from pushing my face against him like a cat wanting to nuzzle closer. I wouldn’t be opposed to a head rub. I might even purr. But Jack flexes his hands, putting space between us.
This response I’m having to him is very new to me. The guys I usually date are more like accessories, nothing beyond surface-level companionship. Most of them only use me to get close to my dad, anyway. Once they realize he’s not granting any favors and neither am I, we mutually uncouple.
Jack’s second throat clearing brings me out of my past relationship postmortem.
Right. I’m making him uncomfortable. He could even have a girlfriend or a wife waiting for him at home.
My stomach rolls. I don’t like that thought, nor do I care for this newfound sensation of jealousy.
My eyes dart down to his left hand, crinkling slightly when I find no ring, and I’m slightly relieved.
His face is also free of its usual grimace, a dazed look hanging in his eyes before there’s a flicker of a frown. What is this new look? I want to inspect it, to study the microexpression he’s let slip before he returns to scowling as usual.
There’s only one way to save myself from a situation like this.
“Aaaand…scene.”
I bow, but my foot slips on the tiny pebbles under my shoe, and I bobble awkwardly before catching my balance again.
Jack ignores it, though, inspecting our surroundings like there’s something he’s missing before nodding his head toward my tarp.
“What’s with the sailcloth?”
He really should be more careful, because all his scowly suspicion makes me want to do is follow him around and mess with him.
“Some of us don’t enjoy being covered in dirt.” I give him a sweet smile, folding my arms.
“You planning on picking it up?” He nods to the tarp.
“Well, obviously. I wasn’t going to just leave it here.”
Thought about it.
It’s Jack’s turn to fold his arms, looking all smug. “Then do it.”
How dare he make that sound so attractive?
The thing is, retrieving the tarp might prove problematic.
I should have done it before getting all strapped up.
But now that Marigold’s on my back, the squatting required to pick up the tarp won’t be pretty.
There will be grunting. Possibly cursing.
And a lady has to keep it classy when everything is working against her aesthetically, especially when I already look like a wet gremlin.