7. Hartley
CHAPTER 7
HARTLEY
Day 2—Costa Rica
T he summer after I graduated high school, I flew to New York City with my three best friends. We were in our Meg Ryan era and spent a week traipsing across the city to see where some of our favorite Meg movies had been filmed. We hit almost two dozen locations while we were there, with my personal favorites being the top of the Empire State Building (from Sleepless in Seattle ) and the Brooklyn Bridge (from Kate & Leopold —one of her more underrated films, and also what kick-started my crush on Hugh Jackman).
But anyway, my point is, I’ve been on the eighty-sixth floor of a skyscraper, and I’ve walked across New York City’s most iconic bridge with nary an issue, so imagine my surprise when I nearly shit myself in the middle of Mistico Arenal Hanging Bridges Park.
Our clue at Mirador Coladas (ceiba means kapok, by the way) told us we’d find the next clue on one of Mistico’s six hanging bridges. What it didn’t say was how much those damn things moved. I’d gotten about five steps onto the first one—which was suspended a staggering hundred and forty-seven feet in the air—before immediately returning to solid ground.
Courtney, of course, was less than thrilled because we’d fallen to tenth place and Moe and Randall from the Rockville Institute of Technology (with the highly original nickname of Team Rockville) had just come up the trail, putting us at risk of dropping to eleventh. Personally, I think his attitude was because his two brain cells couldn’t understand that my newly discovered aversion to being on things that moved and were high in the air was not the same as flying.
In a fit of frustration, I’d shouted, “Bridges aren’t supposed to move!”
Moe, some sort of engineer with an inability to read the room, had piped in with, “Actually, bridges are designed to shift to some extent,” before I cut him off with a glare and my assurance that his mansplaining was unnecessary.
Once they’d left, I told Court that because he was so good at making decisions for me, he could choose whether to go through the park on his own—and subsequently earn us a time penalty for breaking the rules—or study the map with me to strategize a route that would (hopefully) save us time and (more importantly) reduce the number of bridges we’d need to cross. His poor, lonely brain cells finally showed some intelligence, and he went with option B.
Based on past seasons of Xtreme Quest, I knew the clue wouldn’t be at the first or last bridge. My guess was the Heart of Palm Bridge in the back of the park, which we could get to by backtracking and crossing the Guan Bridge. And by crossing, I mean sliding my feet in a weird ski-shuffle while gripping the sides like my life depended on it even though the bridges were only forty-six feet and twenty-six feet up, respectively. America will probably make fun of me when this episode airs, but I was right and that’s all that matters.
I may have gloated all the way to the helipad.
That’s right. A helipad. Because the clue dangling from the side of the death bridge told us to take a helicopter to Sarchí, an artsy town northwest of San Jose.
I spent the first part of the flight trying to memorize the landscape so I can paint it when I go home. Then I started thinking about my parents. My mom swore she had everything covered and told me I wasn’t allowed to worry or feel guilty while I was gone. I promised I wouldn’t, but despite three years of therapy, I still have moments where my inner voice tells me I’m the reason my parents almost died.
As soon as the wheels meet the runway, I take my phone out of airplane mode and text my mom.
Landed. I’ll meet you in baggage claim.
My original plan of driving home for a short break before returning to campus to work at the gallery changed to me selling my car (and most of my possessions) and flying home for the summer before moving to Italy for my internship. Marchella, my coordinator, arranged for me to arrive two weeks before the program starts to acclimate and sightsee. I was not upset about that.
I’m hoping I’ll be able to get up to Germany to visit my brother, John, too. His wife was just put on bedrest for placenta previa, and it’s been almost a year since I’ve seen my four-year-old niece.
“Thank you again, dear. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
“You’re very welcome.” I give my seat neighbor a quick hug before she steps into the aisle and makes her way off the plane.
The first thing she’d said to me when she’d sat down was, “I hate it when people tell me to smile. What makes them think it’s a good idea to say something as stupid as that?” Except she’d said it loud enough for the man in front of her to hear it as he continued down the aisle toward his seat.
Maybe he’ll take her advice and keep his comments to himself the next time he comes across a twenty-two-year-old whose heart has been put through the wringer. Sure, I’m excited about Italy, but I’m also nervous, scared, and preemptively homesick. And to top it all off, I can’t stop thinking or dreaming about Court. So sue me for not smiling, 24A.
“I don’t know why either, but I hate it too,” I’d replied to the woman.
To my surprise, she’d lifted her fist and bumped it against mine. “That’s how you kids do it, right?”
I’d laughed, and rather than pulling out the book I’d brought and curling up against the window, I sat back and started up one of the best conversations I’ve ever had with a stranger. Eloise was returning from visiting her four great-grandchildren in Knoxville, her first trip there since losing her husband of fifty-three years. I was struck by how much love radiated off her despite the grief she carried. I’d told her as much, and do you know what she said?
“The heart is like the vagina. It can take one hell of a pounding and come out the other side grateful to have had the experience.”
After cackling so loudly that every head in a two-row radius whipped in my direction, I’d carefully ripped the blank page from the beginning of my book (I’m not normally a monster, but I didn’t have a notebook, so it was literally the only paper I had) and I asked to see a picture of Donald. For the rest of the flight, I listened to stories of their life while doing my best to capture that love on paper.
As we made our final descent, I’d passed her phone back to her along with the sketch I’d drawn—her in the middle seat and Donald in the vacant aisle seat beaming at his amazing wife.
It’s not until I reach the escalator to baggage claim that I realize two things: Eloise never asked why I was upset, and despite the emotional baggage I’d brought on the plane with me, I’d pretty much laughed and smiled all the way from Knoxville to Raleigh.
Also—where the heck are my parents?
I scan the nearby baggage carousels in case they’re waiting at the wrong one, then check my messages and see that the last text I sent to my mom was delivered but not read. She said they were on the way when I called her before boarding, so I know they didn’t forget to pick me up. Maybe they’re in the black hole of cell phone reception, otherwise known as the parking garage. How can we control satellites millions of miles away, but we can’t talk on the phone in an open-air concrete structure?
For now, I focus on hauling my two massive suitcases off the carousel and fighting my way through the crowd to an empty bench in view of the exit. After plopping down, I dial my mom. It rings four times and switches to an automated greeting saying the person at this number is not available. I immediately hang up and try my dad’s number but get the same result.
Okay. No big deal. They probably left their phones in the car, and they’ll walk through the sliding doors any second.
Fifteen minutes later, I will myself to stay calm and think. When I talked to Mom before I boarded, they were halfway to the airport and expected to arrive about fifteen minutes before I landed. It’s just under three hours from Oak Island to Raleigh, so halfway would be...crap. Did they go through Wilmington or Fayetteville?
At twenty minutes, I try their phones again.
And again.
And again.
Each unanswered call adds another brick of dread in my stomach, quashing my earlier relief about being home and knowing I’d finally have some respite from everything I’ve been through in the past month.
Half an hour later, the Court-induced ache in my heart shifts to make room for the realization that something is very, very wrong. Do I keep waiting? Try to get a rental car? Call my brother even though it’s—I check my phone and calculate the time change—almost midnight there? At what point do my parents officially become missing people? The thought of their faces on a poster sparks a new wave of panic, turning my chest into a vise.
This isn’t happening.
I try their numbers seven more times while trying to regulate my breathing so I don’t pass out on the gross airport carpet. When I can trust myself to stand and walk, I head to the rental car area and stand in the shortest line .
“Hi, do you have a reservation?” the desk attendant asks five agonizing minutes later.
I clear my throat and say, “No, but I need to make one. Please.”
She taps on her keyboard. “How many days do you need it?”
“Um, I don’t know. Three maybe?” Tears prick my eyes and I attempt to blink them away.
“Will you be returning the rental to this location?”
“Probably not.”
“What type of vehicle do you need? We have a special right now on ? —”
“I just need one that has wheels. And gas,” I add, my voice cracking.
She studies me with suspicion, then concern. “Ma’am, are you okay?”
I think something awful has happened to my parents and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do right now.
“Um, my...ride hasn’t shown up. So whatever your cheapest car is, I’ll take that.”
Fifteen minutes and just as many pages of forms that I didn’t read later, I’m behind the wheel of a glorified wind-up car. One suitcase is in the trunk and the other is wedged in the back seat, nearly blocking my view through the rearview mirror.
I’m navigating to the exit of the garage when it occurs to me that I don’t know where to go. How many hospitals are between the halfway point and Raleigh? Should I make a list and start calling? Or would the police know ? —
The police.
I pull into another parking space and unlock my phone. With shaking hands, I bring up a browser window and type, “How do the police notify next of kin?” The top five search results all say, “in person,” so I quit scrolling and switch over to my map to plug in my parents’ address. That’s probably where they’d attempt a notification, right?
With no other logical guesses, I tap Go and follow the exit signs out of the parking garage. When I pass under the first sign directing me to I-40 East, my phone rings with a call from a 919 area code. I swipe my finger across the screen and veer to the shoulder, not caring about the handful of cars I just cut off.
“Hello?”
“Hartley?”
“Mom!” A tsunami of relief washes over me, only to be replaced with more panic when she says,
“We were in an accident.”
“What? Where? Are you okay? ”
She pulls in a raspy breath and coughs. “My arm is broken and a few ribs are fractured.”
I’ve never heard her sound so small or weak, like it’s only the shell of her doing the talking. Everything inside me hurts for everything inside her.
“And Dad?” I manage to say before my voice breaks.
“His top half is okay. They’re...not so sure about the bottom half.” She coughs again, and then the phone is passed to another woman.
“Hi, this is Doctor Vann at Benson Memorial Hospital. Your parents came in about an hour ago.”
She says more things: A semi-truck. Their car flipping. Surgery. Critical.
But they’re alive.
They’re alive.
They’re alive.
A few things changed after the accident:
Mom lost thirty percent of her function in her right arm.
Dad lost all function in his legs.
I declined my internship to move back in with my parents and run my dad’s painting business.
What hasn’t changed is my dad’s and my love of Xtreme Quest. We’ve been fans since the show debuted when I was in middle school. One of our favorite things to do over the years was add on to the dream itinerary we started making in season one. The last time I counted, there were twenty-eight locations on the list. After the accident, Dad stopped updating our itinerary because wheelchairs and physical challenges don’t mesh well.
But I think it’s time for a new itinerary with activities he can do. And after I get my share of the prize money, we’re starting with a helicopter ride in Costa Rica.
After touching down, we follow our instructions from the death bridges and make our way to a local bakery. Court opts to complete the solo challenge of sourcing coffee beans, grinding them by hand, and brewing a cup of espresso in exchange for our next clue, which says:
Ox or Cart?
“No animals,” I say immediately. “They’re too unpredictable.”
“For once, we agree on something.” Court pulls the challenge card labeled Cart from our envelope.
Go to the Carlos Hernandez Ox Cart Factory and assemble an ox cart.
When it passes inspection, you will receive your next clue.
We flag down a passing bicyclist to ask for directions and learn the factory is only a kilometer away.
“We can jog it,” Court says.
“We’d get there faster if we took a taxi.”
“Absolutely not. My lap is still recovering from your hatchet ass during yesterday’s taxi ride.”
What I mean to reply with is, “I don’t have a hatchet ass,” but what comes out instead is, “You never complained about my ass before.”
Jaw muscle ticking and nostrils flaring, he analyzes some distant object over my shoulder, perhaps another invisible bird. When he finally looks at me again, his expression has transformed into mild annoyance. “There’s also the issue of Tico time.”
Okay, that’s a valid point. Eduardo mentioned Tico time this morning on the way to Arenal. It’s an extension of Costa Rica’s “Pura Vida” motto, where life is pure and no one is in a rush. I absolutely adore the concept, just not when we might be in last place in a race for a million dollars. As such, Eduardo cautioned us that although customer service would likely be stellar, punctuality was not guaranteed.
“Fine,” I huff, snatching the clue and adding it to my fanny pack.
It takes less than ten minutes to get to the factory. Ignoring Court’s stupid gloating smirk about the time we saved, I head to the assembly area across from the main entrance to the building and drop my backpack at the workspace next to Padma and Bobby, who are nearly done with their cart.
“Is it hard?”
“There are a couple of tricky parts, but it’s not bad. You shouldn’t have any problems,” Padma says with a reassuring smile.
I open my mouth to tell her thanks, but the sound of clattering boards cuts me off. “What are you doing?” I direct at Court, who’s going back for more wood from our pile of supplies.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m building an ox cart.”
“How about we check out the example so we know how it’s supposed to look.”
“If you want to waste time, by all means.” He gestures grandiosely at the finished example near the factory entrance, then fills his arms with more wood.
I lift my eyes heavenward and release an exasperated sigh. “I’m so glad I have a partner who’s averse to common sense and directions.”
“I’m not averse to either of those things when necessary. Right now, it’s not.”
Right now, I want to smash his big toe with our hammer. Instead, I march over to the finished cart to study the little details, like which direction the nuts and bolts are facing. You know, the stuff contestants don’t realize they’ve screwed up until it’s too late.
Padma’s just called for a check, and I haven’t seen Moe and Randall so either they’re still in a helicopter or they took the “ox” version of the challenge, both of which mean we don’t have time for preventable errors.
I’m turning to head back when I notice one more important detail: I’m standing about twenty-five feet away from the work area. That’s the farthest I’ve been from Court since arriving in Dallas. Do I handle this like a mature adult? Of course not. Instead, I plant my feet, cross my arms, and fill my lungs with asshole-free air like the rulebreaker I am.
“I thought you were in a hurry,” he calls.
“I highly doubt taking five seconds to enjoy a reprieve from your presence is going to make or break our current standings.” I say this with a victorious smile because although it’s petty, throwing his words back in his face feels so, so good. He just shakes his head and gathers the last of our supplies.
By the time I return, the Niles are donning their backpacks. Padma tosses an encouraging, “Good luck!” over her shoulder, and then it’s just me, Court, and a haphazard pile of materials.
“We should start with these,” he says, toeing a stack of one-by-two boards .
“Those are for the side walls.”
“I know.”
“We don’t need them yet. We should build the base first.” I shove a few boards off a metal axle and attempt to remove it from the pile. “Help me with this.”
Court steps around me and collects the skinnier boards. “Or you could help me with these. Once the walls are built, we can do the frame and pop the walls on.”
“ Orrr we can build the base first so we have something to attach the walls to.”
“No.”
I clench my hands into fists while wishing I could do the same to Court’s neck. “Why do you insist on being so stubborn?”
“I’m being logical ,” he says as though he’s a frazzled parent explaining the basics of bedtime to a toddler. “If we assembly-line the walls now, we won’t have to stop and build them once we get the frame done.”
THE. AUDACITY.
“So let me get this straight—me having a different opinion on how to start this project automatically makes me illogical? God, I feel bad for your girlfriend.”
He pauses his...whatever the hell he’s doing with those damn boards and squints up at me. “My girlfriend?”
“Well, you’re not wearing a ring.” Not that I was looking per se, it’s just more of an overall observation.
He holds my gaze for another few seconds, then goes back to...seriously, what the hell is he doing?
“Grab those boards,” he says gruffly.
Glancing from him to the heaping mess of lumber he created, I wiggle my fingers around an invisible crystal ball and say, “Just a moment while I magically read your mind so I can get the specific pieces of wood you’re requesting.”
He rises while muttering something that sounds like, “For fuck’s sake,” and walks over to the pile to extract the boards in question. “Just do what I do with mine,” he says, passing one to me.
“Oh good. We’re at the mansplaining portion of today’s adventure. I was wondering when we’d get to that.”
“You are such a pain in my ass.”
I smile sweetly instead of hitting him with my board. “The feeling is entirely mutual. ”
Somehow, we manage to tolerate each other’s presence long enough to build the ox cart. The wheels alone come up to my hips and probably weigh around forty pounds each, so the whole thing was more labor-intensive than I’d expected.
I flag the factory chief to ask for a check and down half my water bottle as he saunters over. While he makes a slow circle around our cart, Court lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe his face before chugging his own water. I absolutely do not stare at the brief display of muscles or watch his Adam’s apple bob with each gulp, and I especially don’t savor the sight of him swiping the back of his hand over his mouth when he’s done.
“It’s good,” the man says, holding up his thumb.
Praise the lord and the universe and the ancient peoples of Costa Rica.
After thanking him, we tear open the envelope and read the clue out loud.
Travel on foot to Jardín Else Kientzler and search for Paul.
The last team to check in will be eliminated.
I hitch my backpack onto my shoulders but Court leaves his and jogs over to the factory chief. They exchange a quick series of nods and pointing gestures, and then he’s back. “It’s a garden about two kilometers away. He said we can cut through here and follow the main road all the way there.”
He grabs his backpack and we take off running (again) making me grateful for every mile I logged before the race started. There was nothing I could do to train for this humidity though. We’re basically swimming down the road, and if my hair wasn’t secured with two hair ties, it would have its own ZIP code right now.
Court, of course, still looks annoyingly perfect. I’m sure his girlfriend does, too. I bet she has a face that doesn’t need makeup and a figure that can tolerate a dozen cookies for breakfast. And knowing him, she’s even more intelligent than she is beautiful—an impossible task for mere mortals, but not her. She has a master’s degree, or possibly a PhD, and she still makes time to volunteer at the local shelter or assisted living facility. Hell, she probably works at one or both of those places.
She most certainly doesn’t turn beet red when she runs, nor does her hair attempt to impersonate a clown wig when left to its own devices in the humidity. And when Court dishes out his shit to her? She totally puts him in his place. Guaranteed. I suppose I should retract my earlier statement about feeling bad for her.
He hasn’t mentioned what he’d spend his half of the prize money on, at least not that I’ve heard, but it’s an easy assumption to say he’d put it toward their wedding and honeymoon. Then again, she could dream of an elopement or destination wedding, in which case him doing reconnaissance via Xtreme Quest is brilliant.
I’ve dated here and there, but I’ve learned there’s not much of a market for twenty-eight-year-old women who live at home and work at a job they’re good at but hate. While Court’s getting married with his earnings, all I want to do is rent a studio so I can finally have a place to work on my art. Maybe then I’ll start feeling like I can breathe again.
But all of that is irrelevant if we don’t make it to the checkpoint before Moe and Randall. Hopefully they got an unruly ox and they’re stuck in a field somewhere.
This thought gives me one final push as we Michael Phelps our way to the garden. If this was a triathlon, we’d have the run and swim covered already. How do Costa Rican athletes handle this humidity?
“Look.” Court points to a display of handwoven bags as we run past a store front. “Maybe we should stop and get you one. You could use it to carry your grudge against me.”
“Or I could use the strap to strangle you. Seems like a much better use.”
“So what I’m hearing you say is you want to tie me up?”
My eyes narrow to slits. “Shut up and run.”
Several sweaty minutes later, we arrive at the entrance to the garden.
“This isn’t helpful,” he says of the map.
He’s not wrong. Dotted lines, solid lines, other lines that might be a road, and a handful of location markers are scattered around, and none of it gives any indication about where Paul would be.
I take that back. The small labyrinth of hedges would make for a great backdrop, but it’s positioned at the bottom of a small hill so I can already see he’s not there...which is probably why they didn’t make that the checkpoint.
“There’s a couple of lookout points he could be at.” Court gestures to the lower corner of the map.
“I think that’s too close to the entrance. They wouldn’t make it that easy. What about the event zone?”
Miracle of all miracles, he doesn’t argue. We take the trail that skirts the lake since that seems to be the most direct path, but we never make it to the event zone. We don’t even make it past the lake. Or, more specifically, past the gazebo tucked into a nook beside the lake.
Where Paul is standing.
Talking to Randall and Moe.
My legs (along with my adrenaline rush, my dreams of seeing the world, and my plans for a studio) come screeching to a painful, hopeless, going-home-to-Oak-Island-North-Carolina halt.
Don’t cry.
Do. Not. Cry.
I risk a glance at Court, whose face is oddly void of emotion. It’s reminiscent of the day he broke up with me, adding another punch to my freshly bruised gut.
Neither of us say a word as we continue on our path, which has morphed into a funeral procession for the death of our chance at a million dollars. Maybe I can ask the producers to overlay somber music so viewers get the full experience.
And look—I know the chances of us actually winning were slim, but I never expected to be the first team to be eliminated. Even after I learned Court was my partner, I figured we were physically strong enough to hang on for a few legs at least.
As we approach the gazebo, Moe and Randall shift over to the railing to make room for me and Court.
“Team Hartbreak,” Paul says with a conciliatory smile.
Yep, that’s us.
“I’m sorry to say you are the eleventh team to arrive at the checkpoint.”
I nod, not trusting my voice just yet.
“Court, it seemed like you two struggled with communication today. Was being teammates harder than you expected?”
He sets his jaw to the side and rubs his chin. “You could say that. She certainly didn’t make it easy to work with her.”
My eyes bulge, then narrow, because seriously, what the hell ?
Paul must sense Court’s imminent peril because he turns to me and says, “Hartley, what would you have done differently if you could go back to the starting line?”
I’m not worried about crying anymore. Now I’m just focused on not maiming Court in front of the camera. “I would’ve been the one in the ball pit, for starters.”
“For starters?” Court challenges .
I laser a glare at him. “Your inability to find a football is the reason we got so far behind the pack, so yeah, for starters .”
“What else would you have done?” Paul continues.
“Left him in Dallas, locked him out of the hotel room, and/or duct taped his mouth shut.”
This draws a laugh from Paul and the crew.
The silver lining in this whole mess is that at least I won’t be held to the twenty-foot-radius rule anymore. Eliminated contestants are sent to another destination—usually tropical, from what I’ve gathered online—for the duration of taping to avoid giving any spoilers before the season airs. I can handle nineteen days on Elimination Island if I’m not in a forced proximity situation with the human equivalent of a rain cloud.
“Court, do you have any regrets from your experience?” Paul asks.
“Not auditioning with a friend from college ranks up there.”
I agree with him, not that I’d admit it out loud right now. Or ever.
“Hartley, what do you think it would take for you and Court to learn how to communicate better?”
“A personality transplant couldn’t hurt.”
“She’s right about that one.” Court says, crossing his arms over his chest. “It would’ve been nice to have a teammate who isn’t so”—his eyes move up in thought—“difficult.”
“I’m not difficult . And I was referring to you getting a new personality so I could work with an actual team player instead of a caveman who makes all the decisions.”
Paul brings his palms up in a placating manner, then clasps his hands together. “It sounds like you both have some strong opinions on that. Hopefully you’ll make some progress by the next checkpoint.”
Wait.
What?
I glance at Court and see that his expression mirrors mine: brows bunched into a V, mouth slightly agape, and head canted to the side. I can already picture the memes once this clip airs. ( When you remember song lyrics from high school but not why you walked into the room. When you order Diet Coke and they ask if Diet Pepsi is okay. )
“What do you mean ‘next checkpoint’?” Court asks.
“While it’s true that you and Hartley were the last team to arrive at tonight’s checkpoint, you are the tenth team to actually check in. Moe and Randall took a taxi here instead of traveling by foot and incurred a time penalty. ”
One glimpse of Team Rockville’s matching frowns confirms what Paul is saying, but just in case, I add, “We aren’t eliminated?”
Paul shakes his head, which means . . .
We.
Are.
Still.
In.
The.
Race!
I move to hug Court, then remember it’s Court so I switch to a double high five...but it’s still Court , whose arms are still crossed, and my arms are still moving and now I look like a weirdo who just walked into a spiderweb.
On (what will eventually be) national television.
So there’s that.
But yay! We’re still in the race!
Paul drops me a lifeline in the form of a question, allowing me to corral my hands and focus on something other than the second meme I just created. ( When you’re auditioning to be an octopus. When it’s your first time at a rave. When you watch tai chi on fast forward .)
“Hartley, if Team Hartbreak wins the race, what do you plan to do with five hundred thousand dollars?”
Court unfolds his arms and extends an interrupting finger. “You mean four hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred seventy-two dollars and eighty-eight cents.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“Your prize money. If we come in first place, you’ll get four hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred seventy-two dollars and eighty-eight cents.”
“Why do you keep repeating a random, yet oddly specific number?”
“It’s not a random, oddly specific number. It’s your half of our prize, minus the money you stole from me. I want my twenty-seven dollars and twelve cents back.”