Chapter 30
Stevie
Today’s the day. After the talk I had with Adam last night, it has to be. I’m ready for things to be out in the open with my secret boyfriend, but I’d love to not have to lose a bet to do it.
Luckily, I have another tour scheduled with Crispin, and Adam’s sister surprised him by showing up in town this morning. This is good. When Adam comes with me we’re too busy canoodling to take anything seriously. I’m focused now. I’m going to get the proof I need today.
Of course, it rained all morning. I was worried Crispin would cancel on me. Besides the terrible weather, he knows I don’t have anything new to show him. I’m not about to turn down a gig, though, and he confirmed he’s meeting me at the diner. He should be here by now, and the rain is dying down.
I tap my toes under the table while I wait, finishing off my bacon cheeseburger and chugging my Diet Coke.
I was famished after a full day of worrying about how I’m going to own up about Adam to the whole town, plus a few thousand listeners.
The extended goodbye in Adam’s truck last night also burned some calories.
I slurp the dregs of my Coke, smiling stupidly around my straw. This isn’t the worst pickle I’ve been in, but it’s up there.
“Did you eat without me?” a male voice asks from behind.
When I turn toward the familiar voice, Crispin appears across the booth dressed for a hiking-themed photo shoot.
“What?” I shake my ice to release the last of my soda, pulling the straw back to my mouth.
“You ate without me.” Crispin frowns.
“Um . . .” I look at my empty tray in confusion.
When he said we’d grab a bite before his tour, I didn’t think he’d care if I ate when my food came out.
He’s also fifteen minutes late. “I have a few fries left. You’re welcome to them,” I offer, gesturing to the overbrowned fry stumps that didn’t make the cut.
Crispin’s appalled expression only adds to my confusion. “I can wait while you order.”
“I’m good.” His voice has an edge that wasn’t there before. “Are you done?”
I don’t know what he’s bothered by, but if he’s not going to talk about it, it’s not my problem. “Yup,” I say with a wag of my eyebrows. I give my straw one last loud slurp, swallowing with a soft but pronounced “Ah . . .” while looking at Crispin squarely in the eyes.
“Sexy,” he deadpans. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yeah.” I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic, but again: not my problem. “Are Brad and Werner coming?” I ask, standing to clear my table for Brady. I know how it gets on Saturday mornings, and he’s covering for me today. It’s the least I can do.
“They headed back to Portland.” Crispin follows me to the door. “I figured you’d know it’s just us this time.”
Why would he figure that? A tiny red flag unfurls and flaps in the back of my mind. “Uh. Okay. Want to follow me up there?”
He should’ve met me there, come to think of it. He set the meeting location, though. I didn’t think twice about it because I thought he’d bring friends, and I wanted to grab dinner on the way out. I need to stop letting my stomach do my thinking for me.
He holds open the door for me with a wide smile. “Should we ride together? No point in increasing our carbon footprint, right?”
He has a point, but I feel squirmy. “It’s a short drive. I’ll meet you up there.”
“Are you sure? The roads are going to be muddy, and you’re driving a sedan, aren’t you?” He gestures to his shiny truck. “I’ve got four-wheel drive and good air conditioning. Come on, Stevie. We can talk Bigfoot the whole way there.” He sweetens the deal with a grin.
I’m glad his sour mood seems to be gone, and he’s speaking my language now.
Besides, it’s a short drive, and it’s not like Crispin is a serial killer.
He’s a physician. He has two cats. Doctors with two cats don’t murder women in the woods.
The worst Crispin will do is make me feel bad about my outfit.
I size him up in my peripheral vision. He’s tall, but he’s wiry. I could hold my own if he decides to get frisky. And why is my mind even going there?
All of Adam’s warnings about going into the woods alone have gotten in my head.
I blame him for my weirdness—this time, anyway.
My heart flutters at the memory of our train ride last night.
I really need to find my evidence today.
I’m ready to stop hiding, but I’d love to win this bet before I do.
I’m more antsy than ever to get into the woods.
“Okay.” I slide my phone out of my backpack. “I’m gonna give Marlow a heads-up that I’m leaving my car here so she doesn’t worry.” And so you know that my friends know where I am.
I tap out a quick text to Marlow, and another one to Adam, while Crispin opens the passenger door for me.
His cab isn’t meticulously clean. Two empty shaker bottles fill the cup holders, and a wrapper from a protein bar is shoved between them.
That’s not serial killer behavior. I’m going to be fine.
As promised, Crispin talked about Bigfoot for the whole drive. Besides an awkward moment where he didn’t let go of my hand right away after he helped me down from his truck, we’re doing fine.
We hiked past the same area where I had my first sighting three weeks ago into a part of the preserve that is less familiar.
It’s rougher here. The trail is messy and washed out in some places, but it’s easy enough to work around.
More storm clouds have blown in. I don’t think they’ll give us any trouble.
The air is unseasonably chilly, but more rain wasn’t in the forecast. The only real problem we have is that Crispin won’t stop yapping.
The guy loves to talk about himself—his thriving medical practice, the women he’s dated, his truck, his likes and dislikes—at maximum volume.
If there ever was anything to see in these woods, he scared it away with his braggadocio.
I don’t know why he’s paying me for this so-called tour.
The way this man wastes his money isn’t my problem.
I’m just looking for a sasquatch’s size-thirty footprints in the mud. So far I’ve seen nothing.
Okay, there’s one other problem. Tiny. No big deal.
I don’t know where we are, and I haven’t known for about ten minutes.
We’re not on a trail anymore—not a clearly marked one, anyway.
Everything is muddy and washed out back here.
We’ve hiked maybe three miles total, but even that’s a guess.
The sun usually provides a hint as to my direction of travel, but it’s hidden behind dark gray clouds.
It’s not a huge issue. I have a hiking app on my phone for rare times like these.
I can’t remember the last time I used it, and I don’t want to admit to needing it. It’s a pride issue.
But it’s time to eat some humble pie. Sliding my phone out of my back pocket, I swipe until I find the dusty, unused app and click it open. Naturally, it needs to be updated.
Again, no big deal. I push the button to update the app, but I’m met with the endless spinning circle of buffering doom.
“Ugh,” I groan, holding my phone up to the cloudy sky. Never in the history of the world has this method solved coverage issues, but I’m desperate. The sky is getting dim and thunder is rumbling in the distance.
No sweat.
This is fine.
“What’s wrong?” Crispin comes to stand behind me, crowding my space and smelling nothing like cedarwood. Before I can respond he asks, “Is that a trail map? Are you lost?”
“Yeah.”
I hate this.
I don’t want to admit that I’m lost, especially to this guy.
Rain is pattering in the leaves overhead, though, and I’m out of time.
My mind is already in survival mode: I have two apples and a water bottle in my backpack.
My phone battery is at thirty-four percent.
It wouldn’t be a fun night, but we’re not ending up on a missing-persons documentary after this.
We’ll be fine. I wave my arm over my head, begging for one miraculous bar to appear and save us from an uncomfortable campout.
I’ve never had this kind of difficulty out here.
With a huff, Crispin pulls out his phone. Of course he has a hiking app. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it. Relief flows through me—until he holds his phone up to the sky, too.
The rain is steady now, dripping through the leaves and into my hair. Crispin pulls out a fluorescent orange emergency poncho, shaking it out and sliding it over himself.
“You don’t have another one of those, do you?” I ask with a laugh.
“Uh . . .” He grimaces.
“I’m kidding.” I don’t mind getting my hair wet, unlike some people.
Crispin resumes waving his phone in the air, aggressively now. “I thought you knew your way around these woods?” he mutters.
“I do.” I stomp a dozen feet ahead in the trees, looking for signs of a trail. “But we’ve had a lot of rain this year. Nothing looks the same.”
He grumbles something I can’t make out now that the rain is pelting the trees overhead.
“We need to move the direction we came from.” It’s the only thing that makes sense. I might be slightly lost, but my sense of direction isn’t totally broken. Surely I’ll recognize the path we’ve just taken.
Crispin passes me, moving ahead on the trail and muttering again. I miss most of it, but I catch the end. He says something about my inability to find a boyfriend.
“Excuse me?” I stomp after him, my boots huge and heavy with a thick layer of mud. I feel like a Clydesdale.
“Nothing.” He marches through the sloppy trail, glaring at the trees.
I’m so done with this guy. I don’t care how much he’s paying for this; it’s not worth it.
As soon as we have cell coverage, I’m finding another ride home.
For now, I’m looking for something that resembles the path we came from.
Unfortunately, the rain is pooling on the ground, running in cold rivulets and erasing all evidence of the trail that brought us here.
Where are we? Nothing looks right. I turn in place, scanning the dripping trees for something familiar.
Then there’s a flash of light and an immediate rumble of thunder. Crispin's high-pitched yelp makes me gasp. The rain is dumping through the trees in sheets now.
“Geez.” I suck in a deep breath, trying to calm my frenzied heart. “It’s just thunder.”
“Right on top of us,” he hollers.
Oh, brother. This isn’t a date, but if it was, I’d add being afraid of thunder to Crispin’s list. There’s no time for that, though, because the path isn’t just running with water now. It’s washing away. Mud and rocks erode in front of my eyes, and I scramble backward before it takes me with it.
The closest thing we have to a walking path is washing downhill.
We’ll have to hike the wrong direction. I assume it’s the wrong direction, anyway—I don’t know where we are.
I’m not going to swear—I want to, but I’m not going to.
Crispin does, though, and I add “swears when he’s scared” to his list.