Chapter 8 Sadie #2
I got broken up with for being too high-maintenance! a voice shrieks through my head, so loud I fear I’ve actually bared my soul to this entire campsite full of strangers. I signed up out of spite to prove something to my ex, but he flaked, and now I’m here on this miserable adventure alone!
“All of this is new to me,” I tell him instead, something vulnerable and honest that doesn’t feel like too much.
Caden always closed up whenever I started sharing the depths of my feelings, said I should save that stuff for my conversations with Abby.
“Obviously. But that was my goal, I guess—to put myself in a situation where I can only prepare so much for whatever’s going to happen.
” And then, because even that much feels a little too raw for the moment, I twist it into a joke: “I packed my whole house for this trip, though, so I think we’ll be good if an apocalypse hits while we’re out here. ”
He laughs, throaty and deep. “Yes, I can see how a sleep mask and a satin pillowcase would come in handy for that,” he quips.
“Being well rested during an apocalypse does sound optimal,” I reply, and now we’re both laughing.
“And the coffee?”
“That’s for being alert during the apocalypse.”
“And your lip gloss?”
“If our apocalyptic oppressors are easily distracted by the idea of kissing shiny lips that taste like vanilla, well—that could also be useful.”
His gaze flicks down to my lips, just for a split second, then back up to my eyes. Instinctively, I look down at his lips, too. They look soft: it’s a very good thing I’m not a distractible apocalyptic oppressor, honestly.
“I’m guessing you could justify every single thing you brought,” he says, grinning.
“And every single thing my best friend made me leave at home.”
“You do know an apocalypse is unlikely, yes?”
“We’re out in the woods for almost two weeks,” I say, only a little overdramatic. “No electricity. No refrigeration. No reliable internet signal. No mattresses or plush duvets. It’s basically the same thing.”
He shakes his head, then finally finishes the last of his s’more in one huge bite. I finish mine, too, the marshmallow now pleasantly warm instead of blisteringly hot.
“Let me ask you this,” Thorn says after a moment. “Did you happen to bring a journal with you?”
“It was either a journal or Eat Pray Love,” I can’t help but admit. “I’ll let you guess which one I chose.”
He cracks the widest, brightest smile. “I knew it! You actually brought it with you?”
“No comment,” I say, but of course I don’t have to confirm it. “Why do you ask about the journal?”
“I recommend it every now and then when someone’s brand-new at this—you’d be surprised to go back and read how your thoughts change from the first day to the last. People like you tend to get a lot out of it.”
“People like me,” I repeat. “People who aren’t quite at rock bottom but need an emotional cleanse?”
If I say it first, it won’t sting as much as it would to hear it from him.
But he just furrows his brows, gaze unfocused and fixed on the fire—until he turns and looks me straight in the eye.
“People like you,” he says again. “Brave people who try something new, all alone, even though they know it will make them uncomfortable. People like me are used to this, but you—it’s still new for you.
You should write down what you notice, the good and the bad and the beautiful, and the things that scare you, and the things you miss from home.
If you do it first thing in the morning and right before bed every night, I think you’d be surprised to read back over it after the trip ends. ”
I expected a lot of things out of this trip, but “wilderness guide who is in touch with his emotions and recommends daily journaling so I can process mine” was not on my radar—especially since my first impression after we got out on the trail was that he had a stick up his ass.
I have to say, I’m pleasantly surprised.
“That sounds great and all,” I reply. “But perhaps you missed the part where I said I left my journal at home.”
His eyes flash in the glow of the campfire. “Good thing I packed an extra for myself, then.”
Before I know it, he’s disappeared into his tent. When he comes out again, he’s holding a slim cahier notebook.
“You keep a journal?” I ask, though perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised.
“Every day for the last nine years,” he says. “Some entries are long, others are just a single line.”
“You must have shelves full of them by now.”
“More like a box under the bed,” he says. “And I burned a couple of them one time. On purpose,” he adds when he sees the look on my face. “Some things you want to remember. And some things…you don’t.”
His words hang between us. He looks up to the night sky, at the impossibly gorgeous display of stars.
“Anyway,” he says after the silence starts to stretch on too long, “if you need a writing prompt, you can start with ‘Why I Should Have Invested in Hiking Boots.’ ”
I laugh and give him a light swat on the arm.
“Thank you,” I reply, taking the journal and a blue ballpoint pen I didn’t notice upon first glance. “I’ll start it tonight.”
He’s quiet again, and only now do I realize we’re the only ones still outside of our tents.
“Well,” Thorn says suddenly, sounding more like his serious hiking guide persona and less like the guy who got momentarily distracted by my shiny vanilla lip gloss earlier, “I’d better let you get started, then. We’ve got another long day tomorrow and you’ll want to get some good sleep.”
The thought of hiking all day tomorrow is too much right now—everything is still aching from today from my head to my toes. My Advil barely made a dent.
“And Sadie?” he says just as I’m about to climb into my tent.
I look up. “Yeah?”
“Enjoy your sleep mask.” He smirks like a guy who’s never even considered using a sleep mask, let alone tried one.
“Oh, I plan to,” I play along. “You’re going to wish you had one at the crack of dawn.”
He lets me have the last word, then heads over to the campfire, which has dwindled considerably since Matteo last fed it.
“You’re not going to bed?” I ask.
“Just putting out the fire so it won’t go unattended all night,” he says.
“Need any help?”
He shakes his head. “Done it a million times. Thanks, though.”
Inside my tent, I fumble around until I find the small touch lamp in the corner. Light blooms under my fingertips, bright enough to see the entirety of my tiny space and everything in it. I sit cross-legged with the highest part of the tent directly over my head, and open up my brand-new journal.
To my surprise, it’s already been written in.
At first I think Thorn’s made a mistake and given me his journal—his own personal one with his own personal thoughts—but I’m too curious to look away, and as it turns out, my name is the first word.
Sadie, he’s written in a neat italic slant, You can do this. —Thorn