Chapter 5
Five
Sierra
Chaos Burger lives up to its name; the place is a cacophony of yelling servers and tourists trying to communicate over the heavy bass EDM blasting through the speakers. Jackson Pollock–style neon art splatters up toward the tall ceiling—if you can call open ductwork a “ceiling.”
It’s impossible not to feel off-kilter. I have no idea where the fuck I am.
Tourists didn’t come to Sagebrush. There was nothing to come to.
The kindest description of Sagebrush I’ve ever received—before I wised up and stopped telling people where I originate from—is that it’s a dusty, dying, near-ghost town, where meth addicts, hippies too impoverished to make it in Sedona, rugged ranchers, and stubborn miner descendants squat in what can loosely be called livable conditions.
It isn’t true. Well, not entirely true—that does roughly describe the majority of our constituents.
And most people could barely afford their groceries, much less anything else.
But there are good people here, the kind who share what they have, even if they have very little.
I used to tell Logan all the time: it isn’t the people, it’s the circumstances.
If someone somehow could inject some hope and cash into this hardy place, it could come back and thrive.
Someone must have done that.
At any rate, right in front of me is this seemingly successful restaurant that looks like it belongs in downtown Scottsdale or Tempe, swarming with out-of-towners.
I naively assumed, since Logan said it’s for tourists, that it was outside of Sagebrush.
Nope. This place is practically down the street from their house.
“Let’s grab a table outside,” Logan says, gesturing toward the large deck.
A deck! Sagebrush has a restaurant with a deck! Although I rarely imagined I’d return here, I certainly never dreamed up anything as luxurious as a restaurant with a deck.
Logan places a hand on my back, the only way to get my attention in this loud environment.
I’m pulled out of my thoughts by his gentle touch as he steers me gently through the restaurant.
The contact is no less unexpected than earlier in the hallway, and yet, like before, I can’t bring myself to extract myself from it.
There’s a reason everyone is inside and not outside.
While the days in March are already warm enough for t-shirts and shorts, nights in the Arizona desert grow cold.
One minute I’m suppressing a shiver, the next a heavy, warm jacket drops over my shoulders.
I turn my head and poke my nose against the collar of Logan’s jacket.
It smells just like he always used to smell—some sea-salt-scented shampoo and warm male. It’s strangely comforting.
“Thanks, Logan,” I say cautiously. “But I—”
Seth is frowning. “Why don’t you go put in the order, bro?”
“I thought this was supposed to be your treat?” Logan says.
They’re doing that irritating twin thing they used to do all the time when we were kids, where they communicate without words.
A short struggle passes between them before Seth sighs and says, “Fine. I’ll put in the order. PB and J burgers and beer good for everyone?” He doesn’t wait for confirmation before disappearing.
“This table looks good,” Logan says, and pulls back a chair for me to sit.
I perch on it then turn to study him, feeling confused. This is weird. Like we’re on a date. He looks outrageously handsome in his black button-down and fitted jeans. Does he always dress like this, or just for dinner? I refuse to entertain the thought that he may have dressed up for me.
God, and he looks great without clothes too. A perfect body, with strong, powerful shoulders, amazing arms. A fucking six-pack. Karma is cruel.
It occurs to me that, although we “dated” as two poor teenagers in a small town, I can’t remember ever going on a date with him.
We didn’t even go to junior prom together, since I couldn’t afford a dress and Logan hated to dance.
Instead, we stole some of his dad’s beer and condoms and broke into the long-abandoned shoe store off 1st Street to mess around.
I swiped a pair of left-behind pantyhose stockings as we left to commemorate the experience.
Not that this is a date. I have to remember that he—begrudgingly, reasonably—doesn’t even want to be seen with me.
He made that very clear when outlining the pros of eating here—no locals, no one who might recognize me.
Asshole. As hypocritical as it is, it’s one thing for me to feel ashamed, but it’s another for him to feel that way about being seen with me.
Why help me at all if I disgust him that much? I don’t need his pity.
That stiffens my spine and my resolve. I’m not here for Logan; I’m here because I’m stranded.
I’m not giving back the jacket though. It’s too cold for that level of pride.
“Did you ever imagine us sitting at a place like this in Sagebrush?” Logan asks.
“No.”
“It’s crazy how much has changed.”
“Yes.” I immediately waver at the shame of my rude, short answers. It’s one thing to say in my mind that I’ll ignore him but… Yes, he insulted me, but he’s letting me stay at his house for free. Maybe I should offer to pay?
I can’t afford that. Stuck in Sagebrush with an overheated van that I can’t afford to fix…it already teeters too close to disaster. Homelessness would push this into catastrophe territory.
“You’re not even curious about how this came about?”
Pride is a luxury of the wealthy. I sigh. “Yes, I’m curious,” I say begrudgingly.
He smiles at my yielding.
Seth reappears and drops pints of beer onto the table before dropping himself into a chair.
“Seth with beer! The hero we need returns.” I take a large sip of my lager.
Seth smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re the returning hero,” he says, and it sounds just mocking enough that I stiffen. I can tell, despite his manners, that he is not happy to see me.
“More like the prodigal son?” Logan says.
“Naw, poor metaphor,” I protest. “I’m not returning for good.” I make sure to make eye contact with Seth as I say this, and his expression relaxes slightly.
“But Seth already put in an order for the fatted calf,” Logan jokes.
“True,” I allow, smiling. “I’ll be a prodigal son for a burger.”
“So tell us where you’ve been,” Seth says.
“A bit of everywhere,” I hedge.
“But where do you live now?”
“I basically live wherever I want,” I say. “I’m a dirtbag.”
I laugh a little at their expressions. Both seem to want to protest the negative-sounding word on my behalf.
“It’s a title I hold with pride,” I explain. “It’s like being a beach bum, but for rock climbers. I live out of my van, Clunker, and travel around to climbing destinations. Chasing the waves, if the waves were walls.”
“How long have you been doing that?” Logan asks.
“I bought Clunker a year ago. Scraped together each and every penny,” I say with pride. “I was in Tucson for a few years, working as a receptionist and taking extra shifts at the local pizza parlor while enduring two grungy roommates in a musty apartment. It was tough, with long hours.”
I smile, feeling nostalgia despite myself.
“All I can remember is an alternating soundtrack of Dean Martin crooning ‘That’s Amore’ and the thundering police helicopters that circled our neighborhood nightly.
It was such a relief when I finally shook the Tucson dust off my shoes to pursue the dirtbag rock-climber lifestyle.
I sat in silence for a week to detox from the Rat-Pack-and-rotorcraft medley. ”
“And you’ve just been rock climbing ever since?” Logan asks as a waiter brings out our burgers.
“I spent my first months down south at the Cochise Stronghold and then Mount Lemmon. A fair number of climbers congregate there to tackle the routes, so I could partner up on climbs.” I shrug. “I don’t really have a planned course.”
“That’s sick,” says Seth, looking grudgingly impressed. “I can’t believe you’re a rock climber!”
“I can,” Logan says. “Remember when we were kids, sneaking into the old saloon ruins? You were the only girl who could climb up and through that gap above the door without help.”
I laugh, and it takes me by surprise. I didn’t think I’d laugh at any memories associated with Sagebrush.
“That place was tough,” I say fondly. “Remember when you got stuck, Seth? Logan was tugging on your arms, I was pushing on your butt, and then—pop! You flew out like a champagne cork. Dust everywhere. We laughed so hard I thought we might collapse the rest of the roof.”
Seth slaps the table with his hands. “Yes! Damn, it’s a wonder the roof didn’t crush us to smithereens.”
“Ooh, I wonder if I could still fit,” I say. “Or if it’s as tough as I remember.”
“It’s since collapsed,” Logan explains. “Some archaeologists from the U of A are actually there right now excavating it.”
“Oh.” I don’t understand. There are so many changes in a place that felt so helplessly stuck in time while I lived here.
I look up to see Logan watching my face carefully. “I bet we could find you some other good places to climb around here. Ones with fewer legal ramifications if we’re caught. Or if it’s the trip down memory lane you’re after, we could—”
“Oh, no. I don’t need to see any of our old haunts. I just…had a moment of nostalgia. A temporary moment of insanity.”
“Why would that be insane, to see any of the old places?” Seth asks. “Too good for you?”
I press my lips together. “Funny.”
Logan’s eyes meet mine. Instead of the judgment or embarrassment I expect to see, his expression is merely blank.
I take a large bite of my burger to hide my confusion. “Um, so,” I say once I swallow. “I can’t believe both of you still live here. What do you do?”