Beautiful Mine

by Jordyn White

  There’s no cocky grin, though. In fact, he’s not smiling one bit and there’s not a trace of arrogance. He has a thoughtful look on his face.

  I’m startled by the sight of him, and have to remind myself that he’s one of them, even though he doesn’t seem like he is. I frown at him before turning my back. I grab my pack and start digging around.

  What was I saying? What am I looking for? My body’s being all female again, and it’s kind of irritating. My heart’s thump, thumping and I can still see his hands and his eyes and that strong, scruffy jawline.

  I’m gripping my backpack and digging past rolled up clothes, my headlamp, my guidebook, but I’m distracted. How long has he been there? What did he hear us saying?

  I shake the mental image of him sitting there looking at me and decide it’s my shower stuff I need. That’s it. I just need to do my normal thing. Take a shower, change into my tan shorts and red shirt so I can wash my one other pair of clothes (the black shorts and green top I’m wearing now), and hope there are spots left on the no-doubt crowded laundry line.

  I don’t need to be thinking about whether or not Navy Shirt is watching me.

  I peek over my shoulder to see if he is.

  But he’s not. I straighten and turn to watch him hitch that smartly-packed backpack over his shoulder and retrieve his walking stick from its place against the wall.

  He faces in our direction but looks directly at me. I curse myself for the little zing my chest gets when our eyes meet. “I’ll take care of it.”

  He’ll take care of it? What the hell does that mean?

  Then just like that, Navy Shirt turns and heads for the door. Maggie and I exchange looks that say, ‘What’s with that guy?’ Then we both watch in silence as he disappears.

  “Nice arse,” Maggie declares.

  “Don’t even,” I say, turning back to the window.

  In the next five minutes, we watch as he approaches the woman in the courtyard. Minutes later, that same woman ends up settling into the bed he once inhabited, tucks her short hair behind her ear, and starts reading a beat-up Camino guidebook.

  Now I don’t know what to think. I’m unsettled, and don’t like it, so I tell myself to forget it and focus on my own business.

  And that blue-eyed man is none of my business.

  But later, after my shower, I’m drawn back to the window. It’s an old window with slightly peeling paint on the wooden frame and a crank at the bottom. I turn the crank a few times and the window angles open slightly, letting in some fresh air and the sounds of the group outside.

  There are seven pilgrims out there now. The three obnoxious guys are in their own circle, talking. Among the other scattered pilgrims, I find Navy Shirt. He’s sitting on a bedroll, one knee up and one arm resting casually on top. He’s talking with one of the old men I saw earlier. As the man talks, Navy Shirt smiles easily.

  God, what a smile.

  I see no trace of anything negative about him. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was an easy-going, friendly guy to look at him now. Not that you can always tell by looking.

  Was he with those guys? His pack is nowhere near theirs. I think back to the conversation I’d overheard earlier and try to determine if he’d actually been participating. I don’t know for sure. Maybe he’d just been passing them by?

  Whatever Navy Shirt and the old man are talking about has amused them both, because they’re both laughing. The sound of it flows through the open window. It’s not the raucous laughter I’d heard from the group of guys before, but the kind of warm, welcoming laughter that makes me want to go outside and see what I’m missing.

  I’m not the only one, either. The two pilgrims nearest them look over, smiles tugging at the corners of their mouths. Before I know it, they’ve been drawn into Navy Shirt’s circle, and an easy camaraderie forms.

  I watch them until Maggie returns from her shower, and go to bed wondering if I’d been mistaken about him. I don’t have a chance to find out, though.

  The next morning, Navy Shirt is gone.

  Chapter 2

  Connor

  I didn’t mean to walk the Camino del Santiago. It sort of happened by accident. But this isn’t the first accidental adventure I’ve gone on, so it’s not like I’m surprised or anything. And is it really accidental when you’ve purposely arranged your life to allow for such things?

  I’d spent a few weeks leisurely boating down the Bay of Biscay and hit San Sebastian, Spain on a Sunday afternoon. It’s a great Basque city with gorgeous beaches and a fun Old Town. The docking fees were reasonable so I decided to drop anchor for a while and see if I could discover what the city was really like.

  You know, underneath that top crust where the tourists dwell. “Tourist traps” some would say, usually with derision, but I’ve found some things trap tourists for good reason.

  Who doesn’t want to see the Roman Colosseum or the Strait of Gibraltar or the Pyramids? I’d be a pompous ass if I tried to pretend not to be awed by the Eiffel Tower, I don’t care how many photo-happy, cheesy-souvenir-buying tourists are there enjoying it with me. Anyway, I’m not ignorant to the fact that not everyone has the luxury to drop anchor—or pick up and go—at will. So I try not to take it for granted.

  Aside from being lured by the tourist trap thing, some places call me to stay for a while. I love to sink deeper into a city, get to know the locals, settle into their rhythm and pace of life. I want to know the scents of their spices and the feel of their cloth. It’s different everywhere, and yet, the same. Despite any cultural differences, underneath we all want the same things: love, safety, a sense of purpose. To be understood.

  Not to wax poetic or anything.

  I’d been in San Sebastian for something like thirty minutes when I came across my first Camino pilgrim. The Northern Route to Santiago goes right through, and a lot of pilgrims actually start in that city. After a few days, in spite of my original plan to stay for a few months, the pull of the Way won out. I decided, what the hell. Why not?

  I refreshed the supplies in my hiking pack, dug out my trusty walking stick Gandolf—yes he has a name, don’t judge me—decided on my end destination (Muxia, on the western coast of Spain), and hired a delivery crew to sail my boat to Muxia’s marina so it’ll be there waiting for me whenever I get there.

  There are several routes to Santiago. The “French Way” is the most common, so named because it starts in far western France. Pilgrims spend their first day hiking up one side of the Pyrenees mountains and down the other, before landing in Spain. The rest of the French Way cuts through northern Spain before landing in Santiago.

  The Northern Way is even further north, right along the coast. It’s more rugged, which is why fewer pilgrims take it, but man, is it gorgeous. By day four, the Northern Way made the list of my top five favorite hikes ever. I was originally going to take it all the way to Santiago, but about two-thirds of the way along, there’s a fork in the road.

  I love forks in the road.

  I fucking live for them.

  I could either continue on the coast as planned or cut south on the even less-traveled segment of the Camino called the Primitive Way. It joins with the French Way just a couple days from Santiago.

  Of course, you know which way I went.

  My favorite part about the Primitive Way was its rugged beauty. That, and this seventy-year-old woman from Poland named Agnes who left her home town for the first time in her entire life just to walk the Way. She’d taken the Northern route to the Primitive Way just like I did, but we didn’t meet up until the town of La Mesa. I’d been on the Way several weeks by then, but I’d stopped in several towns for a few days to hang with the locals and explore a bit. So even though she started the path long after I did, our paths still crossed eventually.

  Though this is unusual for Camino pilgrims, we walked two entire days together. In a small family bar, we shared a delicious mussel soup on an open-air patio as the rain pounded the clay-tiled roof and
the darkened street. On the stretch of muddy trail just outside of town, we petted the wiry coat of a young boy’s goat while Agnes told stories of growing up on her grandfather’s sheep farm. Twice, we made a point to find accommodations at the same alburgues before finally saying goodbye.

  Some people just touch you, and there’s no point wondering why.

  Countless people come in and out of my life, like sunrises and sunsets, but there are those few who grab me in a different way. Those are the people I stay in touch with from time to time, and she’ll be one of them. It’s like we were meant to know each other.

  It’s funny how fate works, isn’t it?

  The Primitive Way joined up with the French Way in Melide, and I spent about a day walking it before staying the night at a hostel in Arca. Well, if you consider sleeping in the courtyard staying there. And if you call tossing and turning since two in the morning sleeping.

  It wasn’t because I was outside. I actually love sleeping outside. I just get this terrible insomnia from time to time, I don’t know why. Sometimes I’m able to get back to sleep, and other times I flat give up. That’s when I’m up before the sun, on the move. It turns out it was a good thing I wasn’t inside anyway, where I just would’ve been keeping people awake.

  I think back to what led me to give up my bed in the first place. I’d barely sat down when I overheard those two women talking about the poor girl stuck outside. I didn’t know the red-headed woman (Irish, no doubt), but I recognized the other one from earlier in the day.

  Hers is not the kind of face you forget. Smooth skin even without makeup, full lips, and intelligent, soft brown eyes. Even when she gave the stink eye to me and those guys from Utah, she’d been strikingly beautiful.

  My hand still remembers the feel of her arm under my palm. My chest still remembers the way my heart stuttered when our eyes met. My ears still remember the dull roar of the soft wind as I took in the gentle lines of her face.

  It wasn’t just her beauty that grabbed me. I had to admire her strength of character. Even wrestling around with that oversized backpack of hers wasn’t enough to make her back down in the face of something she knew was wrong. I couldn’t help but smile at her courage.

  But her conversation with the Irish woman concerned me. Even though I didn’t think those guys would do anything—they’re just a bunch of puffed up blowhards, from what I could tell—no way was I going to let a woman sleep outside alone like that when I had a bed to offer. So that’s what I did.

  And why not approach the woman with the beautiful scowl, if I found her so appealing? Which I did. As I’ve walked the first few miles of my daily Camino in the dark, watching the sunrise over the hills, I’ve pondered the answer to this question.

  I guess it was because she was too interesting. Too appealing. If she’d been the kind of girl who’s up for a fling, that’d be one thing. But she’s the kind of girl you want to get to know better. The kind of girl who isn’t the fling type. I could see that right away.

  I’m not good for girls like that. I’ve learned that by now. And I’m not up for leading anyone along.

  That’s why I let her blend into the sea of people who go out of my life as quickly as they come into it.

  It’s better for everyone that way.

  Chapter 3

  Whitney

  As I approach yet another little Spanish village, the dirt path crunching under my hiking boots, I can’t believe that sometime this afternoon, I’ll be at the Santiago de Compostela cathedral, the place where all paths meet. I’ve been walking toward this goal for 192 miles. I only have six more miles to Santiago!

  Six miles!

  I’m excited to get there at last, nervous about what it will really be like, curious about whether or not it will live up to my expectations, and sad that my journey is almost at an end.

  It helps that it’s not really the end anymore.

  I didn’t know how many miles I’d be able to walk each day, so I went with the low end of the average range I’d read about on the blogs. Turns out, I’m more in the middle.

  Once I realized I was going to arrive in Santiago earlier than anticipated, I decided to continue on, as a small number of pilgrims do, to the town of Finisterre. It’s another three days’ walk, is right on the coast, and is what medieval Europeans thought was the end of the earth. Finisterre means end of the land.

  And I really want to see it.

  Once I’m in town, the dirt path morphs into smooth cobblestone and I soon spot a group of pilgrims having lunch on a café patio. It’s just simple tables and plastic chairs, but there’s shade from an awning and food and the welcoming presence of other pilgrims. Maggie is among them. She spots me and waves me over. We walked together for about forty minutes or so this morning before saying goodbye.

  As I pull out the empty chair opposite her, I notice her plate is nothing but bread crumbs now and her wine glass is almost empty. She’s clearly been here awhile.

  There are three other people around the table, plus someone who must have stepped away for a moment, because in front of the empty chair next to me is a plate with half a bowl of soup and a full sandwich.

  “Everyone, this is Whitney,” Maggie says, by way of introduction. I gratefully unload my pack on the ground, but don’t sit down yet so I can shake hands with people as she goes around the table, telling me their names one by one.

  After I shake hands with a young French couple, Maggie gestures next to me and says, “And Connor.” In my peripheral vision, I see someone come up next to me, presumably to reclaim his chair and his lunch.

  I extend my hand automatically, at the same time turning to see who it is. Blue eyes. Scruffy jaw.

  Holy crap, it’s Navy Shirt. Except he’s in a green shirt now and tan shorts.

  His eyebrows raise just slightly at the sight of me, but he offers a friendly smile and takes my hand. My heart stops for half a second. My skin tingles where we touch.

  I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been taken by surprise or if it’s because my hand is inside his, and those blue eyes are only maybe a foot away from me, and he’s tall, and the green shirt he has on now hugs those broad-shoulders just right, and—

  Whoa, girl. Keep your head on.

  I try to take my hand away, but he holds on. A slight breeze pushes through, making my ponytail brush the back of my neck.

  “And you are?” he asks, still with that smile. His hand is so warm.

  “Whitney.”

  Still smiling, he gives my hand a little squeeze before saying, “Whitney,” and finally letting me go.

  As we take our seats, I give myself a firm talking to. He’s beyond gorgeous and I’m reacting to it, no question. But that’s just biology and I need to use my head. I don’t know him and, if he was participating in the conversation I heard on the road yesterday, I don’t want to.

  Not that it matters. It’s not like we’re on a date or something. I don’t have to know him or like him. He’s just one more person I’ll meet here, then never again. Course... this is the third time I’ve seen him in two days.

  Our orbits get nearer and nearer to one another each time, too. We’re sitting so close, we’re practically rubbing shoulders.

  The man next to Maggie—I already forget his name, but he has a sunburnt bald head—asks me where I’m from. “California,” I answer, grateful for a distraction from sexy hands and shoulders.

  “Ah, another American.” He indicates Connor, but I dare not look at him again so soon. I’m still recovering from the last time. “He’s from California, too.”

  I can’t help but turn to Connor in surprise. He could live hundreds of miles away in the southern corner of the state, for all I know, but being this far from home, anywhere in California is practically my own backyard. “Really?”

  “Used to be,” he says. “I’m not from anywhere anymore, but my family still lives in central California. What part are you in?”

  “San Francisco.” I’m about to ask what
he means by not being from anywhere anymore, but the waitress comes outside to take my order. I get the typical pilgrim’s meal—a Bocadillo and wine—and by the time I’ve ordered, the conversation around the table has gone on.

  Everything I’d read about the fluid social aspect of the Camino was pretty accurate. As you run into people, you might have a light-hearted chat for a few minutes, or end up in a surprisingly deep conversation with someone you’ll likely never see again.

  Unless you’ve seen him three times already. I glance at Connor, who’s chewing a bite of sandwich. He glances at me too. Man, those blue eyes.

  I look to Maggie. She’s leaning back in her chair, listening to the conversation at the table. Everyone’s currently comparing notes about where they started on the Camino, one of the favorite topics among pilgrims. (Others are places of origin, why we’re walking the Way, and how many blisters we have.)

  The couple at the table tell us they started at the beginning of the French Way in St. Jean Pied de Port. Turns out, they live there and after years of seeing pilgrims come into their city, they finally decided to do the Camino themselves.

  As they share their story (the man has a thick French accent, but the woman speaks English almost like a native), I’m suddenly self-conscious that I have no makeup on. I don’t wear much makeup to start with and am usually comfortable enough without it that I’ll just throw on lip gloss some days and be done with it, but right now I’m wishing I looked a little more put together. Not to mention the fact that we pilgrims tend to smell like we’ve just come from the gym. Course, it smells good on him. Not that I’m paying attention to that.

  The woman finishes her story and asks Maggie where she started the Camino.

  “Burgos,” Maggie says. “If I didn’t have to split my time off with my family’s vacation, I could’ve walked the whole thing.” I’ve heard this story once before, so I know how frustrated she was about the situation. Even if I didn’t already know, her tone says it all. “My family spends a week in Cork every summer and there’s no gettin out’a that one.”