I became aware of my legs peeking out from underneath my sweatshirt. His eyes were following my thoughts. I’d had sex with only one guy in high school, but my mind soon drifted from Hatteras Island to what it would feel like if this one grabbed me in his arms and flung me onto the bed. It didn’t even matter that I hadn’t brushed my teeth or hair. The way he was appraising me told me he liked what he saw. But Ryan Holden looked at all the girls like that. He couldn’t help it. Sweetness spurted from his eyes, the need to elicit a reaction from anyone. He did it with small children, old ladies, and most every girl at Davidson. And they ate right out of his hands.
This cannot be the jerk Lauren complains about weekly, I considered.
“Is she here?” he asked.
“It’s just me,” I replied. And that’s when my eyes fixed on the bouquet of tulips he had tucked behind his back. They were orange, her favorite color. It plunged me back into the reality of what had always been my fate. Ryan Holden was not there for me. The kisses his eyes were sprinkling on my cheeks were meant for someone else. The flowers were a stab to the stomach, a dagger dissolving a fantasy into thin, shivery air.
I was angry, and I was horrified by my anger.
I fell in love with Ryan about the same time Lauren did, living through their courtship and “firsts” as if they were happening to me. And just because they hadn’t happened to me, that didn’t make me immune to the throes of first love or lessen the brilliance of the spark. I was happy for Lauren, and the closer she grew to Ryan, the closer he grew to me. Though I was the self-described third wheel, neither of them ever linked me to the gracelessness associated with that role. Ryan always made an extra effort to include me and make me feel welcome, whereas another guy would have resisted sharing that time with anyone but his girl.
Years later, on the day Ryan accepted the job to coach the Pine Ridge Giants, a community meet-and-greet was held, and I was asked to step up to the podium with my husband. One of the journalists who wrote for a local parenting magazine was gushing at the idea that Ryan was returning to his high school roots, and her questions were steeped in similar flattery. But when she asked, “How do you juggle the team and home life? Would you call these kids your own?” I was reminded that I was in another threesome, though this time it wasn’t Lauren, but me and the game Ryan loved most.
We always knew that Lauren and Ryan would get married. Until they didn’t.
Plenty of couples can say they shared a serious relationship in those formative years while figuring it all out, but none had the roots that locked together and sprouted like Lauren and Ryan had. Love came easily to them. It began with quiet reassurances and grew into bold gestures that flamed like fire. Their affection was as crisp as the sunrise; their laughter, leaves falling wildly from a tree. It was more than their finishing one another’s sentences and the gallant way that, throughout their relationship, he continued to compliment her and hold doors open for her. It was how, when we were all seated together in the taproom at Brickhouse Tavern, Ryan would drape his arm around Lauren’s shoulder. His fingers would stroke her hair, reminding her he was close by, telling her in this gentle movement that she was his. She would press into him, their bodies fitting perfectly together, and she’d wipe the leftover food off his lips. It was how his eyes guided her through a crowded room. We girls would venture out of the bathroom, and his fixed stare would hone in on her, across a throng of drunken bodies, a knowingness that led her in his direction, because she usually couldn’t see him with her nearsightedness. This bond ran deep and surpassed explanation.
Ask anyone in our close-knit group of friends about what defined Lauren and Ryan’s relationship, and they’d say Profile. Grandfather Mountain’s Profile trail was the toughest hike in the area. A group of about eight of us set forth on a long weekend en route to the 5,964-foot summit of Calloway Peak. It was nearing April, and Lauren and Ryan had just announced their love to the world, stepping out among their peers into their newfound couplehood. The drive from Charlotte to highway 105 in Boone was uneventful and spotted with conversations about declaring majors and the Final Four. The sky was a sharp blue, showing no sign of clouds. The temperature was unseasonably warm at fifty degrees, though anyone familiar with the Blue Ridge Mountains knows how quickly the weather can take a turn.
The seven-mile trail begins in a mid-elevation forest, growing steeper, with spectacular views and bluffs. Eventually you find yourself in front of Grandfather himself, the outline of an old man’s face carved atop the peak. When parts of the climb were deemed a challenge to even the most seasoned hikers, the park installed large ladders to navigate the steep rocks. But those didn’t help Lauren on that afternoon.
The most adventurous of our peers, Lauren was one of those girls who seemed to have emerged from the soil of the earth. Introspective and fearless, she was at her happiest and liveliest when she was in nature and away from the city lights, which burned her eyes. She unknowingly took risks because her poor vision and lack of depth perception made her miss what was right in front of her. Despite vision therapy, glasses, and contacts, she at times had difficulty sensing the distance of an object, especially when she was tired. But her handicap never slowed her down. She was the one who would run ahead on a hike, she was the one to hoist herself up a mountain effortlessly, and she was the one to take chances that none of the rest of us would dare.
Ryan begged her not to venture far ahead. He warned us all, but mostly her, of the chances of her eyes and feet failing her on the rough terrain. We all knew that if something happened to Lauren, Ryan would be lost. I remember Lauren talking about it at night when we were lying in bed, how tightly Ryan would hold her fingers in his. Sometimes they’d leave marks, as if he were branding her to his palm, permanently etching her into the folds of his skin so she would never escape. I used to marvel at the idea and blush inside, imagining someone feeling that way about me. Ryan’s attachment never seemed to bother Lauren. She loved the way he loved.
By the time we hit the giant ladders toward the end of the hike, we had also hit the steepest climb, with the roughest, most ragged terrain. The rocks were covered in slippery moss, and the showers that abruptly fell from the sky coated the ground with slick varnish that most of our hiking shoes could easily tread. As soon as the wave of moist air passed through, a rainbow stretched itself over the peaks of nearby Sugar Mountain. It was a breathtaking sight, the colors loud and vivid across the cerulean blue. Lauren was the group photographer and saw nothing wrong with tramping off the marked terrain to capture the shot. She stepped down off the ladder and around some thick brush until we couldn’t see her at all. We should have known she would miscalculate the depth of the drop. When Ryan found her, she was holding on to a narrow boulder jutting into the sky, and depending on whom you asked, it was an alarming number of yards from the ground. She told us later that she never doubted he would come. He always did.
Lauren barely made a sound; Ryan could feel her heart pulsing through the trees. The silent energy that connected them shouted louder than any of us could hear. And it continued while Ryan hoisted Lauren off the tightly gripped ledge. We only knew the details because we spent the two-hour drive back to Davidson listening to the two of them highlight the rescue. Lauren never feared for her life. The calming lilt of her recap was not that of a woman frazzled by fear.
I have returned to that afternoon in my mind many times. Lauren and I dissected it for days. She appeared unfazed by what I called supernatural destiny. To her it was the most natural thing to expect Ryan to always be there for her. That was when I knew they were connected more deeply than any one of us could fathom. And how I wished that kind of love could be mine.
The memory prevents me from responding to Ryan’s touch. I am frozen in the chill of what I’ve done. “Stop,” I tell him. “Please stop.” He moves off of me, distancing himself from what he can’t understand. “Just hold me,” I say, and he cuddles me from behind without asking any questions. I feel his rapid brea
th on my cheeks and hair, and the feeling slows the pulsing of my chest. I have returned to our bed, to the place where coming together should be not only beautiful but also right. Instead, my guilt makes it impossible for me to move.
“I’m scared,” I say.
“I’m here.” He hugs me harder.
Certainty has crept under our sheets. There are things that have to be fixed if we’re going to survive.
“When you’re feeling bad,” he says, “remember this. Remember us.”
I tell him I’ll try, though I wish I didn’t have to leave him to take this giant step. And when I’m sure I can’t hold it inside any longer, I ask, “Ry, what’s going to happen to us?”
“What do you mean?” he says, lacing his fingers in mine, and I feel the worry spread to each finger.
“What if I’m different when I come back? What if I don’t like what I find out about myself?”
“That doesn’t make any sense. You’re going to be healthier. Stronger.”
I turn to face him, and the shadow around his eyes tells me he’s afraid. I make it so he can’t look away. His lips are waiting for me. I like the way the flush of our almost sex has warmed his cheeks. He has grown more handsome in his middle age while my fear has aged me.
“Abs,” he says, pulling me close, reassuring the both of us with his arms around me. “You’re so brave. You’re going to kick some ass in there.”
I snuggle deeper into him. It feels childlike, but I love the feeling of it. He says, “I have lost too many people in my life, Abs. I’m not going to lose you, too.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
LAUREN
When you head northwest out of Charlotte, you reach the outskirts of the small mountain town of Beech Mountain. And whether crossing through the byways of Boone and Valle Crucis to the north or Morganton and Banner Elk to the south, there is one road that leads to the priceless property. The parkway is sharp and winding, with glimpses of Sugar Mountain and expansive views from any vantage point. The expectation of what lies ahead never gets old. It is as though the drive up the mountain is always for the first time.
The mountain covers a seven-mile terrain comprising steep switchbacks and dense forests. But if you pull back the veil on the robust trees, you find the real treasures. The vista provides a window into a land that is vastly open. Gushing creeks and waterfalls trickle from secret places, and breaths are deeper and roomier. The water that falls from the streams washes away troubles and calms the mind. Reaching the apex encompasses a journey, a storied history through time and memory. All the tales spin up, down, and through the mountain.
People seek the mountains for countless reasons. There are those on a quest for inspiration, while others are climbing to reach a vast oneness with nature. I’ve since stopped counting the reasons I come. Though when I last sought the mountains all those years ago, I came for one thing: refuge, to rid myself of pain.
This time I hadn’t wanted to come back. The publishing house left me no choice.
“It’s been a thousand years, Lauren. You promised us those final waterfall shots. It’s time.”
The call came through on a particularly dreary day in London, the kind that left me to question how I had lived without the mountains for so long. The mention of coming home transported me back in time. It was a jolt that inflamed my entire body, a loss I had fought years to escape.
“I know,” I said into the phone, even though old wounds said I shouldn’t go back. But I was also feeling homesick and lost around that time. The flat was empty; Jean-Pierre had given me an ultimatum. He had found the ring I kept in a drawer, a hidden promise that had painfully died, which led to a discussion about us. And I was never good at discussing us. Seeing the diamond in his hand set me off. I snatched it out of his fingers, and soon we were packing up boxes and saying our good-byes.
“I’m serious, Lauren. I can’t stall any longer. You’ve already missed the six-month deadline. Eight months is very generous on our part. If your first three books weren’t such damned moneymakers, I can assure you no one would care about this little hobby of yours.”
Here is where determination hit memory, and I stalled.
The book was my life’s work. A passion for writing and photography coupled with an ever-since-grade-school infatuation with waterfalls had led me on a quest to compile the most beautiful cascades in the world. Strewn across the thick pages were poetry and musings. The grand finale would bring me home to the North Carolina mountains, where I would shoot Linville, Toxaway, Looking Glass, and Elk River. Only what waited for me back there terrified me. And my procrastination was about to kill my publishing deal.
Once I made the decision to return, there was no going back. I assured myself it was to finish the book, that it had nothing to do with the ring that I carried around with me for days after I seized it from Jean-Pierre’s hand. I didn’t dare to put it on my finger, but I held it in my palm and stared at the shiny metal, knowing it wasn’t the best way to block out his memory.
I packed my bags and the unfinished manuscript, and now, today—on a brisk autumn day, I am on a winding road feeling everything I’ve kept at bay, circling around. Abby, Ryan, me—all of it, chipping away at my defenses, reminding me that no matter how hard we try to move forward, there’s always a past pulling us back.
I had spent most of my childhood studying the lushness of my favorite town. I was a nature girl, comfortable in sneakers and shorts with my hiking stick in hand. My father had taught me to start a fire with little more than a few twigs and an unpredictable wind. I had hiked Upper Pond and Lower Pond in all four seasons. I could tell the precise times the deer would roam the parkway, when the bears would hibernate for the winter. I knew the names of the birds and insects chirping outside our windows. By sniffing the air, I could predict when the ephemerals and lady slippers would bloom, followed by the daisies and the rhododendrons. And yet, later, when it came to Ryan and Abby, my instincts were all off.
Roaming the land was an enjoyable pastime. Even though the bear population had grown over the years, there was a stillness tucked inside my heart that made me at peace in the forest. My favorite place on the whole mountain, besides our vacation home, was the Falls Trail about a mile down the road. Had I only known, as a little girl, that the winding path I would take, the one by the roaring stream, would lead to my first experience with foreplay and that the tree-spotted lane leading to the open field and Buckeye Lake would be the climax. The flowers with their pointed stems would tease and tickle me, and the steps across the wooden bridge would brim with the mystery of what’s below. The final wind-up would ascend along the steep climb to the clearing. It was there I first gave myself to Ryan. Ours was college-aged love, though our souls had been knotted long before we met.
As I climb deeper and higher into the hills, I roll down the windows so the fresh mountain air filters through the car. The breeze is a nostalgic whiff of my former self. I know the memories I’ve sealed off and cast aside will find their way back to me. That’s what the mountains do. It makes it impossible to forget. I am not sure how to be here without him. This was our sacred place that nestled us in its beauty. As the mountain air cleansed our palates, we were able to see each other with that keen sense: our love deepened, our connection strengthened, our future looked as promising as the land in which we first fell in love.
My hands grip the wheel tighter. I had feared what the memories would do to me. Ryan holding me close, breathing me in by the river. I can feel him come up behind me, latching onto me and whispering something, anything, in my ear. It didn’t matter at the time. I can feel in his hands the words his mouth wouldn’t say. My climb up the mountain was fierce, and as he wrapped me in his arms, I thought I might not be able to take another step.
That a boy weakened me, and in the place where I most found strength and spirit, was alarming, all-pervading. He kissed my hair and forbade me to turn and face him. I gave in to his demanding hands, which meant succumbing to his fingers and
the way they ignited something in me I could not contain.
My mind remembers that day, and I will it away. Only it’s not so easy. Ryan is woven into my soul.
The house is as beautiful as I remember, a rustic mountain home set against a forest of trees, and when I step through the grand foyer, I think I might have made a mistake. The smell of fresh balsam startles me. That, together with the photographs lining the walls, makes me want to turn away and run. There I am a gawky teenager; a sensual woman; a frightened, wounded victim. Turning away, I drop my suitcases to the stone floor.
I knew it would be difficult to return, and I’m not prepared for the physical and emotional pull that unsteadies me. There is the balcony where we once touched each other beneath a blanket of stars. There he is coming through the door, guiding me to the Jacuzzi on the deck. There is the view that tonight will become purple and pink, and I’ll see his eyes and the way they hold mine with their hazel flecks. The vision is beautiful and mystical, and in seconds it is gone.
Battling the revival of feelings had worn me thin; I am drained of tears. There were years of drops sliding down my face—each one a memory. They are hammering at me, closing in, and I am powerless to shoot them down.
Before I have even reached my room downstairs, my cell phone rings.
The sound of the buzzing startles me. I despise the cell phone. It was a safety measure my parents insisted on after college when I first left the country with my camera, though my fingers never quite fit comfortably around the wide body of the bulky device. Once abroad, shutting it off, or better, finding myself in international dead zones, was expected and freeing. It is my literary agent. She has no idea what I gave up to create this photo book. Fate had reared its head, and I had been forced to abandon not only one dream but two. Sweeping the misery aside, I did what I did best, and that was to write. Paragraphs became pages and feelings matured into fiction. Eventually the novels made their way to literary circles. My private success felt good, but the years away had gnawed at me.
Where We Fall: A Novel Page 6