The Ground Beneath

by Stephanie Vercier

  He doesn’t say anything right away, his eyes still, as if I’ve dragged up a painful memory for him. But thankfully, he relaxes and says with a slight smile that, “You’re right. They don’t know what winter really is here in Seattle. These kids get snow days for a dusting while we had to hike our asses to school in blizzards.”

  “It’s kind of like a badge of honor,” I say, my tension easing too. “But you guys in Mountainside always claimed you had it tougher.”

  I get the kind of smile from Hunter only someone from Mountainside or Coalton would give me, someone who understands the fabric of our towns and how interconnected they’ve always been. “Well, we are at a higher elevation,” he says with a puff of his chest. “And being the smaller town, we were raised as underdogs, so we had to have some real fight in us.”

  “Not enough to beat our football team in the last five years.”

  “That’s because I wasn’t there,” he says with a smirk he’s totally earned. “We took you guys out every year I was in high school. Went to State my junior and senior years.”

  “The Mountainside Lions,” I say, thinking of how many times I’d been at a Friday game where our team, the Coalton Cavaliers, had gone up against them. “Wyatt—that was my husband’s name—he was a quarterback too, a very proud Cavalier. If he were a little older, you guys would have probably met on the field.”

  “He sounds like he was a formidable opponent. I’m sorry to admit I stopped following high school football there quite a while ago, but, honestly, I guess I stopped following any news at all from back home. Did he have plans to play in college… I mean… well… before—”

  “No,” I say before he can trip over more of his words and grateful I was right about him not paying attention to what goes on back home. He wouldn’t have had the misfortune of reading the once personal details of what happened the night Wyatt and Abe died. “He never wanted to leave Coalton, not even for school,” I continue, trying to finish my thought without many specifics. “He was selling insurance right after graduation and wanted to maybe coach high school football one day, but sometimes I wonder how different things would have been if he’d just gone off to college and…” Now it’s me who is in danger of falling over my words, and I blurt out the first thing I can think of to get off of what’s become a very uncomfortable subject. “So, it’s kind of cold out here, right?”

  Hunter looks at me with surprise and then what I’m sure is relief. “It is,” he says, inching closer to me. “Since I don’t have a coat to offer, would me putting my arm around you help?”

  “Probably.” A small, nervous laugh escapes my lips, my heart speeding into rapidly successive beats.

  Hunter doesn’t say anything—he just moves closer and wraps his thick, muscled arm around me. His body heats mine immediately, and I’m not sure if it’s just the warmth he’s giving off or my attraction to him that heats me from within.

  “That better?” he asks, his voice seeming to catch.

  “Yes.” I close my eyes just for a moment and breathe him in. He smells wonderful, his cologne that kind of spicy sweetness that is the very definition of masculine.

  “And what about your plans, Allison. Were you planning to go to college?”

  I smile, even if the answer to his question leads into another minefield. “I wanted to be a journalist,” I say, the beats of my heart slowing to a more comfortable level. “I was the editor of our high school paper, and my plan was to do two years at Coalton Community with a likely transfer to Central. Wyatt didn’t love the idea, but it was part of my condition for us getting married so young.”

  “But you’re here now,” he says, furrowing his brow. “Does this mean you’re doing school part time, still working on being the next Diane Sawyer?”

  I laugh before shaking my head. “No. I kind of soured on the whole journalism thing”—no need to tell him all the reasons why—“so, the last year, I worked full time at my dad’s church.”

  “Your dad’s… church? He has his own church?”

  “Uh, huh. He’s an Episcopal priest.”

  “A priest? They can get married and have kids?” He sounds truly shocked.

  “An Episcopal one can.”

  “Wow. Well, my family was never much for that stuff… religion. I guess you must have a lot of faith in things, then, huh?”

  “I don’t know, maybe not as much as I should. If you’re asking me if I believe in God, then I’d say yes, but I’m not so sure everything else is so cut and dry.”

  There are a few beats of silence before he says, “The great unknown. Sucks that people you love can be with you one day and then gone the next, almost like they’d never existed at all.”

  When I sneak a look up at his face, Hunter is staring into the fire, his lips slightly parted, his chin lowered. No matter how we try, it seems that Hunter and I can’t have much of a conversation without being pulled back to tragedy.

  “I’m sorry you lost your mother and your aunt,” I tell him, deciding there’s no sense in evading a topic so close to the surface. “That must have been very hard.”

  He offers a nod and says, “Thanks, Allison. And yes, it was.”

  No other words follow, and I don’t especially want them to. Right now, it just feels good to be silent, to close my eyes and be comforted by the warmth of Hunter’s body, to feel protected by his arm and follow the rhythm of his breath by the rise and fall of his chest.

  Chapter Five

  HUNTER

  I’d never expected to find Allison at The Hive last Friday night. I hadn’t even meant to go out myself. I’d been pretty much buried in self-pity, the reasons why the man I’d become wasn’t a man I could be proud of on a constant loop in my head, the cruel reminder Theresa gave me about my childhood not helping. Along with that came regret for the decision I made to steer clear of Allison. For all of the hope just seeing her in Sheila’s office seemed to elicit in me, I knew what a bastard I’d be to draw her into any of my deficits, even if all I ever did was sit down with her for a cup of coffee. So when my buddy, Josh, called wanting to go out, I figured getting blitzed would temporarily ease my mind again.

  At first, it had been the same as always, Josh and a couple of other guys, more acquaintances than good friends, showing up in Josh’s SUV. We hit one of the five star, reservations-only places downtown first. Of course, reservations aren’t really required when you’re the quarterback of the hometown football team. It’s one of the perks of being famous in a city where most of the money comes from tech, commerce, coffee and aerospace, where there isn’t even a trace of paparazzi. Regardless of who is and isn’t watching, I try not to be an asshole while out in public. I tip generously, and I don’t come on to female servers. I’d signed a few low-key autographs and posed for half a dozen selfies, not my favorite thing to do, but it’s a part of the job.

  After that, we hit The Hive.

  It’s the kind of place that looks high class, but underneath it all, it’s just a meat market. Josh made sure we got special treatment, a VIP table, the whole nine yards. I’d actually wanted to just blend into the woodwork that night, but that wasn’t going to happen no matter how bad I wanted it to. Within minutes, the women were on us. Some nights, when I was in the mood, I welcomed the arrivals, but not then, not that night.

  I didn’t want to expel the energy it took to talk or flirt or try to be the mix of confident and brooding people always expected of me. And besides that, I’d been thinking about Allison, so every other woman, no matter how beautiful or exotic or accomplished, just paled in comparison to her. Maybe I was building Allison up to be something she wasn’t, and yet I still couldn’t get the idea of who she was out of my mind.

  When some random chick draped her arms over my shoulders, I was suddenly suffocating and had to get away. I set my drink down, made some excuse to her and the guys about having to use the bathroom, and then I took a long walk through the nightclub on my way to the bar where I hoped I’d find an open stool. With
my head down, I figured I’d at least have a slim chance of drowning myself in drink without anyone noticing me. And I’d started doing exactly that when someone tapped me on the shoulder, an incredibly drunk woman who wanted to clarify if I was indeed Hunter Lawrence. I turned to her, mumbled a yes, then was swiveling back to the bar when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her.

  I wasn’t drunk or buzzed or anything yet, so I knew I wasn’t just seeing things. Sitting in a booth not so far away from me was Allison Briggs. Inaction wasn’t a possibility here, so I got up from the stool—evading the drunken woman’s continued babbling—with a readiness to charge over there and find a reason to talk to her. But then, just as quickly, I stopped and reassessed. She was with a guy, and for all I knew, he could be her husband, or the guy who was her husband. Sheila had been so damn cryptic about that part, had made Allison’s marital status so confusing. But this guy, this generic looking fuck boy couldn’t possibly be worthy enough for Allison to want to marry him. Or so I needed to believe.

  “Hey, you’re Hunter Lawrence, aren’t you?” I heard yet another woman ask me, but I completely ignored her.

  I’d started across the club, moving closer to the booth Allison sat at. She was with a friend, and there was another guy, though I couldn’t quite make out their features as their faces were pretty much melded together. When I was close enough to hear what was being said, it looked like the guy Allison was with was moving faster than she was, that maybe she needed a lifeline. Or maybe that’s just the way I wanted to see it.

  She looked surprised that I was there, maybe even did a double take. But when I spoke—when I reached out my hand—she came to me. The guy didn’t protest, not really, and that made me sure he wasn’t her husband. We talked, and I held her, and she told me she was married, but that her husband, Wyatt, died in an accident. That should have made me happy, that against my better judgment, here was a possible clearing of the way for her and I, but what I felt was sadness for her. Even with that, I still found myself feeling closer to Allison than anyone since my mom died. It was strange, but it was true, and I could see that what I’d sensed about her was real, not imagined. There was just something about her, something I felt, that I couldn’t let go of.

  That was eight days ago.

  Eight agonizing days that might as well have been an eternity.

  “I should really get back to the condo before Sheila starts to worry,” she told me after I’d been holding her by the outdoor fire at The Hive for what didn’t feel like long enough.

  “I want to see you again,” I said when I walked her to the door of Sheila’s condo building. I’d decided then that, even with the risk, I selfishly needed to see her again. I wanted to kiss her too, but I didn’t dare push my luck.

  “Here’s my number.” She scrawled it on a piece of paper she’d taken out of her purse. “Text me.”

  “I will.” And then I watched her walk through the foyer of the building, just a little wobbly in her high heels, her short skirt clinging perfectly to all the curves of her body. But it was the slight turn before she got into the elevator and seeing her face again that offered the best view. Her dark brown hair framed her perfectly feminine face, her big brown eyes so full of hope and her full lips tilting up into a smile before she disappeared, a perfect image to remember her by.

  And now I wait outside the same building, standing before the glass front doors in the chilly mid September morning air.

  When she steps off of the elevator and into the foyer, she’s wearing tight yoga pants, hiking boots and a sweatshirt. Her hair is pulled up and secured in a loose bun, her face more gorgeous without anything hiding it.

  “Am I late?” It’s the first thing she asks when she pushes her way out of the secured front door.

  “No, you’re right on time,” I tell her, my heart speeding at seeing her again.

  “I just figured you’d wait in your car or something,” she says with a smile, a backpack around her shoulder.

  “Should I have?” I look upward, toward the balconies and windows of the building. “You afraid Sheila’s going to see, huh?”

  She laughs softly. “No. It’s just kind of cold out. I figured you’d want to be warm in your car.”

  “Nah. I just wanted to be here for you.”

  She looks at me as if she’s slightly surprised by that, then allows a bigger smile to spread on those beautiful lips. “That was sweet, Hunter.”

  With a step forward, I think she’s about to kiss me on the cheek or something, but she reaches toward my shoulder and brushes something off the fabric of my coat instead.

  “A leaf,” she says. “Fall is coming.”

  “That it is,” I say before offering to take her backpack. And I kind of like it when she turns me down, says she can handle it.

  The Porshe is not my only vehicle. I could probably have as many as I want, but I only seem to need two, and today I’ve got the Land Rover. It’s what I use for trips, for going up to the mountains to ski or hike or anything else that involves the great outdoors.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t see you until today,” she tells me as we begin our drive through the downtown streets of Seattle. “I’m still getting the hang of things at work, and I didn’t want to sneak out on Sheila.”

  “I hope you didn’t feel like I was pressuring you,” I tell her in response. It had been a kind of torture only being able to text or call her, my offers to meet her for lunch during the week politely declined.

  “No, of course not. I wanted to see you too, but I guess… well… I guess I just don’t want to rush things.”

  A quick turn in her direction as I’m getting on the freeway, and she’s biting at her lower lip, her eyes scrunched up in a kind of questioning, like she isn’t sure what it is she and I have going.

  “I’m okay with slow,” I tell her, wanting to put my hand on her thigh but deciding that might be too aggressive, too fast. “Honestly, I’m okay with anything. I’m just really glad you’re even agreeing to talk to me… to hang out with me.”

  A quick burst of laughter comes out of her as a semi-trailer flies by us.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask.

  She settles, then gets a look on her face that is only half serious. “Hunter, you could get pretty much anyone to hang out with you. What’s so special about me?”

  She’s not asking like she’s not good enough, more so just out of curiosity—at least that’s how I’m reading her question. I’ve actually thought a lot about what my answer might be over the week we’d been texting, a week with some physical therapy appointments that made me feel worse rather than better, me wishing I could actually play football instead of just sitting on the sides and offering pointers, and a couple volunteer gigs it felt like I’d failed miserably at.

  “What’s special about you is that when I was having a crummy day, hearing from you made it better. There aren’t a lot of people I can say the same thing for.” It’s simple, but it’s completely true.

  A few moments of silence makes me think she’s skeptical, but then she says, “Hearing from you makes my days better too,” before she settles back into the passenger seat.

  As if some unseen force is guiding me, I reach out and take her hand, and she thankfully holds mine back. It’s only for a few minutes, but it’s enough, that kind of simple intimacy not something I’ve experienced in a very long time. There is a closeness in our conversation too, more things we agree than disagree on, the lenses we see the world through more similar than different. And of course there’s something tragic about her, something I can relate to, even if we choose not to talk about it.

  Time with her goes by too fast, and it doesn’t seem at all like the usual two hours it takes to get to our destination, a trailhead southeast of the city.

  “Not many crowds out here,” I tell her after we easily find a spot to park in a lot just off the highway. “Less chance of someone recognizing me,” I add, grabbing our stuff from the back of the Land Rover.

/>   She tilts her head to the side, the look in her eyes seeming to convey she’d forgotten I was famous. “The baseball cap and sunglasses don’t always do it, huh?”

  I smile, pulling the bill of my hat down and then taking off my coat. “No, not always, but it helps, along with being further from the city.”

  She looks across the highway to the heavy hillside of evergreen trees where the trail begins. “I’m guessing the views must be well worth the drive too?”

  “It’s a clear day. Not a cloud in the sky. We’ll see Rainier and plenty more—I think you’ll be happy.”

  Looking right at me, she says, “I already am.”

  Buoyed by her last comment, I lead the way, walking side-by-side with her across the highway and then starting on the trail. A few feet in, we’re already crossing a fallen log bridge over a creek, Allison easily balancing her way across, then waiting on the other side when I lumber my way over. I’ve been on this hike a couple of times, days when I could get Josh to wake his ass up early enough to go. It’s a good hike, going up winding pathways and heavily forested switchbacks until you reach a fork. Go left and continue your hike to a crystal blue lake that is fully untouched by humanity. Go right and make your way up through boulder fields and more switchbacks until you reach a peak where every major mountain in the state can be seen.

  I should hike more. Whenever I do, it makes me feel alive and almost whole.

  “Just let me know if you need me to slow down or anything,” I tell Allison who is keeping an even pace with me so far. While I’m currently out of commission on the field, I’m still an athlete, so a three thousand foot elevation gain isn’t at all tough for me. Josh was usually always panting and breathless by the end of it, swearing up and down he was going to stop smoking, but of course he never has.