“She is. One of the strongest people I know. Her life didn’t turn out the way she’d imagined. She took a huge gamble when she married my dad and uprooted her life to come to Tennessee. Some think she lost more than she won. She says she got everything she ever wished for and more.”
He takes a long drink of his terrible coffee.
Sensing I should change the subject, I say, “I studied piano and violin, too. I mean, I used to play. Haven’t in years.”
“Were you any good?”
“I didn’t practice enough on the piano. I’m better on the violin, although I stopped playing in high school.”
“According to my mom, you never lose the skill, only the finesse. I’m sure it would come back to you with practice.”
“Did you play an instrument in school?” I ask.
“Percussion in band.” He taps a quick beat on his knee before hitting a rim shot, complete with sound effect.
“Why did you choose drums?” I’m trying to picture him as Dave Grohl, thrashing on a drum-kit.
“There was a shortage and it meant I could hide in the back.”
“Were you shy as a kid?” I’m trying to unravel him. His shyness could explain his discomfort around people. Social anxiety presents itself in a myriad of ways. Some people retreat. Others overcompensate.
I’m in the latter group.
He clears his throat. “I didn’t like standing out.”
“And what did your dad do before he passed?”
“He worked in car manufacturing.”
“Sounds like you get your strong work ethic from both of them.” Great, now I sound like I’m interviewing him for a job.
“His job brought them to Tennessee. He got transferred shortly after they met. She moved to be with him.”
“Wow. So romantic. New city, new love. Big leap of faith.” I’m not sure I could do it. Move across town, maybe. Give up everything I know to follow a guy? Unlikely.
Except that’s what I did with Tye—walked away from my perfect life in the city. For what? Blisters, chafing, and social media likes.
Clearly, I’m not in any position to sit in judgment of Jay’s parents.
“Not everyone agrees with you. I think they both sacrificed a lot for their love.” He looks wistful, almost sad.
“Doesn’t everyone compromise? Isn’t that part of the bargain?” I think of my grandmother, who basically gave up her life for my grandfather’s career, my mother who married into the family and accepted all the responsibilities of the Perry name.
“Sacrifice,” he says, tearing his Pop-Tart into smaller pieces.
“Isn’t it the same thing?” I give him a sidelong glance.
“You said compromise. Big difference. One means meeting in the middle. The other can equal losing everything.” He takes a bite of his pastry, letting the words linger in the quiet.
The fire crackles while the wind battles its way through the forest.
His words float down and settle over me, soaking into my skin and burrowing into my bones.
How many times have I bargained too much of myself in exchange for love and a relationship? Is this why I’ve never been able to go through with an engagement? Deep down, my heart knew. Even when my brain said yes, I knew I meant no.
“Wow.” I set my tea down and stretch my legs. “I’ve never thought about the difference. Ranger Jay, you’re deep.”
He finishes his coffee and leans back on his hands. “I’m observant. It’s the secret power of the outsiders and misfits.”
A laugh escapes me. Rugged, smart, kind, and hot as hell handsome are words I’d use to describe Ranger Jay, not oddball.
“You? You look like you were captain of your football team, or maybe the star soccer player. Admired by guys, crushed on by all the girls. Liked by teachers and parents. A golden boy.”
His scowl returns. “I hate team sports and I was never a big man on campus. Want to guess again?”
I study him. The wary energy behind his eyes, the way his foot bounces with directionless energy. “Likable outsider?”
“Bingo.” He straightens up. “If we’re playing this game, I’m going to say you were prom queen.”
“Wrong. Kelsey Markham wore that crown. Campaigned for it starting in ninth grade.”
“Hmm,” he hums, stroking his beard. “Tennis star? Wait, a cross country runner. Yearbook editor. Serial dater.”
I laugh at his ridiculous guesses. “You’re right about only one of those.”
He squints at me. “Cross country?”
Cackling, I tip over and nearly spill my tea on the floor.
“What’s so hysterical? You’re obviously fit enough to endurance hike. I made the leap that you’d also be a runner. Cross country is the closest thing I could think of.”
“I might be able to break out into a jog if a bear were chasing me, but no guarantee.” I wipe away the tears on my cheeks. “If you calculated all the deliberate exercise I’ve participated in over the course of my twenty-nine years, it wouldn’t add up to a month on the trail. I’ve never been active, or fit. The closest I came before this would be wearing a cute athleisure outfit to brunch.”
He doesn’t laugh at my attempt at self-deprecating humor. For some unknown reason, I take this as a cue to continue my confession.
“Growing up, I was what society likes to call chubby, because chubby was a more acceptable word than fat. Stocky worked too. Whatever the term, I was far from the willowy, waif ideal my mother hoped for and my sister exemplifies. Shockingly, not every girl can live off of plain lettuce and water and pretend she’s satisfied.
“I went to my first fitness camp at eight, had my own nutritionist at ten, followed by a decade of therapy to undo the damage of both. Much to my mother’s disappointment, I never grew out of the chubby phase. So no, I was never the star of the tennis team or a cross country runner. In middle school, I staged a protest over running the mile for time and a grade. Refused to do more than walk it. Recruited others to join my movement. We almost failed P.E.”
“I don’t know what to say.” He meets my eyes, kindness in his expression. “I’m sorry you went through that.”
“Society’s expectations for girls are toxic. Women, too. We’re expected to look a certain way so we fit neatly into our boxes. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had men question me doing this hike. Some doubted my daily miles. Some openly asked what made me think I was capable of finishing.”
“Is this where the spite comes from?”
“A little bit, but really I want to prove to myself I can do this more than I want to prove them wrong.”
Chapter Fifteen
Jay
How I’m feeling in one word: captivated.
I think I hurt Snowbird’s feelings yesterday when I used the word trapped to describe our current situation. She reacted like I said I’m being tortured by being forced to spend time with her.
Under normal circumstances, she’d probably be right.
Yet, I’m having a nice time.
We spent last night and early this morning in easy conversation. Sure, there have been a few awkward pauses, but overall, we’ve been at ease with each other, as comfortable as two strangers can be in a decrepit cabin.
If I’d believed Guy’s warning about the snow, I might have pressed us to keep hiking last night. We’re about four hours walk back to the valley and another hour to the station. The lower we go in elevation, the less likely there will be snow. We probably could’ve made it.
Shutting down the what-if game I’m playing in my head, I try to focus on the present. We’re dry, we’re warm, and we’re safe.
Accepting the fact we’re not going anywhere, we restock the wood during a break in the sleet and frozen rain. At least there isn’t more snow accumulation. Hopefully by tomorrow, the temperatures will warm enough to allow us to hike out of here.
Like last night, we spend the morning talking. We stick to safer topics. I must be a masochist to want to kn
ow about her ex. He sounds like so many of the guys I’ve encountered on the trail over the years; cocky mixed with a large dose of hubris. Expensive gear won’t drag your ass up a boulder-strewn mountain. They’re lucky his ignorance didn’t get them injured or worse. Stupidity will get you killed out here.
I try my radio again after breakfast. “350 for dispatch.” I add, “Over,” just in case Guy is listening.
An unfamiliar voice responds. “350, this is dispatch. What’s your location?”
I give our GPS coordinates. “Everyone is safe, but we have about half a foot of snow up here. Wondering how the valley is doing. Heard we lost a tower in the storm last night.”
“Correct. Possible tornado touchdown. No confirmation of a funnel cloud. You need a rescue up there?” Dispatch is all business.
“No. We’re fine. Use the resources where needed. Can I get a weather update? Planning to hike down tomorrow.”
“Should be all clear by this evening,” she confirms. “No snow below 3000 feet.”
Good. Means we’ll only be hiking through snow and slush for the first half of our descent.
“Can you give the Cades Cove station an update on my location and planned return tomorrow? I’ll be bringing a thru-hiker down with me. No health issues.”
The dispatcher repeats my coordinates, call number, and information. “All set. Stay warm up there.”
I thank her and set my walkie-talkie down on the table.
“We’re getting out of here?” Snowbird asks, hope in her voice and a grin on her face.
“I think our best bet is to spend one more night here and start in the morning. Gives us the most daylight should we have to detour around storm damage.”
She nods in agreement. “What should we do with our day? Snowball fight? Snow angels? Igloo building?”
“How about we check our food supplies and make sure we have enough to get us through the next thirty-six hours?” I suggest, grabbing both our packs with the plan to dump all the contents on the floor.
Snowbird jumps up and takes hers out of my hand. “I have an organized system. All my food is in the bear bag, and I did a gear shakedown back in Virginia. Trust me when I say I only have the minimal essentials.”
Her tone is defensive, which makes me suspicious. What’s in there that she doesn’t want me to see?
“Fine.” I upend my own pack and its meager contents drop to the floor. An extra pair of socks I forgot I stuffed in the bottom is the only surprise. It feels like Christmas when I see them.
She opens her bear bag and spreads out her food supply on the floor. “Sorry it isn’t more exciting.”
I take inventory. Pouches of tuna and cooked chicken, small packets of mayo and relish, more soup mixes, almonds, olives in a pouch, peanut butter, Pop-Tarts, a package of mac ’n’ cheese, and a small bag of cheese balls. Plus, the instant coffee and more tea bags.
“We can work with this.”
“I feel like this is a challenge on Top Chef.” She studies the random products. “If it didn’t make me want to vomit, I could make a tuna casserole for us. Without the casserole part. I guess it’s tuna pasta, which sounds worse.”
“Tuna sandwiches on Pop-Tart bread?”
“Stop.” She pretends to gag—at least I think she’s faking it. Her skin’s gone pale.
“Okay, how about peanut butter Pop-Tart sandwiches for lunch? Better?”
“Sounds good.” She sets those ingredients to the side.
“Dinner can be mac ’n’ cheese with chicken and a crunchy cheese ball topping. Fake cheese two ways,” I declare, thinking myself brilliant. “We can have my jerky as an appetizer.”
“Add the olives and it’ll be like a charcuterie board.”
I find myself disappointed when she doesn’t make a joke about my meat stick.
“Fancy.” I organize the food by meal. “We’re left with the tuna and soup. You can keep the mayo, AKA the devil’s mucus.”
Her eyes widen. “No, you’re one of those people.”
“Exactly which kind of person am I?” I challenge, my tone playful.
“The kind who hate mayonnaise.”
“I believe you mean the right people.” I smirk.
“How do you eat tuna salad? Or egg salad? Chicken salad? Potato salad? Macaroni salad?”
“I don’t eat any of those so-called salads.” I stick my tongue out in exaggerated disgust.
Her entire face scrunches up with confusion. “Sorry, your words don’t make sense. You live in the South. You have access to Duke’s Mayonnaise whenever you want. Every Southern picnic and funeral, birthday and holiday in the movies has one of the aforementioned salads.”
She’s apoplectic with disbelief.
“Propaganda by the mayo cartel. Don’t buy into the lies.” I close my eyes and exhale to keep from bursting out in laughter
“But it’s the secret ingredient to moist chocolate cake.”
“Please don’t ruin my favorite dessert.”
“Okay, fine. I’m not going to try to convert you. I don’t need or want your kind of negativity in my life. We’ll just have to agree to disagree to maintain the peace.”
“Fine,” I echo her.
She continues to cast sidelong glances in my direction.
“Stop judging me,” I tell her after the fifth dirty look.
“Are you sure you’re really Southern?” she asks, joking, not knowing the land mine she’s stepped on.
“Born and raised in Tennessee.” I give her my standard answer followed by a wide grin. “Want to see my birth certificate?”
“Do you carry it with you?” She looks and sounds confused.
“No, but sometimes I wonder if I should.” My default state of grumpiness returns.
“Your accent gives you away. Once you speak, there’s zero doubt you’re Southern.”
“Mine? You’re the one with the northern, Yankee accent.” I drawl out the word yankee, mimicking her awful southern imitation from yesterday.
Hold up. I only met her yesterday afternoon? How is that possible? Time’s funny, stretching and curving in on itself. The sixteen hours I’ve spent in her company definitely feels like longer.
“When I was six, my dad brought home a puppy for my sister and me. Mom wasn’t a big fan, probably because she got stuck cleaning up after Akebono. She used to say he peed on or destroyed everything she loved.” I laugh at the memory.
We’re sprawled on the floor near the fire, me with my back against the crate and her lying on her stomach on top of her sleeping bag. Without games or books to read, the only things to do are talk, sleep, eat, and tend to the fire.
She repositions herself to sit cross-legged. “Akebono is an unusual name for a dog.”
“I named him after a famous sumo wrestler from Hawaii. He was a lab mix, built like a tank. Still miss him. He was a good dog. The best.” A swell of emotion leaves me feeling vulnerable.
“A man who gets all soft-eyed and sentimental about his childhood dog is a good man. Ranger Daniels, you might not be the cantankerous grumpasaurus you want the world to believe you are.”
Ignoring her comment, I ask, “Did you have dogs or pets growing up?”
“When my sister and I were little, we had a very limited run of guinea pigs. My mother had Norwich terriers, but they were show dogs, not really pets. They only loved her, followed her around like the queen with her corgis. I always wanted a cat, but my dad is allergic and my mother wasn’t a fan of litter boxes and having her furniture destroyed. I mean, is anyone? My grandfather has horses and some cattle, but they’re not exactly pets.”
“Is your grandfather a farmer?” I ask. She hasn’t shared much about her family other than being from New York, which might as well be the moon.
Her pause stretches longer than it should, like she’s editing her response. “Not really. He’s retired and lives on a bunch of acreage in the middle of nowhere in central California. Doesn’t like having neighbors.”
“Hmm,
sounds nice.”
Her gaze finds mine. “I get the feeling you’re not a big fan of people.”
“Really?” I smirk. “I think I hide it well.”
“No, you don’t.” Her laughter draws out a chuckle of my own. “You wear it as a badge of honor, right next to your NPS patch and name tag.”
“I have friends—colleagues who I enjoy working with, a few locals in town I’m friendly to when I see them. I’m not a complete troll who lives under a bridge” Laughing, I try to defend myself. “I can have them write letters of recommendations on my behalf.”
“Somehow I believe you would. Unnecessary. However, I was imagining you as more of an ogre living alone in the woods. In fact, how do I know this isn’t your cabin?” Her eyes bug out. “How do I know you’re really even a ranger?”
“I’m a ranger,” I say, humor gone. “And if this were my cabin, it would be a helluva lot nicer. Might even have furniture. Would need to add a bathroom and electricity. Solar panels would work given we’re off the grid.”
“No bed?” she asks, her eyes focused on the corner behind me.
“Falls under the furniture category. Small couch and a table with chairs near the fireplace. A bed would fit over there.” I point my thumb over my shoulder. “Nothing fancy. Wouldn’t need much to be happy. There’s only one hitch.”
“The risk of isolation and loneliness?” Her voice is soft, the question revealing more about her own fears than she might realize.
“No. I prefer my own company to being around people for the sake of avoiding being alone.”
“So what’s the hitch?” she asks.
“Cabins like this were built in the twenties and thirties back when the national forests were less regulated. If you could locate the owner and get them to sell, you’d only be buying the building. The US government owns the land, which you’d have to pay rent on, as well as taxes.”
“Sounds way too complicated for a shack. Wouldn’t it be easier to purchase land outside the boundaries? Construct your dream cabin without all the added paperwork?”
“Suppose I could. Been saving up to do something similar. Someday.” I’ve been dreaming of my own place for years. I wasn’t joking about not needing much in terms of square footage and furnishings.
Happy Trail (Park Ranger Book 1) Page 11