The sun had emerged from behind the clouds and slowly heated the rocks. Soon the air would hold heat instead of chill; already he’d snuffed out the fire, since they were no longer in need of the warmth it provided. The canyon, too, had cleared of fog; he imagined it swirling away through a drain at the very bottom.
John sat with his back against a sheer faced boulder with one leg draped over the canyon’s edge and the other bent, supporting his sketchpad. Meg sat opposite with the blanket wrapped around her waist, eating a plum. She never had bothered to get dressed, which John couldn’t have been more pleased about. He was sure he would never tire of admiring her body.
She glanced up, caught him staring. He smiled at the pink flush of her cheeks. “You’re beautiful,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”
Her blush deepened and spread to her ears. “So are you,” she replied. She cleared her throat. “I, um. I hope I’m not distracting you from your work.”
He shook his head. “You’re anything but a distraction.”
“Aren’t I?”
“There isn’t much in the world that’s more inspiring than making love to a beautiful woman.”
She smiled a little at that. “Something we haven’t done this morning, if you’ll recall - despite my best efforts.”
“What we did still counts,” he replied.
He studied her as she took another bite of her plum, her teeth breaking its tender skin. Juice dribbled down her chin, and she used the back of her hand to wipe it away as she turned her gaze back to the landscape before them.
He glanced up at her often as he sketched the soft line of her jaw, the full curve of her lips. She’d picked up her book, but she held it in her lap, leaving him an unobstructed view of her face.
“What’s that you’re humming?” he asked, still sketching.
She looked at him in surprise. “‘Spanish Eyes.’“ Smiling, she added, “I guess I hadn’t realized I was making any sound.”
“Hum away. You can even sing if you’d like.”
She laughed that gorgeous, musical laugh. “I’d better not.”
She shook her head slightly, causing a strand of her hair to slip out from behind her ear and fall forward to frame her face. “Don’t,” said John before she could reach up to rectify it. “Don’t move it.”
She froze mid-motion with an odd look on her face as his hand moved over his sketchbook. He could see the puzzle pieces clicking into place for her. “Are you drawing me?” she asked.
“Is that all right?” John asked carefully. Perhaps he should have asked first...
Again she laughed. “I suppose so. I just... The Grand Canyon is right there - and you’re drawing me.” She shook her head, as if the mere thought of it was purely ludicrous.
“I already told you you’re beautiful,” he said by way of explanation. “In fact, I think I even used the word ‘perfect’ at one point.”
She lifted her chin in mock pride, her grin still in place. “You did say that, yes.”
A moment later, as he continued to sketch, she asked, “I’m not going to see this hanging in the lodge, am I?” Her tone was teasing.
He smiled without looking up. “This one is for my enjoyment only.”
A span of time passed with neither of them speaking. Meg had stopped reading her book and was staring out at the canyon, her eyes unfocused. John considered asking her on several occasions what she was thinking, but somehow managed to refrain. She was serene, wherever she was, and he had no interest in disturbing whatever peace she’d found.
Then she spoke his name.
John lifted his head. Her eyes pierced clean through him, no longer clouded with errant thoughts. “I want you to know that no one’s ever done that for me before,” she said. Her voice sounded faraway, like she was speaking to him from some parallel universe.
“Done what, sweetheart?”
“Oral sex,” she replied. “That was a first for me.”
He raised his eyebrows. This was a surprise to him. They came from different generations, and his impression was that hers was far more sexually progressive than his had been or would ever be. What sort of men had she been with in the past that didn’t know how to satisfy her the way she unquestioningly deserved?
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said quietly - although really this was only partially true. In some ways it was gratifying to hear that he’d tread where no man had before.
She chewed thoughtfully on her upper lip. “Before Rick, I was with someone else named Michael. We were completely different - probably it was ill-fated from the very start. No one wants to believe their relationship is doomed, though. We were together for more than a year, so I became very adept at ignoring the red flags.” The corner of her mouth lifted in a regretful smile.
Casting her eyes downward, she continued. “He was hard to keep up with...in the bedroom.” Her cheeks colored, but she didn’t stop like John feared she might, unsure as he was of whether he wanted to hear what came next.
When she spoke again, her voice was stronger, as if she’d conjured some inner reserve of strength to say it. “I let him do things to me that I regret now, just to hold his interest. There were times when I could see his attention wandering elsewhere, and I was desperate to stay at the center of it.” Her shoulders sagged; her agitation was clear in the way she wrung her hands. “That must sound very weak and immature to you, and it’s certainly nothing I’m proud to admit. Co-dependent, I think, is the term for it.”
Her lip trembled as if she were on the verge of spilling tears; the sight of it made John’s heart feel as if it had fractured in two. “Come here,” he said, holding his arms out to her.
She came willingly, tucking the blanket beneath her arms to cover herself. She turned sideways to sit in his lap, and John cradled her like an infant, shushing her between kisses that were meant to provide some modicum of comfort. He couldn’t guess what she meant by ‘things she regrets,’ and he was torn between asking her to sate his curiosity, and knowing deep down he’d be sorry if he did.
There was one thing, though, that he had to know. Holding her tighter he whispered, “Did he ever...force you?”
He grit his teeth in anticipation of her answer. Relief coiled through him when she shook her head. “No. I did it all willingly - or at least that’s what I told him.” Her voice was a miserable croak. “I can’t claim to be a victim...which honestly sort of makes me hate myself all the more.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, blinking back the blitz of emotion he’d been about to unleash. “You don’t have to be sorry anymore,” he said into her ear. “Just let it go, sweet Meg. What’s done is done.”
A moment later she sat up, using her fingers to swipe away the sheen of tears coating her cheeks. “I needed you to know,” she said, the firmness back in her voice. “You needed to understand that no one’s ever made me feel as cherished as you.” Her eyes flicked to his lips before moving back to his eyes. “We may not have time on our side, but even after I’m gone, I know there isn’t anything I’ll regret with you.”
John sucked in a breath as his hands curled around the nape of her neck and brought her lips to his. He pulled away only slightly and leaned his forehead into hers. Stroking her cheeks with his thumbs, he said, “Me neither.”
* * *
After almost an entire day of not wearing clothing, it felt strange to be dressed again. While John loaded the Jeep, Meg stuffed her feet in her boots, then did her best to smooth her tangled hair into a low ponytail.
She turned to face the canyon one last time before leaving this part of it behind. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t leaving it altogether - it still felt like goodbye. And goodbyes were never something she did very well with.
The crunch of boots on gravel alerted her to John’s approach behind her. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he asked, “Ready to go?”
“What if I said no?” she asked without turning around. “Could we stay here forever?”
He gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze and leaned to kiss behind her ear. “What if I said yes?” he murmured.
She was filled with a sudden and inexplicable anguish, a miasma that infected her like some malignant, metastatic disease. Determined not to cry, she avoided looking at John’s face as she spun around and buried hers in his chest. He gripped her tightly, his arms shielding her and trapping her in every way she wanted to be shielded and trapped. She wished she could crawl inside of him and stay there forever.
Gradually the nexus of grief loosened enough so that she was able to take a step back and meet his eyes. John was watching her with a concerned expression, so she donned an artificial smile in an attempt to ease his worry. “Let’s go,” she said. Then, winking: “I’ll drive.”
She was taken aback (and a little frightened) when he really did relinquish the keys. For the first few miles of furrowed, uneven road, she sat forward in her seat and kept a firm, two-handed, white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. John was a calming presence beside her. He kept the soothing weight of one hand on her knee, and he affected a tone of coolness and composure when pointing out various bumps and holes to avoid.
Eventually the road smoothed out some (or perhaps Meg simply grew more confident in her power to navigate it), and she was able to relax a bit. She dropped her hands to the bottom of the steering wheel, leaned back in her seat and let the wind buffet her face and toss its gnarled fingers in her hair. John’s eyes were on her for most of the ride: his gaze warmed the side of her face.
When they reached the long row of cabins, Meg drove straight past hers. Evidently the others were indeed back - there were packs on the front porch and myriad articles of clothing draped over the banister as if to dry.
“Can you stay?” John asked once they were parked safely in front of his cottage.
“I’d better go,” she replied. “I left a note - they’ll be expecting me.”
He nodded as if this was the answer he had expected. “I’ll walk with you.”
Meg thought of declining his offer, but then shrugged in agreement. What harm was there in her friends seeing them together? They’d been gallivanting freely, holding hands, kissing in public, for three days now. Hiding their relationship, however short-lived, seemed not only demeaning but pointless.
He shouldered her backpack for her, left the rest of the bags and other supplies behind the rear seat of the Jeep. They walked the first part of the way side by side, only an inch of space between them, but they did not touch. Then when the line of guest cottages came into view, they grabbed for one another’s hands at precisely the same time, creating a welter of awkward motion that caused Meg to laugh and John to smile at her laughter. It was as if they’d never properly mastered such a simple task as holding hands.
Her breath hitched when she saw Faye walk out onto the porch. She did a double take when she glimpsed Meg, and a triple take when she noticed her hand entwined in John’s. Meg squeezed tighter, and John returned the pressure.
“Margaret Lowry,” Faye drawled as soon as they were within comfortable hearing distance. She drew out the first syllable like Meg’s mother had when she was young and in trouble. They stopped at the bottom of the first step.
“I got your note,” said Faye. She looked smug, which would have worried Meg had it been anyone else. Then again, maybe she was just stoned.
“Faye, this is John Stovall,” said Meg. “John, Faye Annenberg. We went to Berkeley together.”
Faye’s hand hung like a wilted flower from her proffered wrist, as if she expected John to kiss it. Meg sucked her lips into her mouth to keep from giggling when he gave it a clumsy shake instead.
“Good to meet you,” said John.
“Enchanté,” Faye agreed.
John gave her his best debonair smile, then cleared his throat and took a step back. “Will I see you later?” he asked quietly so only Meg could hear.
“I’ll try, later tonight. Before you’re asleep.”
This was the part where he should have kissed her. Meg could see Faye lingering in her peripheral vision, and she knew John could sense her continued presence as well. She saw the conflict in his eyes and wished she could just pull the trigger and put them both out of their misery.
Finally he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss on her cheek. “Till tonight, then,” he said. Meg nodded slightly and gave him the most reassuring smile she could muster.
“Take care, Faye,” John called, waving as he walked away.
“Wow,” said Faye. Meg turned slowly to face her roommate. “That was some serious sexual tension just now. Please tell me you’ve already balled him.”
Meg only just managed to suppress an eye roll. “No comment,” she replied, breezing past Faye to carry her bag into their room. Unfortunately, the other woman was right on her heels.
“Meg, this is outstanding,” she said, falling heavily onto the squeaky excuse for a mattress. “I can’t believe you fucked him!” Faye’s voice was that of a giddy adolescent. Clapping her hands, she said, “Right on, girl. Seriously, well done - he’s a god among men. Only about fifty million times better looking than Rick Fucking Iverson.”
Meg sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. She wasn’t sure what to make of Faye’s relentless cheerleading. She was generally so mellow - it wasn’t like her to act so high-strung. (Just one more reason to believe she’s on something, Meg concluded.)
“Contrary to what you may assume, John isn’t just some twisted way of getting my revenge on Rick. Rick can have his happiness, and he can leave me to mine.”
* * *
Instead of a sit down dinner, this evening the lodge was serving burgers and hot dogs on its massive veranda. Meg walked with Faye and Mary Ann to load up their plates before joining the others at a picnic table they’d staked claim to in the woods. Meg’s heart beat marginally faster when she realized they were in the same spot Rick had broken up with her five days prior. How long ago it seemed, now.
Faye went to join Don; he grumbled good-naturedly as she lowered herself into his lap, effectively blocking his view of the game of five-card stud he was playing (and apparently winning) against Alan. Farther along the table, Paul sat with a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his pursed lips, shuffling a second deck of cards. Rick was seated across from him with Alice leaning into his side, twirling a strand of her flaxen hair around one finger. Mary Ann made her way over to them without giving Meg a backward glance, leaving her to stand solo, her hands full of food she hardly felt like eating.
Meg gazed longingly through the trees as she took the vacant seat next to Alan. She couldn’t see John’s cabin from here, but she would have sworn she could feel its pull. She’d agreed to dinner with the group, not wanting to appear overly misanthropic, but she told herself she would go there straightaway once she was finished eating.
“Hey Meg.” Her head jerked up at the sound of her name to find Don holding up a flask. “Whiskey?” he asked.
“Give me that,” said Faye, snatching it from him to pour a little in her lemonade.
“No thank you,” Meg replied.
“Come on,” said Faye, “it’ll help you loosen up.” She thrust the flask at Meg but overshot, causing the sloshing metal container to careen near the edge of the table. Meg made a fumbling grab for it to prevent it from toppling over.
“I’ve got it,” said Alan, usurping the flask before Meg could grasp it. She blinked at him in surprise: quick reflexes were the last thing she expected from someone like him, especially given his current state of intoxication. Daydreaming though she may have been, she hadn’t missed the plastic bag full of freshly rolled joints he’d been passing around earlier (and even if she had, the acrid-sweet smell of pot smoke would’ve tipped off anybody who passed within twenty paces of their table).
Bewildered as she was by the sudden flurry of activity, she forgot to pay attention as Alan tipped some measure of whiskey into her cup. When she took a sip from it moments later, she nearly gagged.<
br />
“You OK?” asked Alan, glancing over his shoulder at her with an amused smile that, under the circumstances, she found irritating.
“How much did you put in here?” sputtered Meg, her eyes watering.
His laugh was an affable one. “Just the right amount, trust me.”
She was actively considering pushing the drink away and finding a new one just on principle when she felt a tap on the back of her shoulder. Seeing Rick behind her with an unreadable expression on his face, she quickly changed her mind about abandoning her drink.
“Can we talk?” he asked.
Why does he sound so serious? Meg wondered. What can we possibly have to talk about?
She nodded her assent, then collected her spiked lemonade as she rose to her feet. She tried but failed to shrug off Alice’s curious stare as she followed Rick farther into the darkening forest.
“Was Faye telling the truth?” he asked as soon as they were out of earshot of the others. “You ditched us so you could go camping with somebody else?”
“Faye said that?” she asked. His observation wasn’t entirely without basis, but still she found it hard to believe Faye could be so duplicitous as to portray her actions in such a way - in particular to a person she deigned to care so little for.
“Well, not exactly like that,” he admitted. She could smell the whiskey on his breath; idly she wondered how much he’d had to drink.
Which reminds me, she thought to herself as she raised her cup to take another swill of the concoction therein. She had a feeling she’d need it to make it through the rest of this conversation.
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