Backing out of Mollie’s room, I decide to let her sleep for a while longer. I head into my living room, pulling up my Instagram and navigating over to her account. She calls herself The Travel Hag, which is hilarious to me because she is about as far from a hag as you can get. Mollie says she came up with that name because she lives so frugally. She doesn’t wear makeup, cuts her own hair, and shops in thrift stores for her clothing. She doesn’t use expensive beauty products, either. If she’s not bathing in cold mountain streams, she’s taking quick showers at campgrounds. She doesn’t even own a hairdryer, preferring to let her long locks dry naturally come winter or summer.
She once told me her only real luxury is buying expensive women’s razors because while she’s a wanderer, she doesn’t believe in hairy legs and pits.
I flip through the IG photos she copies over from her website blog. She does lengthy written articles on her website, but her Instagram pages are filled with the most amazing and beautiful photos imaginable. She’s not only a fantastic wordsmith, but Mollie knows how to capture the perfect photograph just with the use of her iPhone.
I smile as I flip through them. I’ve seen them all before, and I’m sure I’ll look at them again after today. Many of the photos are just scenery—wondrous mountain ranges, stunning beaches, or fields filled with wildflowers. Some she takes using the timer so she’s in the picture with the view behind her. She loves to practice yoga, and often posts photos of herself in various positions with the gorgeous landscape behind her. While I try not to think of Mollie in a certain way, I cannot deny she has a fantastic body. Lithe but curvy in all the right places. Her muscles are toned and sleek. Her skin is golden-hued, her caramel-colored hair streaked from the sun. Many of her photos have Samson and her together, and it’s easy to see deep within their eyes they have an unbreakable bond. She adopted him from the shelter six years ago when she started traveling.
And many of her blog articles and photos are focused on how to travel on a budget. Mollie’s most significant expenditure—an investment made by her parents—was a customized van that has everything she could need. Storage for food items and clothing, a bed that converts out of the way into a small kitchen, and she even outfitted the vehicle with solar panels to provide for her electricity.
Mollie Callister is a one-of-a-kind woman.
Tossing the phone on the couch beside me, I kick my feet up on the coffee table and reminisce how this friendship started. Ten years ago, when we were both eighteen and freshmen at Boston College, I saw her walking across the quad while I strutted along with my new hockey teammates since I had been recruited to play there. And I thought she was the most beautiful thing in the entire world. I approached her with the sole intention of getting a date, but what I found instead was a girl completely lost and struggling to fit in.
I suppose people would say it was fated, but it turns out Mollie and I were both from Southern California and grew up in towns about an hour apart from each other. It was that shared background of growing up on the beaches of SoCal that helped build the bond of a strong friendship. And while I quickly determined that even though I was crazily attracted to her, Mollie needed a friend more than anything. For some reason, I was happy to provide it.
From that first week of school, we became close friends. We only had one class together that first year—English—but we spent a lot of our downtime studying together in the library. My time was more limited than hers because I had practice, and the hockey season went from October to March of the school year. But whenever there was an opportunity, we hung out. Mollie came to all the home games to cheer me on. She became an honorary member of the hockey team because she was always with me. We confided in each other, and we could spend hours just talking.
She became “Noodle” to me, a nickname I bestowed upon her when she got very drunk one night at a party. I’d had to carry her three blocks back to her dorm while she was limp as a noodle, passed out in my arms. Of course, this was after I found some guy trying to take advantage of her drunken state at a frat party. I had to first beat the shit out of him before I could take her back to her dorm and tuck her in for the night. I’d sat in a chair by her bed until the next morning to make sure she didn’t need to throw up.
Our freshman year of college is where the foundation of friendship was laid. That summer, in between our freshman and sophomore years, was when we became best friends.
After nine months of living the college life together in Boston, we’d both returned to our Southern California towns and spent more time together than we ever had. While we both had summer jobs, we spent our weekends on the beach hanging out with mutual friends and partying.
The next three years at Boston College were a blur. I played hockey, and they were some of the best times of my life. It ultimately led me to the professional league. Mollie and I both dated—we just never dated each other. We were best friends, and that’s the way it stayed. Our summers were spent on the beaches and having dinners in each other’s homes. Her parents became my parents, and mine became hers. Everyone in our families always marveled that a boy and a girl could stay only friends, yet we did it. Everyone said we should always be more, but we ignored them.
Not that we didn’t try… once.
In her sophomore year, Mollie’s boyfriend broke up with her and left her heart shattered into a million pieces. We hung out in my dorm room that night, sharing a bottle of vodka. We both got very drunk. She kissed me, then asked me if it was a bad kiss.
Because she was my best friend and I loved her as such, I felt safe in telling her it was the best kiss of my life. We kissed again, and it turned into more. Alcohol fueled our desires, and we had sex. It was sloppy, drunk, and we laughed all through it all, but fuck… we both came hard.
And then… we were awkward. But we loved each other enough as friends that we quickly concluded it was a mistake. We agreed to move forward and not look back.
There may come a day when I am old, gray, and reflecting on my life that I might say that decision was the biggest mistake of my life. Not having sex with Mollie, but in pretending it was wrong and we should move on.
Suddenly, I hear something from within the guest room, sounding very much like Samson jumping off the bed. I start to get up, thinking he needs a potty, but then I hear her door open. Mollie exits with Samson at her heels. Her hair is a complete and utter mess. While she had put it in some type of knot on top of her head to go to sleep, the hours upon hours of tossing and turning back and forth have made it into a tangled mass I’m quite concerned she might not ever get a brush through. I sure as shit would hate to see all that brown, caramel, and honey-colored hair have to be cut.
Mollie yawns, her blue gaze drifting into the living room before landing on me. She scratches at her stomach, then sort of stumbles her way toward me.
With a sheepish grin, she flops on the opposite end of the couch and kicks her legs up, planting her feet down so her knees are bent. She glances down at her legs, bare from the shorts she’s wearing, then runs her hands along her calf with a grimace. “Gross… I need to shave.”
Samson lays down on the floor beside her, giving a “chuff” as if he agrees.
I glance at her legs, and yeah… she needs a shave. She also needs a shower and a good toothbrushing by my best estimate, but I keep those thoughts to myself.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go back to bed and sleep another twenty hours of your life away?” I tease.
She nods again, laying her head against the cushion. “I had no clue I was that tired. Thanks for taking care of Samson so I could sleep.”
“Are you sick?” I blurt out. I had talked myself out of that being a possibility, but fuck… I’d like to know sooner rather than later if that’s the case.
Mollie rolls her eyes. “Of course not, dummy. If I were sick, I would be at some world-renowned medical facility getting life-saving treatment.”
“Then why the long hibernation?” I ask.
She shr
ugs, her gaze going down to the hem of her T-shirt where she picks at it with her fingers. “I think it all just caught up to me, Kane. I’ve been on the go for so long, living so hard and fast, taking care of myself and battling the great unknown, I feel like I’ve just walked into a brick wall. Is that weird?”
Reaching out, I take her hand in mine, which forces her eyes to come back up to me. I shake my head. “Not weird. I think your body might be telling you it’s time to rest for a bit. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you want.”
Mollie smiles with such gratitude it makes my heart skip a beat. She doesn’t need to be thankful to me in that way. It’s a given I would offer her anything she needed.
“I want you to go take a shower,” I order. “Brush the fur off those teeth. Put on something that’s at least clean, but wrinkles are acceptable given your nomadic lifestyle. And then I’m going to take you out for a good meal.”
Her smile appears brighter, and she nods. “That sounds nice.”
I smile back.
What I don’t tell her is we’re going to talk, because as much as she would like to believe I’d buy that vague shit that she walked into a brick wall and just needs a rest, she seems to have forgotten I know her probably better than anyone in this world.
And she’s hiding something from me.
CHAPTER 3
Mollie
For the first time in a long time, I feel like my old self. A woman who can smile easily, secure in the fact I don’t have a single worry hanging over me. I felt that way just before I went off to Boston College when I was eighteen. It was so hard leaving the bosom of my close-knit, small-town family to move across the country to a big, loud city full of strangers.
I chose Boston College for a couple of reasons. First, I wanted an adventure. That was something that had always been an integral part of my being. As much as I loved the security of my home life, I yearned to see the world, and Boston was a good choice. The second reason was because my father went to Boston College, so there was a family legacy there.
And when I got there, I was just completely lost. Alone, afraid, and feeling like I’d made a mistake. It was the first time I doubted whether I could genuinely be out on my own and take care of myself.
Kane Bellan changed all that when I met him. While he may never know the depths to which he helped build my confidence back up, I can truly credit him with changing my life. Over the years we spent there together, and in the summers back home, he helped validate I am an adventurer. The simple way in which he did it made me believe in myself.
It was that confidence he helped instill, by continually giving me affirmation on my wild notions of wanting to be a travel blogger one day, that helped to launch me out on a whirlwind career of travel and adventure. I can never repay him for that.
Funny that when I find I’ve hit a low point in my life, it’s not my parents I turn to for help. As much as I love them like the air I breathe, it’s Kane I need to be near in times such as these.
Tonight was great—low pressure. I showered and shaved, and, of course, brushed the fur from my teeth. I even took advantage of his hairdryer, because he’s a man who doesn’t mind the vanity of styling his hair, and I was feeling somewhat pretty when we stepped out for dinner. We walked from his city apartment to a tapas restaurant and drank sangria while we sampled different dishes. I knew he was worried about me, but he kept the talk light and comfortable.
I appreciated it, but I’m not stupid. I can still see the worry in his eyes, and I know he’s going to push me on it. Because he’s my best friend, I’ll confide in him.
Yes, I travel for a living. I barely manage to see Kane a few times each year. I try to catch a game of his, and during summer breaks when he comes home to visit his family, I’ll coordinate trips back so we can hang for a bit. We talk by phone frequently, and we text almost every day. There has never been a lull in our friendship over the ten years since we first met, and frankly… I don’t know what I’d do without him.
We have a lovely walk back to his apartment after dinner, the summer night perfect. We take Samson for a quick potty, then, upon Kane’s suggestion, we open a bottle of wine to enjoy on his patio that overlooks downtown Phoenix.
His patio is quite large, holding a gas grill on one end and a table that seats four on the other. It could do with a few potted plants out here, but they’d never survive given how much Kane travels.
We settle into our chairs, quietly sipping at our wine, and look out over the city streets below. Samson settles down on the concrete near the railing, pushing his nose through the metal poles, and sniffs the city air.
It’s Kane who makes a move to poke into my business. “So, are you going to tell me why you’re here?”
I had indeed planned a visit to see him in October, but circumstances led me here almost a month early with no forewarning. I know he’s worried.
I shrug, not sure where to begin. “Would you accept I’m having an existential crisis?”
“Way too vague,” he replies with a chuckle.
I take another sip of wine, this one larger than the last. A clear sign I need fortification, and Kane’s eyes narrow slightly. My gaze moves back out over the cityscape, and I admit, “There was an incident. I was attacked.”
Kane doesn’t say anything, but, from the corner of my eye, he sits up straighter in his chair. I can almost feel pulses of violence coming off him.
It reminds me of when we were back in college, and I got drunk at a frat party. I have no recollection of the event, but the next day he told me some guy had been on top of me in a bedroom, and I’d probably been pretty close to getting raped. I don’t know what he did to the guy, but he told me the problem had been handled.
He carried me home that night, safe in his strong arms, and sat by my bed until the next morning when I woke up, hungover and feeling awful. When he’d recounted what happened, it was the same… waves of anger and a need to rain destruction down on someone that would dare hurt me.
Getting up the nerve to look across the table, I start to explain it correctly, so he can understand why I am indeed having a crisis.
“I’ve traveled to all fifty states,” I begin slowly, and he merely watches. He’s patient in that way. “Canada, Central America, Latin America. Europe twice. I’ve been so many places I need a spreadsheet to keep track.”
“I have a digital map I mark with every place you’ve been to,” he says. There’s such pride in his voice I feel a lump in my throat.
“You do?” I ask in awe.
“I always have my eye on you, Mollie,” he replies, but his voice has a hard edge. What it conveys is that while he watches from a distance, he can’t do much more than that.
I nod, understanding his dilemma. He’s been my protector from the start, and he can’t be effective at it with me so far away. That causes him pain.
I continue with my story. “All those places, I never felt in danger. You know I’m careful. I have Samson and a gun I know how to use. I choose my camping spots carefully, after hours and hours of research, to stay away from dangerous areas. I don’t pick secluded areas, knowing there is safety in numbers. And for the most part, I have nothing but wonderful experiences. Hundreds of places I’ve been to, meeting the nicest people. People like me, who travel the open roads… we sort of stick together and protect each other.”
Kane doesn’t say anything, but I can see a muscle ticking at the corner of his jaw. It tells me his jaws are clenched tight, bracing for what’s to come.
“It wasn’t a stranger,” I say softly.
Leaning forward across the table just slightly, he implores, “Just please get to it, Mollie.”
“It was Matthew,” I murmur, my eyes falling away from his hard gaze.
Matthew was the man I had been seeing for several months. Kane knows about him because I tell him pretty much everything. Although I find it interesting he never talked to me about the beautifully exotic woman coming out of his apartment yesterday
morning.
At any rate, Matthew Brighton and I had met in the Dakotas last summer, as he was on a two-month bike trek that was winding down. A free spirit, just like me. He blogged, just like me. Matthew was handsome, funny, and gregarious. We had so much in common it was inevitable we would hit it off, and I felt incredibly safe and secure inviting him to travel with me.
He followed my pre-planned route, and I slowed it to accommodate the number of miles he could make in a single day on the bike. We’d wake up in the morning, tangled in the sheets of my bed in the back of my van. I’d take off to the next spot, stopping to see sights, and he’d meet me at the next planned evening stop.
It was something.
It was good.
And he gave me something I was starting to understand had been greatly missing from my life.
Companionship from the severe isolation that can occur by living a life such as mine.
“But you two broke up,” Kane says in a low rumble of anger.
“Yeah… four months ago. And it wasn’t pleasant.”
“You didn’t tell me that,” he accuses.
I shrug. “It wasn’t a big deal. At least I didn’t think it was at the time.”
But the truth was, the more time I spent with Matthew, the more I saw his true self emerging. He became controlling and manipulative. He impeded the freedom I cherished so much, then he became scary when I wouldn’t abide by every single thing he wanted.
When I broke it off, there’d been lots of threats. It had scared me.
Luckily, I had a van that could go a lot faster than his bike. I drove four states away before I felt like I could breathe easy again.
Next came weeks of calls and texts I refused to respond to, and, eventually… he left me alone.
I explain this to Kane, watching his expression turn thunderous. Not toward me, but the man who would dare to scare me.
“I thought he was nothing but a bad memory,” I admit. “It had been a couple months since his last stalkerish text, and I never saw it coming.”
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