by Elaria Ride
But I’m far from done.
“Not on this mountain,” I continue, a vein ticking in my jaw. “Not ever. Are. We. Clear?”
For once, Nick cooperates — but I can tell he isn’t happy about it. “Aye aye, captain,” he whispers, his voice dripping with condescension.
Unfortunately, that’s as good of an apology as I’ll get.
I turn to the waitress and accept the proffered check with an apologetic shrug. She smiles back, but casts an uneasy glance at my companion. I make a silent vow to tip her extra.
Nick’s still glowering at me as I sign the check — for his breakfast, no less! — but I’m doing playing his games. I think I’ve made my point; I don’t tolerate jokes like that, regardless of our shared family history. I like to think my father would understand this; my mom’s a big girl herself. They raised me to respect women, not disparage them. Not even as a joke.
We head out of the restaurant in a stony silence. Nick and I don’t exchange a single word for the entire drive home, and I can’t help but feel a little proud of myself. Maybe a little public humiliation was just what Nick needed to pull his head out of his ass.
Sadly, there doesn’t seem to be much improvement in his attitude by the time we reach the park again. Nick lunges for the door handle the second my truck pulls into the visitor’s center. Under normal circumstances, I might give him a pep talk or some words of reassurance, but his chubby chaser comment had hit a nerve — and hard. I have patience for honest mistakes, but that had been deliberate... and if there’s one thing I won’t tolerate, it’s deliberate bullying.
Nick scatters out of the truck a second later, slamming the door behind him. He casts me one last scathing look from over his shoulder as he heads to the storage shed to start his chores — but on the way, he does something even weirder. For reasons best known to him, Nick pauses, just outside the shed… and without breaking my eye contact, he reels back his foot, swings it forward, and kicks the trunk of the youngest red cedar in the park.
“Hey!” I bellow, leaning out of my window. I hope my furious hand gesture conveys what I’d lose my job for voicing aloud: What the actual fuck, dude?
Nick slowly turns back to face me, that same creepy grin on his face. “Oh, sorry,” he simpers. “Guess I slipped.”
And then he turns, enters the shed, and slams the door behind him without a backwards glance.
For a few moments, I idle in my truck and stare at the shed, utterly unsure of what the hell to do with that. We both know there’s no way he’s done any real damage. Perhaps this was the point; the tree is the youngest in the park, but it’s still probably 60 feet high. If anyone were hurt, it would be Nick, not the tree.
Was that just retaliation for embarrassing him at the diner? Was he trying to get under my skin?
I shake my head as I pull out of the parking lot and head for my cabin. That dude is disturbed, but again, his transgressions aren’t exactly fireable. He hasn’t technically harassed an employee, he’s just annoyed me. And kicked a tree.
Whatever.
I set my jaw as I steer down the narrow path leading to my cabin. It probably doesn’t surprise you to learn that I live within walking distance of the park. After all, this job has all but become my identity. For me, it isn’t a steppingstone on the way up the corporate ladder. It’s not a resume-builder. It’s not a means to an end. I don’t really expect anyone else to understand this, though. Which is one of the many reasons I’ve remained single.
A smile crosses my face as my cabin comes into view from around the curve in the road. It’s just one floor, a squat A-frame, roughly 400 square feet… but to me, it’s perfect. The pipe chimney is releasing little puffs of smoke, looking cozy and picturesque against the white sky. Apart from my little house, there are only trees and leaves as far as the eye can see. Just how I like it.
For the past fifteen years, seclusion has been my dream. For that, this place really is ideal; I’m within walking distance of the park, but I’d never have to see another human if I didn’t want to.
And nine times out of ten? Yeah. I don’t want to.
My siblings and I built this place soon after I started working at the park, and it’s made with real building-grade, sustainable Bosco lumber. It’s also as close to park boundaries as you can get. We built the home exactly according to NNS specifications; while I’m not technically on protected land, it wouldn’t look good for the Biggal Mountain Senior Park Ranger to live in a McMansion beside the beaver habitat.
Luckily, a rustic cabin is a-ok with me, but I’d prefer some Wi-Fi signal now and again. That’s not an option, though — not according to the NNS. And as the hippie brother of the Bosco clan, I’ve made that work. Material stuff and technology have never really been my thing, anyway.
I swallow, pulling into the little patch of asphalt outside my cabin. It’s only now, as I stare at my little isolated home, that I allow my thoughts to drift to this morning. I shake my head. What the hell had come over me? There’s no excuse for what I did — none… but I’d be lying if I said that my very first meeting with Autumn hadn’t forced me to question every bachelor ideal I’ve tried to cultivate.
Before meeting her this summer, I’d been content. I’d accepted that happily-ever-after just didn’t happen for everyone. I’d been secure knowing that I’d only had one relationship — and although said relationship had crashed and burned, I’d learned from it. And moved on. It had been tough to watch my siblings get married and have kids, just like I’d always wanted… but I’d really, truly been fine.
Like I said… me and relationships work about as well as toothpaste and orange juice. Or toddlers and a raging hangover. I hadn’t entertained the thought of a relationship (much less a relationship with a co-worker) in over fifteen years. And for good reason.
And somehow — someway — it had taken approximately eight seconds for every wall I’d ever built, every falsely held belief I’d ever clung to come crashing down, right in front of my face.
I guess life has a funny way of surprising you, eh?
I sigh and put my truck in park. There’s no point in dwelling. My attraction to Autumn is just something I’ll eventually overcome.
I switch off the ignition and open the door, drawing a deep breath. Yep. Sure enough, it smells like snow — which means I made the right call in dropping the truck off at home and walking to the park. I’m a ranger with years of experience, but the thought of driving in ice still prickles the hairs on the back of my neck. It’s one of those things that’s haunted me for a long time. One of those things I don’t want to think about, even now.
Besides, I’ve known these woods since childhood. I’ll take a five-minute hike (in a bit of snow) over potentially crashing a car. I know the ins and outs of these woods: all the back ways, all the trails, all the paths. Making it home on foot will be a piece of cake.
What won’t be a piece of cake is the workload we’ll have today. For once, this might play in my favor. Between the incoming blizzard and a festival the next town over, I hope we’ll be so slammed that Nick and I won’t even make eye contact.
So with my mind on the future, I throw on my winter coat and hat and begin meandering through the familiar woodland path that leads to my job. The same job that’s also my life.
And as I step over the familiar brambles and logs leading back to the visitor’s center, I foolishly, foolishly allow myself to believe that’s the end of it with my nasty little co-worker.
5
Autumn
Fortunately, the rest of the day passes a lot more smoothly than the morning. Of course, I still smell like coffee. This isn’t ideal, but I’m not one to wallow; optimism has always gotten me further than self-pity. I change clothes and salt the parking lot without thinking about Asher too much. Idle hands are the devil’s playthings, after all… and around a park, there’s always lots to do.
This time of year we rarely get many visitors, which is why the NNS cut our staff back to three (
me, Asher, and Nick) until the first day of spring. Apparently, though, there’s a winter festival down in the valley which has attracted more people than expected. I guess the blizzard warnings haven’t been enough to keep everyone at home, but I’m not shocked. To quote one of my favorite movies, a person is smart — but people are stupid. This might sound mean, but I don’t think a single ranger would disagree.
Luckily, the folks who start filtering in around nine seem smarter than your average bear. The first few families ask for info on hiking trails and hunting restrictions, and I’m pleased that they seem to know what they’re talking about. I take special care to emphasize the predicted blizzard and to warn against going on long expeditions, but I can only do so much to prevent people from doing what they want: humans really are the most dangerous animals.
Nick comes back just a hair before ten thirty. He glowers at me in greeting as he slips behind the desk to relieve me of my duties, but we don’t exchange a single word otherwise. He’s a half hour late, but by now, that’s the least of my concerns. His tardiness means I’m running late for my ten fifteen ranger-led hike — and some idling visitors are getting antsy.
Nevertheless, I make the most of it; working with the public really is my favorite part of the job. I prefer working with kids, but during the school year, most of our visitors are retirees or ecology classes from the local community college. Today, everyone who has signed up for the hike belongs to the former group — which doesn’t bother me, either. I’m happy to share my love of nature with anyone who wants to know more.
As soon as I’m sure Nick’s got it, I head outside to begin. Six couples follow me out the door, chattering as they go. This is a smaller group than usual, which means things will be more intimate. I prefer smaller groups over larger ones. Chatting with people and learning their stories is my favorite part of the job.
I lead the group towards the smallest red cedar on our property, one just outside the parking lot. Today, we’re talking about the endangered birds on the preserve. I gesture to the tallest branch, asking if anyone can identify the tiny spot of brown up above.
My question is met with blank stares, as is often the case. I’m trying to see if anyone can connect the family of northern spotted owls to my stuffed friend in the visitor’s center, but it doesn’t look like I’ve hit the jackpot with this bunch. I continue my talk anyway, carefully sidestepping the admission that this little bird family only exists in this tree because of Asher.
Three months ago, he’d found the mother on the mossy ground, just feet from where I’m standing right now. She’d had a broken wing — and three little owlets to feed. Asher hadn’t hesitated to get her to the avian vet, and in the meantime, he’d made sure to feed the owlets. We’d even had a release ‘party’ when the mother hen had been healthy enough to return. Asher and I had been more excited than anyone else on staff.
I clear my throat uncomfortably as size pairs of eyes stare back at me. Oops. I’ve been rambling, haven’t I? I shake my head and apologize. I have a tendency to get embarrassingly sentimental about this whole thing.
The rest of the demonstration passes more quickly — but what gets far more attention than my lecture is the fact that I’m not wearing ranger attire. There’s more than one raised eyebrow as I squat in the mud to explain materials for bird nesting, but I don’t care; I doubt I’ll be wearing this outfit again.
When the demonstration ends, I bid everyone adieu and return to the center. Predictably, we’re slammed, and predictably, Asher’s already there. From the look of the lobby, you’d never know this is our dead season. Nick, Asher, and I don’t exchange a single word all morning. In the wake of the coffee incident, that’s a-ok with me.
The highlight of the day — if you can call it that — comes around one when a family of four enters the visitor’s center coated in a chemical-smelling substance and gasping for breath. Whatever the hell they’re covered in is so potent that everyone in the vicinity chokes and gags, too.
Asher and I are on the brink of calling hazmat when the father finally admits that he’d sprayed everyone down in a copious amount of bear spray… because he didn’t want bears following them home.
I summon every ounce of my hard-earned professionalism to keep my voice even (and to avoid rolling my eyes) as I inform them that bears hibernate in the winter.
And that bear spray is not the same as bug spray.
Still, we let the family use the restrooms to wash up as best they can. Nick rolls out the industrial-sized fan to clear the fumes from the lobby, and I make an unspoken vow to provide more education about bears. The drama about plant poaching has taken precedence over the past few months.
By the time five o’clock rolls around, I’m definitely ready to bounce. The lingering smell of stale coffee is making me queasy. Asher’s been driving me crazy all day with these longing-filled stares, mostly when he thinks I’m not looking.
Not that I’ve even begun to figure out what happened. All I really know is that we’d definitely leaned in to each other, and I could’ve sworn we’d been about to kiss… but Nick had stomped in and smashed all of that to hell. Like always, though, that’s for the best: I’m fat, happy, and single.
My life here is uncomplicated. Easy. Carefree.
I lock the place up as soon as the last visitor leaves, carefully taking all of my belongings with me as I go. I definitely won’t be able to access anything over the weekend, not with this blizzard rolling in.
The snow is already falling when I head to the parking lot. Everything from the cars to the light posts is coated in a thin, powdery dust, and I know it’ll only get worse the longer I wait. Visions of a hot bath and a glass of wine are dancing in my head when I finally slide into my car. My head’s pounding, too; most of my caffeine wound up on my clothes instead. I haven’t had my usual amount of caffeine. Yes… a nice, restful weekend is all I need to pretend that this morning never happened.
But the universe has other plans.
Just as I switch on the ignition, a knuckle raps against my driver’s side window. I’m startled, but not nearly as much as I had been this morning. I glance at the source of the noise, and almost groan before I catch myself. Of course. It’s Nick.
“YO!” he blurts, gesturing for me to roll down my window.
I set my jaw, resigning myself to whatever he has in mind. Fine. I’m tired, I’m smelly, but if I have to play his game to get to some Chardonnay faster, I will.
So I roll the glass down and rest my arm on the open window. “Can I help you, Nick?”
He gives me that same weird, creepy grin — the one I’ve hated from the first time we met — and for some reason, he takes my polite question as an invitation to rest his sweaty arm of top of mine.
Ugh. I recoil, wrinkling my nose, but none of this puts him off.
“You can’t leave yet!” Nick declares, grinning even wider. He’s unperturbed by both my expression and the snow that’s falling steadily onto his head and face. His teeth are horribly crooked, so yellow they’re nearly green in the growing darkness.
“And why not?” I prompt. My patience is running thin.
“Beee-cause!” Nick trills, his singsong voice ringing with sarcasm. “Ranger Bosco has specifically requested your help… for a mission you must guess!” He releases my trapped arm to clap his hands in delight, but his eyes still hold a predatory twinkle.
I sigh and lean back against my headrest. I’m not sure what this dude is going for, but he picked a shitty day to mess with me.
“Then why didn’t Ranger Bosco use his walkie to ask me himself?” I grit. This probably comes out harsher than I’d intended — but I seriously don’t have time for this, not with a blizzard coming.
My question takes Nick aback for a second.
“Huh. Fuck if I know,” he says thoughtfully. Then he puts his hands in his pockets and looks around the snowy parking lot. If he were anyone else, I’d say he’s just a socially awkward weirdo who doesn’t know how to
end a conversation.
But he’s not anyone else. He’s Nick. I can tell he’s getting a sick thrill out of making me wait.
“Nick,” I intone, using my best managerial you’re-a-moron voice; I don’t have time for guessing games. “There’s a blizzard coming. You need to tell me what to do.”
Nick shifts his beady little eyes over to my face; his expression hardens at my request, but I’m still not expecting the words that fall from his lips.
“Has anyone ever told you,” he says, positively glowering, “that you’re a real fucking kill-joy?”
… wait, what?!
I reel back, disgusted and confused. Who does this asshole think he is?! I’m not the type to pull rank, but that language is downright inappropriate in the workplace. Before I express any of this, though, Nick bends over and lifts an EnviroBucket up to the window.
“Ranger Bosco called five minutes ago,” Nick seethes, spitting out Asher’s name like it’s poison on his tongue. “Apparently a few jackasses littered up the edge of Holiday Canyon. Left a huge mess. Sounds like there might be a gas spill.”
He finishes with a satisfied leer; if I didn’t know better, I’d say he could hear my weekend plans dissolving around me like shattered glass. I groan and slam my head against the seat again; what was once a dull headache is now a pounding throb.
“He asked me to get you,” Nick continues, still unvexed by my reaction. “You are the resident expert on environmental contaminants.”
… Ok, is it just me, or did he say that with contempt, too?
I massage my temples, closing my eyes for just a second. I’m not sure what Nick is playing at — but his request (even if legitimate) has been laced with blatant attempts at getting under my skin.
What Nick doesn’t know is that I have years of experience refusing to take the bait. He will not ruin my streak.
So I summon all shreds of remaining composure and fix him with my best professional nod.