by Mandi Lynn
I reach out to the door handle, but stop when Dylan speaks up. “Do you mind if I follow you to the campground?” he asks.
I glance over, and his eyebrows are cinched, unsure.
“Sorry, I don’t want that to sound like I’m stalking you.” He tries to backpedal, nervous. “You just look really tired.”
I can barely react, but I nod my head as I climb out of the truck and get into the bus.
I lead the way, and Dylan follows close behind. A few minutes later, I pull the bus into my campsite, and Dylan parks behind me. I get out of my car, trying to come up with some witty joke to distract from the fact that I was more or less a mess today. Before I can get to his truck, he kills the engine and steps out, meeting me between our vehicles. I stop short, surprised.
“Do you need help setting up camp?” he asks, pointing to my bus.
I’m not sure what to say, mostly because I no longer have any idea what’s going on. Not that I mind him being here. I welcome it. I just don’t know what to expect from him anymore.
“Umm,” I say, looking back at the bus. “No, that’s all right. It’s just a one-person job. I’ll have it set up before you get back on the highway.”
Dylan nods. “Okay, well, let me know if you need anything,” he says, his words lingering in the air as he takes a few steps back to his truck.
My brain goes on high alert then, like it finally occurs to me what will happen once he drives off. I’ll be alone. My reaction is out of panic, not flirtation.
I take a few steps forward, following Dylan. “Wait,” I say. He turns, his eyebrows raised in surprise. I’d followed so close behind that we’re practically chest to chest. And then I realize I didn’t plan what to say. I take a half-step backward. “I have s’mores.” Because that’s apparently the best thing I can come up with.
Dylan smiles, with a sort of breathy laugh. “We’re just doing all the sweets today, aren’t we?”
“I have hot dogs too,” I say. The words come out without thinking, and I want to kick myself.
Dylan laughs again, this time less nervous. He follows me to the bus, and I give him a quick tour while I open windows and put the pop-up out. As I set up the bus, my lingering dread shifts to nervousness; and then out of comfort or exhaustion, I find myself able to breathe easy again. The sun is beginning to set by the time we have the fire started. Dylan helps me pull the picnic table up to the side of the fire ring, and we sit with our backs against the table since I don’t have chairs.
“So, how long have you been on the run in that thing?” Dylan says, pointing toward the bus while he’s roasting a hot dog over the campfire.
“Not so much running away as running home,” I say. “But not long. Just two weeks, I think. Last week was Yellowstone.”
He smiles, seeming impressed. “How was it?”
I can’t help but smile myself, already missing exploring everything with Lori. It makes me wish we had had more time. Lori encouraged me to stay in Yellowstone by myself for a few more days, but I convinced myself the loneliness would seep in and I needed to keep moving.
“You’re exploring Yellowstone and Colorado, and you want to run home?” he asks. “Is the company here that bad?”
“The company isn’t too bad,” I say, making a sad attempt to hide my smile.
Dylan looks over to me and grins. “I’m going to pretend that you’re talking about me, just for the sake of my ego.” He takes his hot dog off the skewer and places it in a bun. I do the same with my own. “How long do you think you’ll stick around?”
That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Because I did what I came here to do. I hiked the fourteen-thousand-foot mountain and it went… less than perfect. I expected that when I got to the top of that mountain, the same mountain my dad wanted to summit, that I would know what to do. Instead I feel more lost than ever.
“Maybe another day or two,” I say, taking a bite of my food.
“Can I convince you to stick around for another hike?”
I smile a bit at the obvious flirting. “You don’t want to hike with Stacey?”
He laughs and leans back into the table, more relaxed. “Stacey doesn’t want to hike with me. Or I should say we don’t like the same types of hikes. She likes short walks in the woods. I like long treks through the mountains.”
“No friends you can drag along for your mountain treks?”
He shakes his head. “No way. I mean, yes, some of them, but once in a blue moon because they’re sick of me bugging them about it. Trent is my latest victim, but he doesn’t have the endurance for it. I’m looking for someone who hikes every week.” He glances over to me, expectant, a sly smile across his face.
I finish my food and shake my head. “I used to hike more,” I finally say.
“And now you don’t?” Dylan asks, finishing off his hot dog.
I can feel my face drop because there’s no way to explain it without reminding him of what happened to my parents. And that’s not a wound I want to reopen tonight. At least not when I know Dylan will have to leave soon, and I’ll be alone again.
“It’s a long story,” I say.
Dylan nods his head. His face is glowing from the light of the fire. The surrounding woods are getting dark, and campers are sitting at their own fires. Quiet voices are all around us.
I glance over at Dylan, and I can see him thinking, taking in what little information I’m giving him and trying to piece things together. For a while, the loudest sounds are the crackling fire, and it’s a comforting white noise. It reminds me of camping trips with my parents. The perfect little memories from when I was just a kid. I hold on to those, reveling in the memories.
“Did you stop hiking because of your dad?” Dylan asks, his voice soft. When I glance over to him, his eyes are pleading, and I drop my gaze.
I can feel myself start to fidget. I want to run off, hide in the bus somewhere, but I also can’t bring myself to take a step away from Dylan. I tighten my grip around my torso and try to remind myself to breathe. The panic is real, and it floats over me, always reminding me to feel these things that I wish would go away.
“Hey, Marly,” Dylan says.
One of his hands reaches out for me, brushing my shoulder, but I don’t feel like I’m in my own body anymore. That’s when I realize I’m crying. I feel frozen, my body heavy, and I know I’m here at the campfire, but it feels like I’m somewhere else, much further away. My cheeks are wet with tears, and I want to brush them away, but I can’t move. He keeps saying my name, asking me to look at him. But I can’t. I can’t look at him.
Finally, I listen to his voice and I turn to the sound, trying to focus until finally I see him. He has brown eyes, maybe hazel? It’s hard to tell. But I can see him.
“I didn’t mean to push,” he says, hand lingering on my back like it had when we were on the mountain, but this time he doesn’t lift it away. “I’m sorry.” The pity is there in his eyes. An angry part of me wants to push his arm away and ignore it, but the tired, exhausted part of me wants to soak it in, if only for a moment.
He drops his hand and rests it behind me on the table, not touching me, but still there. I contemplate leaning into him and closing that gap, if only to have the comfort of his contact. But we stay separate. I watch the fire as the flames lick the edges and burn the wood. Dylan won’t speak, and I wait until everything stops spinning around me before I do.
“They were driving to come see my dorm room,” I say. “They weren’t going to come because they both had to work that day, but they ended up calling in sick to come visit. My mom and I fought a lot about college. I didn’t want to go, but eventually I gave in. I wanted my parents to come and see that I settled in okay and that I was liking my classes. It was my way of saying sorry for fighting so much about it. I kept bugging them about coming to visit because it was parents’ weekend and th
e campus was putting on a bunch of events that day.” I can’t look at Dylan as I talk. Instead, I watch the fire, letting it take my focus. He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his eyes on me. “I just wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t insisted they visit. I just wanted them to see my dorm room. My roommate and I had spent the entire summer planning it out, and we were both just so excited to show our parents. It seems so stupid now.”
“It’s not stupid,” Dylan says.
I let out a laugh, but it feels more like I’m going to cry. “It’s not a good reason to die,” I say.
“It would have happened anyway,” Dylan says.
I react quickly, sitting up and turning to him.
Dylan is right there, his face only inches away. “Like in those movies about time travel. If it wasn’t a car accident, it might have been something else. It was meant to happen, no matter how hard that is to see right now. And it wasn’t your fault.”
Our eyes are locked on each other’s, and I nod, but the doubt is still there.
It seems like a loose excuse to call their death fate.
“That’s the thing, though,” I say, my eyes focused on him. “Even if it was fate, it never stops me from feeling like it was my fault.”
Chapter 16
Dylan leaves when we run out of firewood to burn. I never look to see what time it is. But he leaves with a quick goodbye, and I retreat into the bus, falling asleep faster than I ever have, purely out of exhaustion.
When I wake, I’m still in my hiking clothes, and the bed is only half-assembled. I had folded the table down and pulled the cushion out, but I never set up the blankets, so I fell asleep on a pile of sheets. How the night ended is mostly a blur because I was so tired.
When I crawl out of bed, I ignore everything that happened the previous day and focus on the fact that I still smell like someone who spent the entire day in a gym with no AC and then rolled around in the mud. Hikers’ stench is many things, but mostly BO and moist dirt.
The building with showers is a few sites away, and other campers are already up by the time I make my walk over. There are five showers, and when I get there, two of them are already taken. The showers aren’t anything spectacular. The building is a glorified shed. The walls don’t go all the way to the ceiling, so steam never gets trapped in, but it also means birds can come in. From my shower stall, I can see at least one bird’s nest. The shower itself isn’t the cleanest—the tiled floor is a little muddy, but I’ve seen worse as a backpacker. I rinse off quickly, feeling like a new person by the time I’m done, the fresh scent of soap coating my skin.
When I get back to the bus, I finally look at my phone. There’s a long string of messages from Lori, asking how the hike went, and then lots of worried messages when I don’t respond. I end up sending a quick text to let her know I’m okay and that I was just tired when I got back. Not a lie, but also missing some important elements.
There’s also a text from Dylan.
Not sure what time you’re waking up. But when you see this, let me know if you want to meet for breakfast (or lunch if it’s late).
It’s 9:45, and the text was sent ten minutes ago, probably when I was in the shower.
I respond. Breakfast sounds good. Where do you want to meet?
It doesn’t take long for him to respond, which makes me smile. I’ll come to you. Pick you up at 10:15?
Why drive all this way? I’ll meet you there.
I’ll pick you up. See you soon, he responds without giving me an address to meet him.
I sigh, tossing my phone into the pile of sheets, frustrated and excited at once. It’s weird getting ready to see Dylan because this is the first time we’re seeing each other without climbing mountains being a part of the itinerary. For hiking, I wear workout gear with lots of layers, and my hair pulled back. I’m shuffling through the bus for jeans, a cute blouse, and a real bra—not a sports bra. I let my hair fall around my face and comb it out, most of it already dry, which is good since I don’t have a hairdryer.
I’m importing the pictures from my camera onto my laptop when Dylan pulls up. He gets out of his truck and walks over to the bus before I have the chance to put my laptop away. He knocks on the window, and I push the door open for him.
“Sleep good?” he asks, leaning into the bus. I’m struck immediately by how different he looks outside of his hiking gear. In a good way, of course. The weather is warm, so he’s in jeans and a T-shirt, his hair gelled back a little.
“I don’t even remember going to bed, so I’d say so,” I say. Dylan smiles at me and watches as I click through some of the photos from yesterday.
“Are those the photos from our hike?” he asks, leaning in close to get a better look.
“Yeah, I wanted to upload them to my online drive. Add them to the collection.” I sort through the photos, marking off my favorites.
“Collection?” he asks. He moves to sit beside me on the bench, which is a tight fit in the bus.
“I have all my photos backed up online, and then sometimes I’ll print off my favorites. My room at home is just a wall of photos,” I say, then realize I’m talking about my childhood home, not the apartment. My apartment room is devoid of photos. Besides my bed and clothes thrown around, you’d never know I lived there.
“What are some of your favorites?” he asks, pointing to the computer screen.
I click through the folders on my laptop, knowing the answer immediately. “Usually the trips that have something unique to them. Like this one.” I pull up a picture of my dad eating his lunch on Mount Willey. Gray jays are sitting on the branches behind him, waiting to steal his food. “The jays were a little too friendly that day and managed to steal a few pieces of my dad’s sandwich. And then there’s this one.” I pull up a picture that my dad took of me. “This was my first time trying to backpack with a hammock. I didn’t know how to secure it, so in the middle of the night one of the sides fell, but I was so tired I didn’t bother fixing it and just slept on the ground.” In the photo, it’s early morning, and the trees are glowing from the sunrise. My dad pulled out the camera to get a photo of me curled up in a sleeping bag on the ground, surrounded by a bed of ferns with the hammock still underneath me.
“Do you still backpack with a hammock?” Dylan asks, laughing.
“No, that was my first and last time sleeping in a hammock. I’ve always preferred the ground, even if it can be a little harder to find a spot to camp out.”
“Have you gone backpacking while you’ve been here?” he asks.
I shake my head, closing the laptop and hiding it under the seat like I always do when I’m away from the bus. “No, all the hiking I’ve done so far has been with you and your sister.”
“We’ll have to fix that then,” he says, getting up and stepping out of the bus. “Come on, let’s go to breakfast.” He offers a hand to help me step out of the bus.
A half-hour drive later, Dylan pulls up to a diner that’s much larger than I expect. I assumed we would pull up to a small mom-and-pop restaurant that matched the tiny town feel of the rest of the surrounding buildings. Instead, the diner is large and looks newly renovated with perfectly trimmed bushes and freshly painted siding.
When we walk inside, it opens up to booth after booth, walls lined with countless photos. The photos have no rhyme or reason. There are landscape photos, candids, and photos from festivals, as well as pictures of flowers and animals scattered over the walls at random with frames of every shape, size, and color.
“Over here,” Dylan says, leading the way to a booth in the far corner of the diner.
“What’s up with all the photos?” I ask, my eyes falling to each one as we pass by. My gaze lingers on one that looks like it was captured on top of a mountain at sunrise, with the cloudy undercast making the ground look like an expanse of ocean.
“The owners used to trave
l and loved to showcase their photos. They started letting local photographers display their photos too, and sell them to whoever was interested. Eventually the walls became nothing but photos, and people traveled just to eat and buy some of the prints. The owners later renamed it Snapshot Café to go with the theme. Some travel blogs started to feature the café on their websites, and now it’s a tourist destination. This place used to be a lot smaller, but about two years ago, they built an addition. And the photos change out quickly. Give it a couple of weeks, and almost every photo will be new. Once one print is purchased, it’s replaced with another one.”
I turn around the room, my eyes landing on more photos than I’ve ever seen. Each frame has a small round sticker with a handwritten price. The one closest to me is a $50 print of a seagull flying off into an orange and yellow sunset on the beach.
“Have you ever sold any of your prints?” Dylan asks, handing me one of the menus that are sitting in a holder at the end of the table.
“No, most of my photos are just for fun. I used to take portrait photos in high school. A few people paid me to take senior photos of them, and it just sorta caught on.” I avoid the part where I also tried to sell my photos as stock photos, but got nowhere.
“You still do that?”
I shake my head. “Not for the past year or so,” I say. I had a few people contact me when senior photo season kicked off, but I turned them down. Word spread quickly, and eventually people stopped asking.
Dylan glances up at me, past the menu, and gives a shy smile.
“Well, maybe this is the place where you can get your photography feet off the ground again,” he says, putting his menu down. He glances around the diner until he finds a blank spot on the wall. “That’s your spot,” he points. “Pick your favorite photo, and put it there.”
I shake my head, but I can’t help but smile.
“For real. You need to do it. I bet I can get you in.”
“Okay, how do I get up on that wall?” I say, putting my menu down.