Short Term Relationships, page 7
“Thanks. Morning, Nathan,” Kate greeted as she stared, lifting the Sun Valley mug to her lips, its contents piping hot and delicious. Of course, it was the Sun Valley mug, reminding her of the life she used to have.
As she stared, suspended in that split-second pause before talking again, she noticed Nathan’s hair was more than the normal, I-have-a-hangover ruffled. More than rockstar-lead-singer-who-just-played-a-gig ruffled. More than I-woke-up-like-this-and-left-it ruffled. Liza must have come clean the night before. They must have been up all night having pent-up, we’ve-wanted-this-for-way-too-long sex. Her mind ran away with the possibilities.
“Great concert last night,” Kate continued as she played the scenarios. “You guys killed it. I’m more of a country fan, but I love your style, the way you write such personal, heartfelt songs, and your covers are awesome—oh, crap. I can’t stop talking. I’m just—what the fuck is going on?”
“Well,” Liza started, once again taking Nathan’s hand, unable to soften the smile that had formed as Kate had been rambling, “we have decided to be more than friends.”
Liza and Nathan didn’t know that Kate was in a fragile emotional place that day or that she’d broken up with Monroe the night before. They didn’t know she’d been talking to her mother, who wanted her to come home, or that she’d run into Emily at the park and their conversation had sparked her to reminisce about her ex-wife and go into a junk TV and junk food spiral. They knew none of that, and she’d make sure they didn’t. This was an important day for them; they deserved the spotlight.
“That’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time!” Kate enthused, “What happened?”
As the new couple recounted the night before—Liza’s card, Nathan’s surprise and receptiveness, their agreement to try things out, Kate let them talk—mostly to themselves, as if they were validating to each other that it happened, they were together now.
“I think this is wonderful news,” Kate said, standing from the couch where they’d convened, her coffee mug drained. “And, Nathan, you’re the first person I know of who has managed to get her to skip a Saturday ride, so I’d say you’re doing something right already.”
“Thanks,” Nathan said, just then realizing his hair was a bird nest and attempting to casually smooth it down. “I’m not so sure she’s not going to do that ride, but I’ll take credit for at least delaying it.”
“You know her so well! I think I’m gonna leave you two lovebirds alone. I need to take care of a few things, and I’m sure you want to go back to bed.” Kate winked her signature wink as she said “back to bed,” tapping her left thigh to alert her dogs it was time to go, and started towards the stairs, stopping to give them both a hug on the way. “I’m really happy for you.”
And she was. Really happy for them.
And yet.
She was still in a cloudy headspace, perhaps made worse by the news that her best friend was entering an adult, mutually respectful, meant-to-be kind of relationship. They say timing is everything. That your person will appear when the time is right and you’re ready for them. That when you least expect it, you’ll bump into someone in a crowded coffee shop or at a party or on the bus, and “boom!” Hearts will explode like a cartoon bubble over your head, and that will be that. Soap operas, and the romance novels she secretly read and kept under her bed, told the stories of lovers who couldn’t keep their hands off each other and rode off into the sunset together after meeting through a chance encounter.
They lie, Kate thought as she climbed the stairs to her room, deciding her mother was right. She needed a change of scenery, and there was only one solution to the sorrow she was unexpectedly drowning in: She was going to go camping.
TEN
In minutes, she had a plan and found herself locating essentials for an overnight getaway: Tent, sleeping pad, snacks and instant coffee; dog food and toys; her current trashy novel.
Before she even loaded Dallas and Hunter, and even with minimal supplies, the back of Kate’s Jeep was packed. She couldn’t help but think something she’d thought for at least a year: It was time to get a bigger car. That Jeep—its spunky yellow paint, knobby mud tires, fancy soundbar—had been a big part of her identity for nearly a decade. Just like her short hair—with its highlighted tips—maybe the Jeep was spunkier and less practical than she felt the need to be anymore. Maybe it was time to move on.
“Let’s go, boys,” Kate yelled as she laid a couple of towels across the backseat, summoning her best friends to jump in. They obliged, tails wagging. They loved an adventure just as much as their mom.
As she clicked the garage door button and shifted the Jeep into reverse, Kate laughed to herself. She didn’t think camping was on the radar that morning, when she woke up with a big to-do list forming in her head. She certainly didn’t think it when she later found herself on the couch, preparing to binge soaps and wallow in her sadness. “Camping is just what we need, guys. Right?”
No answer. Tongues spilling out of mouths. She assumed they agreed.
The journey to Lake Crescent would take a while, and that was a good thing. Driving always helped. Detaching from her problems was easier on the road, with music enveloping her entire world. Her mind was free to wander to topics other than romantic relationships. Or lack thereof.
But first, they had to take a ferry to the other side of Puget Sound, the iconic white and green boat waiting to shuttle her toward the Olympic Peninsula, toward her home for the evening. With the Jeep parked on the ferry deck, perfect lines of cars parked to optimize every inch of space, Kate took a deep breath. The smell of salt water combined with gasoline hit her as it always did—a comforting reminder of where she was and where she was going.
Dogs were allowed on the upper decks of the ferries, but the ride was so short that it wasn’t worth the hassle of corralling them. She made her way out of the auto decks and up the small, steep staircases, painted extreme bright white—perhaps to make them seem bigger?—up to the bow of the boat. The place with the best view and least chance to be bothered. She’d taken this ride countless times in the past, often sitting with friends in the galley and assembling partially finished puzzles that had been left behind by those that came before.
As the ferry chugged its way west, the city of Seattle faded into the background, ever-familiar skyline becoming smaller until it was invisible, the wake of the boat leaving a fleeting bread crumb trail to where she started. The islands that dotted Puget Sound showed no outward signs of life, but she knew it was happening somewhere. Amongst the fir trees and blue skies, people were playing golf and mowing lawns and going about their regular Saturday routines.
“What a gorgeous day,” a stranger mused, leaning forward against the ferry’s safety railing as he did.
“Mm,” Kate said, not looking up, concentrating on the warmth building across her face and arms as the sun beat down on bare skin. Standing on the bow of a ferry, no jacket, wearing sunglasses was a once-a-year phenomenon, and she wanted to enjoy it. Alone.
“Where ya headed?” he persisted.
“Lake Crescent.”
“Oh, that’s a beautiful spot. Going alone?”
“I have my dogs,” Kate said, wishing he’d get the hint. She didn’t feel like talking. To anyone.
“That’s nice. I’m going up to Port Angeles to visit my mother—”
He wasn’t getting the hint.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you,” Kate said. “I just don’t feel like talking right now.” As the mystery man sulked off, offended, Kate felt a momentary twinge of guilt and let it go. She didn’t feel like talking, and she wanted to focus on her surroundings. Just as soon as she found peace again—people around, but engaged in their own activities—the captain announced it was time to return to cars, almost completing the ferry ritual: Wait in line to board; park; wander about the boat; marvel in the views if it’s sunny, or more often, hunker down inside the boat’s galleys to avoid the weather; return to your car; unload; go on about your day.
l l l
The drive along the coast provided exactly what she needed: Winding roads, gorgeous ocean views, solitude. Time to think. Or not think. Zoning out was perhaps more important than processing at this point. When she rolled into the campground, it was mid-afternoon. Still plenty of time to get in a decent hike before dark, the long days of summer almost at their peak—she would have daylight until 10:00.
“Pretty dogs,” a passerby offered as she walked by, a small dog on a leash, pulling enthusiastically. Was it a miniature poodle? A Shih-Tzu? Kate knew nothing about small dogs.
“Thanks,” she said, continuing her methodical tent pole assembly, one 12-inch section at a time. She wanted to set the tent to mark their spot before heading off to hike. That she’d secured a camp spot on a Saturday in summer at a moment’s notice was a small miracle, and she didn’t want to lose it.
l l l
Kate decided to hike to Marymere Falls, mostly because it was dog friendly. The guidebook described it as just under two miles—short in the scheme of hikes they’d done together—but it had the bonus of ending with a waterfall which would provide welcome cooling on the warm day. As they passed the quaint old ranger station at the base of the trail, its log siding, covered porch, and river rock chimney a reminder of days gone by, Kate noted the flag was raised to half-mast and wondered why.
Protected by a canopy of towering conifers and maples overhead, unlimited ferns and carpets of moss at their feet, she breathed in the peaty smell of the trail, her worries of the morning melting away with each step. Dallas and Hunter followed, tails wagging, and noses glued to the ground in search of—well, who knows what clues dogs find in the aromas of the ground?
Step after step, the tension in her shoulders released. The worry in her mind dissipated.
“Hey, it’s those pretty dogs again,” she heard from behind, turned to look, and tripped over a branch in the trail.
“Oh, sorry!” the voice yelled, and someone was almost instantly kneeling by her side. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, just a little embarrassed,” Kate said, feeling heat in her cheeks and in her ankle, realizing the person at her side was attached to that same small dog from the campground. What were the odds?
“I’m so sorry,” the woman continued as Kate lay splayed out on the trail. “I recognized your dogs. I’m a sucker for dogs. I’m Christine.”
“Hey, Christine.”
“Do you need help up?”
“No, I’m good, thanks,” Kate said, letting go of the dogs’ leashes and pushing herself up onto her hands and knees. As she attempted to stand, she crumpled, her left ankle less excited about the attempt than her mind.
“I think you need help,” Christine insisted, “Put your hand on my shoulder and we’ll do it together. What’s your name?”
“Thanks. It’s Kate.”
“Okay, Kate. Let’s try this again.”
The second attempt had a similar result, culminating in both on the ground. She hadn’t done it on purpose, but Kate dragged the dog lady down with her. The peaty smell of the trail was becoming less relaxing and more like—dirt.
“Do you think you maybe twisted your ankle?” Christine asked, her little dog now barking its head off beside her, annoyed by the abrupt stop to their hike.
That wasn’t helping things.
“Yeah, it is pretty painful to put weight on,” Kate admitted, realizing her hike was over and her overnight camping trip was in jeopardy, too. “Could I borrow your poles? Let me see if I can just get myself upright.”
The third time was the charm, hiking poles helping distribute her weight as she stood. Kate was now sure her ankle was, at the least, twisted. Perhaps something worse, but she wouldn’t think of that yet. It was such a small fall over such a small branch.
“Good job,” Christine said. “We should probably look at it, but I’m worried if we take your foot out of the shoe, you won’t get it back on. Can you hobble back to the parking lot? I have a first aid kit in my car, and we can at least wrap it.”
As Christine talked, Kate took her first proper look at the reason she’d fallen. A petite woman stood before her, faint freckles dotted her face, especially on and around her nose, and she had a miniscule gap between her two front teeth. She talked with her hands, making a circular motion with her right one as she described wrapping Kate’s ankle. Her tousled bob was wavy, probably naturally, and though salt-and-pepper now, was once a cinnamon-colored brown.
“Okay, I’ll try,” Kate said, taking a small step forward. Then another. It wasn’t fast, but she could do it. “Let’s go, boys.” Dallas and Hunter obliged, returning to their mom’s heel, dragging leashes behind them as they bounced, unaware that they weren’t going to see a waterfall that day after all. They didn’t care one bit.
“Let’s go, Sadie,” Christine called, her mystery dog extracting its head from a fern to follow orders.
“Sorry about this,” Kate said. “I’m sure you wanted to make it to the waterfall.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s my fault you fell. The least I can do is make sure you’re okay. I took an oath to do no harm. It’s my moral obligation to get you fixed back up. Besides, I’ve been to the waterfall. It’s water. Falling. I’ll survive.”
“You’re a doctor?”
“I am,” Christine said. “Cardiologist. But I also tape a mean ankle. The orthos aren’t the only ones who understand physiology.”
As they walked—slowly—back down the trail, conversation with Christine kept her mind off the pain in her ankle and the change of plans. Dr. Christine, as she was now calling her in her head, was a charming conversationalist, cracking jokes and asking Kate about her life “off the trail,” as if they’d been on a cross-country thru-hike like the Pacific Crest or Appalachian Trail. She’d been given a trail name of “Stubby,” and pronounced “definitely not dead,” by the doc. Christine had a great bedside manner; it’s no wonder she was the head of her department.
What had taken 20 minutes to climb took more than an hour to descend, and in that time, the two had learned a lot about each other. Kate shared a glimpse into her life. Growing up in Tennessee. Moving west after college. Marriage. Divorce. Death. Actually hiking the PCT. Her real trail name, “Tex,” even though she was from Tennessee, the people she’d met on the hike unable to process the difference between Southern accents and insisting “Tex” was much cooler than “Ten.”
“But you don’t have an accent,” Christine noticed.
“Not right now. But, get a few drinks in me, and I’m as Southern as they come,” Kate laughed. “You can take the girl out of Tennessee, but not Jack Daniels.”
“So, I have to get you a little tipsy to meet this Southern Belle?”
Was that flirting? Kate thought that was flirting. “Maybe so.”
l l l
The Jeep was a welcome sight after a short hike that turned very long, its yellow paint shiny and happy, even though Kate was neither. As it turned out, Christine had parked her own blue version next to it, a Jeep thing if there ever was. Kate wouldn’t have pegged Christine for a Jeep driver, but then again, she wouldn’t have pegged her for a cardiologist, either.
“Let’s take a look,” the doctor insisted after Kate was sitting in the back, feet dangling, cargo door open wide.
“Okay,” Kate winced, removing her hiking boot to reveal an ankle the size of a softball.
“Does this hurt?”
“Yes!”
“Does this hurt?”
“Yes!”
They repeated the “does this hurt/yes” pattern until Christine deemed the ankle was sprained and prescribed rest, ice, compression, and elevation. None of the things Kate had at her disposal at a campground.
“I just have one problem,” Kate said as it hit her. “This is my left foot. I can’t clutch. I can’t drive home, and I can’t stay here.” And then muttered under her breath, “this day just keeps getting better.”
Sensing her duress, Dallas leaned against his mom, doing his best to comfort her, not sure what exactly was wrong. Hunter sensed trouble too, and leaned against Dallas, something he’d done since he came home from the shelter. Whenever there was trouble, he looked to Dallas first.
“I can drive you home,” Christine said. “I’ll get Jess to take ours back to the city. Where do you live?”
Ours? They had spent over an hour together, sharing all kinds of personal information, and there was no mention of another person—anyone with whom Christine would own things, anyone along on the trip, anyone important in her life. And to top it off, the person possessed an androgynous name. Jess? Like Jessica? Or Jesse?
“Greenlake, but you don’t have to do that,” Kate said. “I can rally some friends to come get me.”
“Don’t be silly. I got you in this mess, I’ll get you out of it. I insist. Besides, we just live on the Hill, it’s no trouble at all,” Christine said, looking down at the cell phone that was now in her hand. “Crap. No coverage here. Let me run back to the campground and grab her, and we’ll shuttle back, get packed up, and head home. Unless you want to tough it out overnight?”
So Jess was a her. Kate wondered why Christine didn’t feel it apropos to mention that she had a girlfriend/wife/partner during any of the moments when she’d spilled her guts about her marriage and divorce.
“That depends. Do you have any Jack Daniels?” Kate asked, mostly kidding, when she really wanted to ask something—anything—about Jess. In reality, she didn’t want to be a third wheel, and didn’t want to camp with a painful, swollen foot.
“No, but we have some good weed,” Christine said, punctuating her sentence with a little chuckle. “It may help the pain some.”
For some unknown reason—and because as much as she really didn’t feel like camping anymore, she didn’t want to go home—Kate acquiesced. “Okay. Let’s stay, but do you have real meds in that first aid kit of yours? Not that I don’t think good weed sounds fun, but I need some actual pain relief if I’m going to make it through the night.”
