That’s how I discovered the weirdest thing Bethany from accounting ever saw was a round aircraft with a lot of different colored lights. I also learned she’s not the type to call it a UFO, even when it’s technically an object, and it’s flying, and she doesn’t know what it is.
It must have looked like a good conversation, because Jingjing from innovation joined us when we’d moved on to first-date mistakes. She advised waiting to try charcoal ice cream until after sleeping with a new flame, instead of eating it on the first date and ending up with a ghoulish black smile. Solid tip.
Team building was tiring, but with the few skills I’ve learned so far, it was a good 25 percent easier than before. It was not-terrible enough that I didn’t come home early to plug in my car, like I planned.
My battery is teeth-clenchingly low, and Amber needs the minivan for carpooling to gymnastics. If I’m going to have enough juice for this whole scenario, something’s gotta give, and it’s going to be the heater.
I tear through the living area, drop a quick kiss on Eleanor, and think better of stealing any of Amber’s grated cheese. There’s no time to bite the hook she’s baiting with that arched eyebrow and side-going mouth. She knows I’m seeing Tobin; she doesn’t need any more excuses to tell me I should take him back already. Obviously, I didn’t tell her about the scenarios. I’m spending tonight driving all over hell’s half acre while impersonating my own imaginary friend; I can well imagine the lectures that would inspire.
Flinging myself back into my car, I crank up some John Cena. I decide the song is now “Bad, Bad Cat” instead of “Bad, Bad Man” so I can meow along.
The snow isn’t sticking; it’s safe to head north, up the valley, instead of hitting the better-plowed but more crowded highway between Pendleton and Grey Tusk.
It makes me sound like a granddad, but I love this drive. The mountains aren’t as high or fierce as the Rockies, but from across the valley, the misty tint of distance gives the bare rock above the tree line a soft, dreamy filter. Behind the white caps of lesser peaks, Grey Tusk’s sharp pinnacle hides in ash-colored clouds, keeping its opinions to itself. The highway swings sharply around soft-sloped gullies, its continuity broken every so often by iron bridges painted orange to hide the rust.
My tires sizzle past the milky teal waters of the river, its shores lined with black cottonwood trees, bare branches filled with the secret leaves of spring. In a couple of weeks, Tobin will carry the sharp, dusty scent of their sap under his shirt. This used to be my favorite time of year to tuck my nose inside his collar and imagine that he might be part tree.
I send him a hands-free text.
Okay, I’m ready.
My phone rings.
I crank up the volume over the roar of the defrost, which is only somewhat succeeding in keeping the windshield clear. “Hello?”
“This is Dr. Redfern’s radio hour, you’re on the air.” Tobin suggested we do a radio call-in show from our cars, and since I told him he could pick the scenario, I had to go along.
“Uh. Hello.”
“What’s your name, caller?” Tobin asks, low and growly.
I distrust how soothing it feels to let his mellow, raspy tones wrap around me, warm in the chilly car. This must be why people confess everything to strangers on the radio at night, seduced bymoonlight and the illusion of anonymity. Earlier, I unlocked alien encounters and blind date disasters, just by asking. Put a question together with a voice like his…
I’m in danger of telling him way too much.
“You can call me Elsa,” I say, a flurry swirling around the car. Tonight, I want a name that’s chaotic and a bit bad.
“The topic of tonight’s episode is Your Hopes and Dreams. What’s your dream, Elsa?”
Oof. I revise my opinion of surprise questions.
Tobin used to ask about my dreams all the time. He was my biggest cheerleader, helping me put together presentations for the annual pre-pitching meetings, telling me Craig was an idiot for not seeing the genius in my path-less-traveled tour ideas.
Making me say “no” a million times with his questions about whether my promised promotion was coming, or if I’d had any new ideas Craig was sure to love, or whether I was applying (yet again) for openings in other companies, to then flame out in yet more interviews.
Eventually, I told him I didn’t want to talk about it. He stopped asking, but I could see the words in his eyes. When he hugged me, I felt the questions in the tension of his biceps around my shoulders.
I’m glad I didn’t tell him I’m gunning for the pitch competition again this year. I won’t have to dodge questions he doesn’t know he should ask.
I grab the last tissue from my glove compartment and scrub at the frost on my windshield. “I don’t have dreams.” Elsa sounds like me. I’m not doing a great job at being someone else right now.
There’s a huff of breath. I picture him pulling his lips between his teeth, thumbs lifting off the steering wheel in frustration. It’s a pretty emotional display for Tobin.
“Everyone has dreams. That’s the topic of the show, and you called in. You must at least hope for something.”
I do. But not the way I used to. I was so excited to join West by North—I’d never doubted wilderness tourism was where I was meant to be. Pretty much all Grey Tusk locals are devoted to climbing, skiing, and trekking. There really isn’t another reason to live somewhere this expensive and remote.
Spending childhood summers as far from civilization as possible meant everyone we met on the trail, from expert to tenderfoot, loved the wilderness like my parents taught Amber and me to. Out there, I was part of a family and a community that cared how fast I could start a fire, how well I could use a compass, and what wild food I was willing to eat. There were no fashion mistakes, no conversations with hidden meanings. In the bush, you said what you meant because everyone’s safety depended on it. The rules were simple; I knew I belonged.
