“‘Let’s go on a hike. It’ll be fun’, she said,” I wheeze, staring ahead at an incline I find truly offensive.
“I heard that.”
“Well, I said it loud, so…” I reply, tone drier than my scorched earth throat.
We approach a narrow part of the trail only wide enough for traffic to flow in one direction at a time and move aside to make room for a group of hikers descending down a tower of jagged rocks. I step in front of Gretchen to assist a few middle-aged women cautiously navigating their way down.
One by one, I offer them a hand. Each of the women take it with a death grip as they seek the right combination of hand and foot placement to make it to the bottom.
Once they’ve all descended safely and are on their way, I turn back to Gretchen who sports a half-smile and one hip popped out, arms crossed over her chest.
“I bet you help old ladies cross the street, too, don’t you?” she says.
“Only the blind ones. Preferably with bags of groceries.”
Her head falls back, smile stretching ear to ear as she erupts in laughter—loud, unashamed and beautiful.
There’s plenty to admire about Gretchen’s body, especially today with the dark green shorts and sports bra that shows off her lean, tight figure. Her long hair is gathered atop her head, her tanned skin glowing in the sun, silky smooth and flawless.
But her laugh, her smile—they’ve got my heart in a chokehold. If she’d let me, I’d spend my life chasing them.
As her laughter settles, she quirks a brow toward the tower of rocks and asks, “You ready?”
“Ladies first.”
“Good call. You can break my fall that way.”
Less than ten minutes later,we reach the end of the trail and the landscape opens up around us. The view is a true sight to behold.
A sharp curve in the path leads to Devil’s Bridge namesake: a massive peninsular rock formation jutting out from the hillside with a large hollowed out section underneath. In the distance is a massive display of red-tinted mesas, valleys in between generously speckled with lush green trees, red dirt, and vast gaps of nothing but the horizon all setting beautifully under the clear, blue sky and high noon sun.
Several other hikers and small groups are gathered in the area, admiring the same view, taking turns walking onto the narrowest portion of the rock bridge for a photo op.
Instinctively, Gretchen and I snap pictures of the view from every angle on our phones.
When the crowd clears a bit, I gesture for her to go ahead while I hang back to take her picture from across the canyon.
“Do you guys want a picture together?” a stranger’s voice callsfrom behind us.
Without a second thought, I hand Gretchen’s phone to the kind woman and the two of us make our way around the curve of the trail together.
The bridge is plenty wide to walk on, but the sheer drop on either side, the expanse of the valleys around us, can send anyone’s adrenaline into the stratosphere. Her hand brushes mine like it’s searching for an anchor. I open my palm to hers and she doesn’t hesitate. Our hands connect, fingers intertwining—two magnets drawn together. No sudden looks in each other’s direction, no hitched breaths, no battling of inner dialogue.
She has a hand and it belongs in mine. Pure and simple.
When we reach the center of the bridge, I expect her to let go. Instead, she pulls our clasped hands up and over her head, bringing my arm to rest on her shoulder, our interlocked hands draped across the front of her chest. The motion naturally draws our bodies together and I don’t allow myself a second to overthink it before I tighten my arm around her, hauling her back flush against me. Her free hand comes to rest on my forearm while mine finds her waist.
“I’ve got you, Fish,” I say with a light pinch to the exposed skin of her midriff—teasing, but holding her secure.
We look across the gap to the woman holding the phone, fingers indicating a three second countdown. I rest my head against Gretchen’s temple. When the stranger signals she’s finished, Gretchen begins to move forward, but I pull her back, speaking softly into her ear. “Hold on a sec.”
I keep her warm body close as I use my other hand to grab my phone from my pocket and extend it out in front of us in selfie mode. With our temples pressed together, hands held across the front of Gretchen’s body, we’re the image of a wholly in love couple.
Maybe it’s the possibility that I’ll never get the chance to be with her for real, or maybe it’s seeing her tucked into me the way I spent so many years wishing she would be—all I know is that I want to capture this moment up close. I don’t want the version that ends up in the picture frame with the panoramic horizon behind two tiny, indistinguishable figures at its center. I want to look atus—bereminded of every place her body touches mine and how, for this flicker of time, we felt perfect and right.
Gretchen and I fell into a natural rhythm of effortless banter and sparring years ago—it’s what we do. This girl’s been able to hold her own with me since we were kids. I shouldn’t have been surprised the relationship we forged over that year—that feels like a century ago—became the most intimate connection I’ve ever shared with another person and we weren’t even in the same state. Texts, phone calls, FaceTimes—that was all it took to turn the shy girl with the brown eyes into the only woman I’ve ever wantedmorewith.
Before I broke my promise. Before I touched her. Before I kissed her. I knew it even then.