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“Thank you.”
Boyd holds me against him for a while longer, the two of us staying out on the deck long after Briar has gone inside to leave us alone.
“I’m glad you came to me,” Boyd says, placing a soft kiss against my head. “You can always come to me.”
Something in my chest eases, the emotional upheaval that’s been dissipating finally coming to the bottom of the hill.
Boyd is very quickly becoming my safe space, a point of refuge in the storm of life.
It both comforts and worries me.
I can’t imagine finding another space that makes me feel as happy and whole as Boyd does, and where will that leave me once he’s gone?
chapter twenty
Boyd
The hike to the top of Kilroy takes about six hours if you’re not stopping for breaks or to take in the beauty of nature. Plenty of experienced hikers probably leave before it’s light, hike to the top, check out the view, and then hike down, making it back to Cedar Point before the sunset and all the dangers that come along with being in the forest at night.
But something gets lost in that single-day experience. Part of the journey is about slowing down enough to enjoy the little things along the way, not just busting ass to the top, turning around, and sprinting back the way you came. The creeks and streams, the birds, the vegetation and wildlife that are specific to Tahoe National Forest—it’s important to stop and smell the flowers, both literally and figuratively. I may have intentionally avoided this hike for years, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to find value in the experience.
Especially now that Ruby is here, experiencing it right along with us all.
She’s been mostly silent during our trek, the playful chatter I’ve come to expect from her noticeably absent. Instead, she’s been a sounding board for my siblings as they bitch and moan about life or tell horrifying stories from childhood.
Like when Bellamy and Bishop were in the third grade and got a hold of some wax strips. Bishop didn’t have eyebrows for two months, and Bellamy makes sure to keep those pictures in some hidden place in her room, along with embarrassing photos of the rest of us. Ruby laughs in the right places, and she does seem genuinely interested in the things my family members are talking to her about.
But that spunky happiness that usually seems to radiate from her every pore is missing.
It’s understandable. She told me about what happened with Linda and Ken as we lay in bed last night. Not only is she dealing with a vindictive, bitchy woman and a shitty, uninvolved father, she’s also facing the fact that her mother hasn’t been completely honest with her about her life.
About her past, her childhood, her relationship with her father.
My mother offered up the guesthouse and Ruby accepted in a heartbeat, the two of us driving straight over to Ken’s to collect all of her belongings.
We returned fairly quickly, but my mother had still found time to spruce the little place up, turning down the bedding, lighting a soothing candle, and leaving a short note for Ruby.
You’re always welcome here, it read, and it only took a few seconds for Ruby’s tears to return.
Her eyes still hold a little bit of puffiness today, though with the water and the sun and the exercise, she’s starting to look a little more like herself the longer we walk.
I love that she asked to come with us on this hike. Before she showed up at the house, I’d been wondering if maybe I should stay to be in town for her in case things went sour with the Bellows, but then I worried my family would assume I was using her as an excuse to skip out on the sixth straight Kilroy hike.
Ultimately, it all worked out. I’m doing the hike my family wanted me to do and I’m spending time with the most amazing woman I’ve ever met.
“The last thing I want to worry about is a possible injury right before getting called to Triple-A,” Bishop says to Ruby. “But I promised my parents I would get my degree to fall back on in case things don’t work out with the big leagues.”
He’s been telling her all about his baseball life, from T-ball through pony and getting recruited to play for Whitney College, a Division 2 school outside of Sacramento that has one of the most phenomenal baseball programs in the state.
“Whit might be D2,” he continues, “but plenty of amazing players come from smaller institutions. Not everyone who makes it big is coming out of a Pac-12 or Big 10 school.”
“What’s a D2?” Ruby asks. “Isn’t that the name of the Mighty Ducks movie?”
I chuckle from where I’m hiking at the back of the pack, listening in as my brother launches into an overly detailed explanation of how schools match up, what divisions mean, how schools might be in a certain division for one sport and another for a different sport, and blah, blah, blah.
Part of me thinks Ruby made a mistake by asking Bishop questions like this, but there’s also the strong possibility that it’s an intentional diversion tactic designed to keep the attention off of her.
She couldn’t have picked a better person to talk to if that was her goal. Bishop—the most self-absorbed out of all of us—is more than happy to talk about himself all day.
