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“You okay, Bug?” he asks.
I’ve been seeing Levi. We’re together, and I can’t tell you, and I feel so awful that I can’t tell you.
I clear my throat.
“I’m good,” I say. “See you Saturday?”
“I’m gonna kick your ass at horseshoes,” he says, and we hang up.I don’t tell Levi that night. I cook him dinner and then spend the night, but despite nearly telling him at least thirty times, I don’t work up the courage.
I don’t work it up Wednesday, either, or Thursday, and every moment I don’t tell him I hate myself more for being such a coward.
It’s going to happen whether I tell him or not, and I know it. It’s only going to feel worse the longer I wait, and I know that, but every time I finally resolve that I’m just going to spit it out, I’m flying to South Dakota on Monday for an interview, the words stick in my throat and I don’t say anything.
And it feels like shit.Chapter Twenty-FourLevi“I’m just not sure I anticipate room for that kind of program in our budget,” the woman’s voice says. “Even if we approve these new mining contracts —”
“Do not approve the mining contracts,” a man snipes. I think his name is Nelson, but I’m not a hundred percent sure on that. “Those contracts would spell travesty for the Forest Service and for the entire Crenenga River Basin—"
“That’s an overstatement,” says a third voice. “That mining would create minimal impact while funding very important work to minimize the impacts of global warming on the forest.”
“Sure, while creating more global warming,” Nelson says.
“In either case we’re going to have to put a hold on the Trout Friends Initiative for at least another year!” says the first woman’s voice, sounding extremely exasperated.
Conference calls are the thing I hate the second-most about my job, coming slightly behind in-person meetings. This one has been particularly painful because I’m not exactly sure why I’m required to be here — the mining and the programs they’re talking about are all in another forest entirely, and while I don’t like the mining either, I’ve got no say whatsoever in whether it goes forward.
Basically, my job title has “Chief” in it, so they made me call in, even though I’ve nothing to do with mining and even less to do with trout.
“We can’t do that,” someone else snaps. “I’ve been working on Trout Friends for—”
My cell phone buzzes in my pocket, and I stop doodling on a notepad and grab it. The tiny caller ID screen says CALEB LOV, so I hit the mute button on my work phone and flip it open.
“There’s a brewery emergency,” he says, sans preamble. “Seth’s putting the beer signal up in the sky.”
“What kind of brewery emergency?” I ask, frowning at the closed door of my office, feet still on my desk.
The Southeastern Regional Budget Meeting has been going on for a while.
“They need a lot of wood chopped,” Caleb says dryly. “Before Fall Fest starts tomorrow.”
“Is this some kind of prank?” I ask, slowly. “Chopping wood at the brewery sure sounds like a pretense to get me over there for some reason I’m not going to like.”
Caleb just snorts.
“Yeah, I’d probably think that too if I insisted on keeping my girlfriend secret from everyone in my life and particularly the man who’d been my best friend since childhood,” he says. “You know, instead of telling him and letting things shake out, like a normal person might do.”
I sigh and rub my eyes. I’ve explained my reasons to Caleb, and I’m not about to do so again.
“Why do we need to chop wood?”
“Because part of the after-dark allure of Fall Fest is the several bonfires they’ll have going, but the people they contracted for firewood seem to have dropped it off in the form of ten-foot tree sections,” he says. “I’m heading over there now. Seth says Daniel’s swearing, so it sounds pretty bad.”
“Daniel swears all the time when Rusty’s not around,” I point out.
Then I pause.
“Wait, are you in town?”
“Yeah. I’ve been staying at Mom’s,” he says.
“You didn’t tell me?”
“You seemed busy.”
I look down at my feet, clad in hiking boots even though I’m in the office today. It is a National Forest, after all. They can’t expect me to wear wingtips.
“I’m sorry if I traumatized you,” I offer, even though it’s now been over a month.
Caleb just laughs.
“Don’t be. You didn’t. You seem really happy. I’ve always hated being the third wheel. I just needed to get out of Marysburg for a while since I’m not teaching or anything this year,” he says. “Can I tell Seth and Daniel you’ll be there so maybe they’ll freak out less?”
The people on the phone are still arguing about trout and mining, though it seems that someone’s thrown a wrench into the proceedings in the form of asking about campground upkeep.
