“We’ve all been there, believe me.” Her look is full of pity, like I’m just one of many who have fallen in love with Joe on sight and been disappointed. “We actually dated for a while.” She pauses and the look of pride on her face tells me she’s waiting for congratulations. “In the end he made it clear to me that he doesn’t sit at the kiddie table." She nods toward the group, where Eric is holding the bowling trophy barely out of Troy's jumping reach. "He doesn't date employees." And with that, she shoves her plate into the trash bag I’m holding.
“We’re not dating.” I don’t know why I’m explaining myself to her, but she blindsided me.
“Probably for the best.” Her accompanying smile looks so authentic it’s spooky. “I know who you are. I’ve seen your stuff online. You do, like, Filler and Fuzzy Navel Fridays, right?”
Oh, geez. She is describing my mother and one element that our social media brands do not have in common, which is combining booze and cosmetic treatments. I’ve never gotten on board with the idea. But little alarm bells are going off in my mind at the fact that this antagonistic female is aware of my identity. “You’re thinking of my mother. That’s her thing.” My tone says it’s the end of the conversation, but Tara is either socially clueless or truly terrible because she plows ahead.
“Oh. Well, I think I used to follow you, too, but I gave up social media,” she says in the same tone that people use when they brag that they don’t eat sweets. “You’re an influencer, right?”
“Yes.” That’s all she’s getting out of me because I am one hundred percent focused on praying that she’s almost done talking in my direction.
She looks me up and down with a grin. “It’s a shame there are no filters for reality, huh?”
Usually I’d laugh off a joke like that—honestly, they were more common than you’d think in my line of work—but given recent events, I feel my eyes burn and I have a sudden urge to rip off her wig. But she saunters away and leaves me standing there with hot tears in my eyes and my mouth hanging open.
Sunny takes her place, pushing a stack of cups into the trash. “Sorry about her,” she whispers. “You gotta ignore ninety percent of what comes out of her mouth.” She takes the bag from me with a smile and walks it out the back door.
I wish she would come back and tell me more about Joe and whether he does date employees, and whether substitute hiking guides even count as real employees. I won’t lie to myself; I’m pretty bummed out about this development. My mind has had Joe and his smile on replay for most of the afternoon since my job interview. But because Joe doesn’t date employees and my life is a trainwreck, I try to release those thoughts like balloons at a funeral. Goodbye, perfect dark eyes and chiseled chin. Farewell, hiking together every morning and making out under the stars. My daydreams this afternoon had been thorough. I gather my purse and my cell phone, which I had plugged into an outlet on the kitchen counter, say a quick thank you to Mercer, and make my way to the door.
A short drive later and the van is situated in its “usual” secluded spot at the base of the red rock canyon. I’m curled up under my sleeping bag, contemplating powering up my cell phone to help me fall asleep. I’ve become accustomed to mindless scrolling as an unhealthy part of my bedtime ritual. On the one hand, a few minutes of browsing Instagram usually lulls me to sleep. On the other hand, reality. I’m not sure I’m ready for it after a day in this temporary lifeI’ve made as a homeless, bohemian hiking guide who plays cards and eats chips.
Curiosity wins and I start up my phone, which buzzes for a straight two minutes with notifications. I’m still too chicken to check social media, even though my mother’s team has likely waded through my inboxes at this point. I go straight to my texts, where I find two from an unknown number.
UNKNOWN: Hi Indie. We never discussed your training. I’m available tomorrow for a short hike and we can go over the basics. Does 6:30 work?
UNKNOWN: This is Joe Pratt, by the way.
His name in my inbox makes my heart jump.Joetextedme. All of my stupid daydreams are back, flashing through my mind and making me blush. It was a yes-or-no question, but I fret over how to respond while I program his number into my contacts.
INDIE: Hi Joe. I thought my job was to carry the First Aid kit and look pretty? That requires tra—
My finger bumps the Send button while I’m typing my first draft, and that horrifying half message floats into the ether.
“No! No, no, no, no…” I chant while I finish the message I meant to edit into oblivion in the first place.
INDIE: That requires training? Is what I meant to say, but I pushed send too fast, and upon reflection I realize I should’ve sent a totally different response to begin with.
Why am Ibeing so formal?I smack my hand on my forehead and shoot out another text.
INDIE: Please let me try again.
Three little dots indicate he is typing. My heart is in my throat while I wait.
JOE PRATT: Let’s see what you’ve got.
I take a deep breath in through my nose, count to ten, and try again.
INDIE: What I meant was: You’re the boss. Whatever you say goes. 6:30 is great. Where should I meet you?
JOE PRATT: See you at 6:30.
He attaches a link to a location that I click on and find that there isn’t anything at the location; it’s a random-looking spot on an empty road, fourteen minutes from my campsite. I set an alarm and curl deeper into my sleeping bag with visions of accidentally falling into Joe’s arms dancing in my head.
Chapter 5
At 6:28 the next morning, I roll up to the location that Joe sent and park The Hulk behind his Bronco. The sun isn’t up yet, and he’s sitting in the driver’s seat in the half light. I want to sit here and observe him from afar like a stalker, but he knows I’m here, so I hop down from my seat and lock up the van. I don’t need anyone stealing my mini succulent or my peanut butter cups.
“Hey, boss,” I call. He meets me halfway, that dang smirk of his destroying any hope I have of acting cool.
