While Joe is shaking every hand and autographing all the cleavage, Eric asks, "Whatcha doing out here today?"
"Just making sure everyone is happy." He smiles at the group, but his gaze lands in my direction. I might be imagining it; it’s hard to tell with his sunglasses. I hope there's not some busty supermodel standing right behind me.
While Joe chats with the guests, I catch a look from Mercer that I can't interpret. I send a look back to her that says, "What?"
She mouths, "Fjord?" with a grin that tells me the mockery will commence as soon as we're out of Joe's earshot.
"It was a pleasure, ladies. Enjoy the rest of your hike." Joe nods to the group, but puts his hand on my arm. “Hang back with me a minute, Indie,” he says, and to Eric, “Go on ahead. We’ll finish her training and I’ll bring her back to Nizhóní.”
Eric’s eyebrows shoot up, but he does what he’s told. The women follow his lead, with Mercer at the end of the parade of women, arching her one eyebrow at me in a way that tells me she’s disappointed she won’t have the chance to mock me, but I should expect questions later.
My heart pounds with the realization that in a few short moments I’ll be alone with Joe again. I try to think of things to say to make sure I don’t say anything ridiculous. I remind myself of safe topics: Hiking, the weather, end of list. Didn’t we already finish my “training,” which amounted to a short hike while I carried a backpack and teased him about his middle name? How much training does a substitute hiking guide need, anyway? Am I a gigantic, walking liability to Joe?I am.I am a walking, er—hiking, liability. He doesn’t trust me. Why did I even take this job? I don’t need this job. I already have one job to make a mess out of, I don’t need two.
I’m so caught up throwing myself into a panic that I don’t notice that the other hikers are gone. Joe is waiting for me to follow him with that stern look on his face, and I’m staring into the distance, having an internal event of Chernobyl proportions. I lecture myself:These unfounded, panicky thoughts are what get you into trouble. You are a good person and worthy of respect. Just be yourself.
“Blobfish,” I blurt out under my breath like a curse word.
“What?” The stern look disappears just like that, and he laughs. “Your guesses at my middle name are getting progressively worse.”
“No, not that.” My mind had gone from my glaring ineptitude as an outdoorswoman, to blobfish. How to explain? I let out a long sigh as we start walking. “Have you heard of blobfish?”
When he shakes his head I explain, “Blobfish are these fish that look like a droopy, sad old man. Seriously, the ugliest fish in the world. Hang on, I’ll show you the TikTok I saw.” I pull out my phone only to remember that I have no service where we’re hiking, so I stuff my phone back into my pocket with a tiny huff. “You’ll have to look it up later, but trust me. It looks like a bloated, frowning blob of goo.”
“Frowning blob of goo,” he repeats like he’s taking notes. “Got it. Go on.”
“Anyway, they live in the deep sea, thousands of feet down, and they’re good fish. They’re important. They keep the bottom of the ocean clean, and I guess when they are under all of that water and all the pressure they look like totally normal fish.” I’m really selling these blobfish now. They are my people. “The problem is, when they’re pulled to the surface their little bodies can’t handle the lack of pressure and they just kind of…bleh.” I make a blubbery noise to describe a blobfish expanding like a balloon, and the last of my dignity flies away on the breeze along with a tiny bit of spittle.
“I have so many questions,” he says, all quiet and mysterious behind his sunglasses, but there’s a hint of a smile that gives me hope. “Why are blobfish on your mind this morning?”
“I guess I feel like a blobfish today.” And with that confession, I die a little inside. Like I need Joe associating me with a blobfish. I must’ve left my filter on the freeway somewhere between here and California. “I mean, I am so out of my element here, I'm sure I seem useless. But this isn’t me. Believe me, I’m a normal, capable person in my element. Respected, even.” I wince at the thought of what brought me here in the first place.
We reach the top of a small ridge and I spot our guests climbing into the vans in the distance. I look for Joe’s Bronco, but I don’t see it. He promised to give me a ride back, right? Or is this the part of my training where he leaves me to fend for myself in the desert?
“Hmm,” is the only sound he makes as he mulls over my blobfish monologue. We walk side by side quietly for a minute before he adds, “I get what you’re saying. You’re out of your element. A blobfish out of water, if you will.”
I deflate. I’d laugh at his dumb joke if I didn’t also feel like tearing up. He agrees that I don’t belong here and he made a mistake hiring me. He’s going to fire me now, I realize with a surprising amount of sadness. That’s why he came out here today. I brace for impact.
It must’ve shown on my face because he quickly follows up with, “Don’t be upset. That’s not a bad thing. That’s where growth happens.” He pauses, and his next words are hesitant. “What is your usual element? I mean, you said you’re an influencer so I looked you up. I didn’t look too closely. Barely clicked around, really. I needed to Google you, though, to check you out. For the job—” He scrubs a hand through his hair.
His nervousness is palpable. The mysterious, brooding boss man is gone and words are tumbling out of his mouth like spilled marbles and he’s trying desperately to stop them, but only more fall out. “It looks like you’re catching on fast here, from what I’ve seen. I mean, I’m notwatching youwatching you. I saw you hiking. You look good. I mean you look fine. Like you know what you’re doing.” He’s walking faster now, like he can run away from his own mouth.
And I’m not sure who is more embarrassed at this moment, me or Joe. I have no idea what’s going on with Undie-gate, which is what I’m calling the photo debacle that sent me running across state lines. I could be a non-entity online. I could have three million more followers. I should answer my mother’s calls.
Instead of teasing him, I give him mercy and answer the question because for all I know he’s seen The Photo and could’ve been teasingmemercilessly this entire time.
“I’m not sure what you’ve seen, but I’m from southern California. My usual element is more… polished.” I choose that word carefully, eyeballing the end of my sloppy French braid. “And indoors. It’s all about beauty, clothing, and influencing people to buy high-end merchandise.”
He cuts in, “Your life sounds like a big shopping mall.” It's not a compliment.
And right now I’m being hounded into hiding by kiosk salesmen, AKA internet trolls. I frown deeply. “Yeah, it’s just like a mall! And a fishbowl. A mall fishbowl. I swim around in my tank at the mall and people watch me and redecide every day if I’m entertaining enough,pretty enough, skinny enough, or smart enough. That’s my usual element.” The anger at the direction my life has taken seeps through until I’m a geyser of mixed metaphors and first world self-pity.
“Wow,” he says. Birds chirp in the silence that follows.
I have stunned him into one word answers, folks.
Then that half-smirk of his reappears and I know there’s more coming. “So, you’re a blobfish who lives in a mall fish tank in southern California.” And every trace of guilt or nervousness is gone when he adds, “A blobfish who prefers yoga by the pool and pink… pink… “ His eyebrows raise behind his sunglasses while he searches for the right descriptor. He'sblushing.
That’s when I know he’s seen it. He saw the yoga by the pool. Thepink. Mortification washes over me and I have several thoughts at once: Joe Pratt has seen The Photo. I didn’t drive far enough in that van. I need to get back in it and drive to Canada. Or the Australian outback. Instead, I stop where I am. I sink onto the ground and cover my face with my hands, like that will erase Joe’s memory.
