“He’s moping around, missing you,” she says, pulling him close. “Does anyone else from your family know you’re on this hike?”
“I told my mom,” I reply with a noisy flap of my lips. “It might come back to bite me in the butt, but I didn’t want to give myself the option of backing out. I told her I’m writing a paper on the hike for one of my classes.”
“Good. I know they give you a hard time, but someone from your family should know where you are.”
“Yeah.” Hopefully Mom hasn’t told Dad about it. I feel like he’d hijack the whole thing and try to get me to finish it in one day or something crazy like that.
“Don’t forget to take lots of photos of Giorgio for me. And record anything cute he does.”
I shove my sleeping bag into the backpack, thinking a moment too late that I probably should have put it at the bottom.
“You realize that’s not going to happen, don’t you?”
“I know, because he’s always being cute and you’d have to spend the whole day pointing a camera at him,” I croon.
“Right. That’s exactly why I won’t be doing that,” she deadpans, but I make her promise to at least take a few photos every day before we say goodbye.
I’m rolling the last of my T-shirts to place in my bag when a rattle at the door handle makes me freeze.
Every cell in my body goes cold as I watch the handle turn, slowly and very creepily.
What inThe Shiningis happening right now? Is someone from my family actually here and playing some sick joke on me?Could it be that someone from housekeeping forgot the room was occupied? Late afternoon doesn’t seem like a very murdery time.
Cement coats my veins, and my eyes flick to the chain latch, the one I neglected to secure.
The handle rotates again, and I think my soul leaves my body.
Nope.Not today, Satan.
The floor creaks as I bolt toward the door, my feet thankfully on board with this little gust of bravado. I hold my breath, fingertips splayed against the door while I bring my eye to the peephole. The only thing I see is the retreating swoosh of someone’s dark shirt as they dart away.
The spirit ofDog The Bounty Hunterovertakes me. Two seconds of deliberation plus another three to get the door unlatched, and I’m swinging it open, taking questionably overconfident steps to confront my would-be killer.
And my family thinks I’m not adventurous.
Not a whole lot of self-preservation happening here—I can see that. But I’m doing a good deed. I can picture the culprit, theaha!I yell as I yank the door open, shocking them right onto their butt. Then they’re forced to endure a grilling interrogation from yours truly, wherein I convince said guilty party to give up their life of serial murders and help them find their true purpose instead.
But by the time I get the door open, there isn’t a soul in sight.
This is not one of those moments where I wonder if what just happened was all in my imagination. I’m an intelligent woman; I know what I saw. And the eerie shadow that seems to be following me admittedly has me wanting to nix this whole canyon crossing. But then my stomach growls, and I remember that I came here for a purpose. One of those being to try thebolognese at the El Tovar Dining Room. Mom said the entire hike was worth it just to eat there.
A small sense of relief settles the hairs on my arms when I spot a chair I can move in front of the door later. I step outside my room, locking the door and making sure the “Do Not Disturb” sign is hanging before peering in both directions of the hallway.
You’ve got this, girl.
Framed photos of the canyon taunt me from every wall as I leave the lodge, once again avoiding a peek at the real thing as I walk toward the restaurant entrance.
“Table for one, please.” I smile at the hostess who waits behind a wooden podium, the heads of a bison, elk, and a bighorn sheep mounted imposingly behind her. “If I could have one without a view, that would be great.”
She pauses, a groove forming between her brows. “You meanwitha view.”
“Without. I have a fear of those lines in the rocks—the striations,” I stage whisper. “It’s like nature’s stretch marks are watching me.” I add a shudder for extra effect.
This isn’t true. But explaining the truth feels like too much work. Fibbing for the sake of simplicity is my toxic trait. And now this girl is probably wondering why the heck I’ve come to the world’s largest striated pit with such a debilitating fear.
The name for my made-up phobia is on the tip of my tongue if she asks:Lineophobia.
My brain enjoys making up stuff like this. But maybethisis the “too much” that one of my exes cited at the end of our one-month relationship. Or maybe it’s a way to compensate for not feeling good enough. A safeguard so people can’t see the real me.
