“Well, you’ve just dangled a carrot in front of a bunch of cute, little cupid babies.”
“Weirdo. Anyway, I’ve gotta go, or I’ll chicken out. Give Giorgio kisses for me!”
“Break a leg,” she chirps, and I roll my eyes.
“I’d rather not. If you don’t hear from me in three days, cancel my Fabletics subscription and tell my Mom that I pour Pepsi in Beyonsai’s soil every Christmas.”
“Dark. But, seriously, stay safe. Don’t be surprised when you meet a sexy man. Kay, love-you-bye,” she sings and hangs up before I can respond.
Brushing her joking aside, I stare at the building ahead and let out a long, lip-flapping exhale.
You can do this, Willow. One step at a time.
Forcing myself to obey my inner commands, I climb out and walk around to the backside of my car. The warm Arizona breeze that smells like dust and pine hits me like a blow dryer to the face. The trunk pops open, and I glare at the forty-pound backpack that’ll require muscles I don’t have to lug around.
“We’ll just have to become friends, you and I,” I say to thebag. At least it’s pretty—a bright sky blue with coral trimming and the perfect compliment for my Spring palette.
I grunt as I struggle to lift the backpack and rest it on the edge of the trunk, then I wrestle my arms through the straps. A few minutes of practice carrying it around still counts, right? Better late than never.
I could be home, binging K-dramas. That seems way more fun right now.
I glance down at my shoes. While my bag is a beautiful spring color, the same can’t be said for my footwear. There was no getting around it—all the practical options were just…ugly. I blame Pinterest for the vision of stylish hiking boots paired with form-fitting leggings, as the breeze played with my softly curled locks. Reality is proving far less aesthetic. I tried my best with my clothing options because I refuse to come out the other side stinky and looking like Jack Black on a rough day.
My ugly trail-running shoes collect their first smudges of dust as I shuffle up the steps of the wooden building. The door sighs as it opens with an inward swing, my back unnaturally straight as I pretend I’m someone who’s definitely used to lifting more than twenty pounds. A woodsy smell hangs in the air, and the lady behind a weathered wooden counter smiles when I greet her and announce that I’m picking up camping permits. She taps away on her keyboard, her mint green shirt catching my eye first, since the color is too dull for her skin tone. It makes the poor woman look like a floating head, and the way she smacks her gum so loudly isn’t helping. A bedazzled name badge glitters from her collar, no doubt it’ll leave a permanent crease even after it’s removed.
Bonnie.
A printer groans beside Bonnie as it spits out a single sheet of paper. She folds it over the counter and tears it in half, signing one side and filing it away before repeatingthe process with the other half. An extremely large diamond ring twinkles on her tanned left hand as she scribbles her signature.
“Here ya go.” Bonnie pauses after handing me my packet, her gaze sweeping over me assessingly as she moves a lock of thick red curls out of her face. She braces herself on her forearms and leans in with the kind of hard stare indicative of a sixth sense. I imagine she passes the time making a mental list of who will make it to the other side of the rim in one piece.
“First time?” Bonnie’s eyebrows raise with her question.
“Yup.”
She inclines her head and pauses her gum-smacking to lower her voice. “You sure you wanna do this, hun?”
Clearly, I’ve made it into her “probably won’t survive” column, and I’ve gotta say—it stings.
“No turning back now.” I force a smile and lift the papers in my hand.
I grew up in Arizona, and I know what a dry heat from hell feels like. But the look of sympathy on strangers’ faces when they learn this is my first through-hike tells me I’m in for a rude awakening.
I’ve got this.
It’ll be fun.
I’m doing this for a shot at a different future, to walk into my dreams with a little less shame than before.
My eyes dart back down to the square-toed monstrosities on my feet as I hitch my backpack over my shoulder and head for the door. I’m still contemplating the reasons why practical shoes always seem to be so hideous when I collide with a solid, pine-smelling force.
Why, Willow, for the love of Pantone, why would you look down while walking?
An array of dots blurs my vision before clearing to reveal the most deliciously scowly face. The lowered brows, square jawwith a currently downward slanting mouth—the whole broody package. It’s giving major Bruce Wayne energy. This brick wall is also sporting ink-black hair and shoulders broad enough to pique my curiosity. Now I need to know what he’d look like wearing a deep, wine red.
“You okay, ma’am?” The Norse god with a cowboy hat rumbles in a voice that belongs in a whiskey ad. Is this how women in country songs feel before they make questionable choices?
A snorty laugh escapes my mouth before I sober, giving him and his ranger’s uniform myI mean businessface. “I’m fine, except I’m too emotionally unstable and far too young to be called ma’am,” I say as I straighten my shoulders, and he pulls his hands away.
