“That sounds like several jobs.”
“It is.”
“And the rest of the year?”
I step over the root and turn, holding out a hand before she reaches it. She looks at my hand like it’s a dare all by itself. Then she takes it. Her fingers are small in mine. I help her over the root and let go before I want to.
“Depends on the season,” I say. “Winter work down south most years. Trail contracts. Water recreation. Outfitting. Repairs. Whatever pays and keeps me outside.”
“You travel a lot?”
“Every six months or so.”
“That sounds…”
I wait. She searches for the word. Most women say exciting at first, then unstable later.
Layla says, “Free.”
I stop walking. She nearly runs into me. For one moment, neither of us moves.
Free.
Layla said the word quietly, almost to herself, like the concept tastes unfamiliar.
That is the exact moment I know this woman understands a big part of what makes me tick. It could be she craves some sort of freedom she’s never experienced before. Maybe that reveals why she wants to jump. I turn back toward the trail before she can read too much on my face.
“It can be,” I say.
“Do you like it?”
“Yes.”
“Always?”
“No.”
She goes quiet behind me. I don’t explain. People who don’t live this way think movement means you never get lonely. That’s not true. Sometimes movement is the only thing that keeps loneliness from catching you by the throat. But I’m not saying that to a woman I met yesterday -- especially one who looks like she should be kissed slowly on a porch swing by a man who knows how to stay around.
The trail rises, and the cove begins to show through the trees. The hidden swimming hole is quiet this early. No teenagers. No bachelor parties. No cheering. Just rock, water, morning light, and the ledge across the way waiting like a promise.
Layla steps beside me. Her breath changes when she sees it.
“Still want to do this?” I ask.
She stares at the water.
“Yes,” she whispers.
I see it all -- the fear and the want right there in her face. I look at the safe ledge, then at the dark water below it, already calculating angles, depth, wind, her size, her nerves, how far I need to be when she surfaces.
I tell myself this is just a lesson. Just one jump with a female tourist passing through. But when she turns those green eyes on me, I already know I’m lying.
I nod toward the ledge.
“Then stay close,” I say. “And when I tell you where to put your feet, you trust me.”
Layla swallows, then gives me one small nod.
