"Fine," he mutters. "Why did you become so obsessed with trails and recording everything?"
It's not exactly an enthusiastic question, but it's something. I'll take it.
"You really want to know?"
"I asked, didn't I?"
"You asked because I guilted you into it."
"Autumn." There's a warning in his voice, but also something else. Something that might be the tiniest bit of actual curiosity. "Just answer the question."
I smile into the darkness. "Okay. But it's kind of a long story."
"We've got time."
I settle in, trying to organize thoughts I've never really put into words before. "I was a fat kid. Am a fat adult, obviously, but when you're a kid it matters more. Or it feels like it does."
"You're not fat," he interrupts. "You're—" He cuts himself off.
"I'm what?"
"Nothing. Continue."
I file that away to examine later. "Anyway, I was the chubby girl in school. Not athletic, not popular, not anything special. And my dad, before the divorce, he was really into sports. Football, basketball, baseball. He coached little league and was always at games and wanted his kid to be just like him."
"But you weren't."
"No. I tried, though. God, I tried so hard. Joined every team, showed up to every practice. But I was slow and uncoordinated and the other kids made sure I knew it. And my dad… He never said anything mean, exactly. But I could see the disappointment. Every time I got picked last, every time I missed a catch, every time I had to sit out because I couldn't keep up."
The old hurt surfaces, duller now than it used to be but still present. "When I was fourteen, my mom suggested I try hiking. She'd done some when she was younger, said maybe I'd like itbetter than team sports. And I was skeptical because, you know, exercise is exercise. If I sucked at running, why would I be any good at walking uphill?"
"But you were."
"I was." I can hear the surprise in my own voice, even now. "Turns out I'm built for endurance, not speed. Give me a trial and time and I can go forever. No one to compare myself to, no one watching and judging. Just me and the mountain and the path ahead."
"And the camera?"
"That came later. I was seventeen, hiking by myself on the trails around town, and I saw this waterfall. Not Blackwater Falls, everyone knows that one. This was smaller, hidden, off the main path. And it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. So, I took a picture on my phone and posted it online, just to share it, you know? And people loved it. Asked where it was, said they wanted to go there too."
I shift onto my side, facing him even though I can barely see his outline in the darkness. "It felt good. Like I'd found something valuable and got to share it. Like for once, being the person who wandered off the path meant something positive."
"So, you started filming."
"Not right away. First I just took pictures. Then videos. Then I realized I could actually make a living doing this, you know? Going places, showing them to people, helping them find beauty they didn't know existed. And suddenly the thing that made me weird as a kid, wanting to walk for hours by myself, became the thing that made me special."
"It is special," he says. "What you do. Showing people things they'd never see otherwise."
The compliment catches me off guard. "You think so?"
"Wouldn't say it if I didn't."
"Even though I'm too reckless? Too stupid to check the weather?"
"Being reckless doesn't negate the value of what you do. Just means you need to be more careful." He pauses. "Your father. Did he ever come around? See that what you were doing mattered?"
And there it is. The question I was hoping he wouldn't ask, because the answer still hurts.
"No," I say simply. "He still thinks it's a hobby. Keeps telling me to get a real job, find a nice man, settle down. We don't talk much anymore."
