I climb over the last boulder on this stretch and find Margot holding her poles above her head. She’s jogging in place like Rocky Balboa doing a victory lap, and I almost don’t have the heart to tell her we’ve barely completed an eighth of the trail.
“Great job,” I say, surprised by how honestly I mean it. “Rest of the trail continues through those trees.” I point with one of my poles.
“You mean there’s more?” she asks with a look of utter devastation. Her poles drop limply by her sides.
“Just a little farther.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re lying to me?”
“I’m definitely lying to you.”
She groans.
“Let’s go,” I say. “It’s less steep for a while.”
She trudges behind me, but as the trail widens to accommodate two hikers, I find myself slowing down to walk beside her, even though I know I shouldn’t. Reading her work last night has confirmed two disturbing facts. One, that she’s talented as hell and I’ve been a dick to underestimate her. And two, that she could absolutely write a Yelp review that could put North Star on either a destination map or on a BuzzFeed list of “Best Places for a Terrible Time.” Recovering from a scathing review is a storm I’d hoped North Star would never have to weather again, and just like last time, it’s all my fault for not leaving a guest well enough alone.
“So when are you going to admit that you’re only withholding my letters to torture and humiliate me?”
I try not to wince. Instead, I lift a branch that’s grown acrossthe trail so she can go under it. A small gesture to symbolize my newfound intention of not being a complete asshole to her.
“I think you overestimate how invested I am in the situation,” I say neutrally, choosing not to examine exactlyhowinvested I am after reading her sister’s letter.
“Is it just me who brings out your sadistic nature,” she says, ignoring me, “or have you always nurtured a secret hatred for blondes?”
Blood rushes to my cold face. What is it about me that says I have a hair-color fixation? It’s completely preposterous and why I say, “You guessed it. My area of research is focused primarily on the inferiority of blondes and how best to make them miserable.”
“Must be nice to be an expert in your field,” she mutters, stumbling over a rock.
“I was under the impression that’s exactly what you are,” I say, more than happy to point the spotlight away from myself. “Except your field is what? Happily Ever Afters?”
At this, Margot jolts. Miscalculates a step and slides on some ice. Automatically, I reach out to stabilize her, but she only bats my hand away. “I’m fine,” she says, though I’ve obviously struck a nerve. I stare at her profile, wishing I could decode the downward pinch of her eyebrows and the tight line of her shoulders beneath her pack.
“So, out of sheer boredom,” she says a few moments later, hijacking the spotlight and turning it back on me, “what is your field of research? When you’re not busy burning blond wigs, of course.”
“You’d be surprised by how time-consuming wig burning is,” I say, earning a snort. “But in my spare time, I research breast cancer. Triple-negative breast cancer, specifically.”
At this, she rolls her eyes and sighs like she can’t help herself.
“Wow,” I say. “Not usually the reaction I get.”
“Sorry—” she says, flushing when she realizes I’m staring at her. “I swear I’m not rolling my eyes at breast cancer.”
I lift another branch for her. “And here I thought I’d finally found someone depraved enough to be my wig-burning assistant.”
She laughs, and a sharp thrill of satisfaction rings through me like I’ve hit the bell at the top of one of those hammer-swing games at a carnival.
“No, it’s just—” But she stops, throwing me a furtive glance.
“What?”
“Well, I know you’ve probably never read a romance novel,” she says while I repress the urge to start whistling innocently. “But they employ a lot of well-worn tropes, and ‘doctor for a worthy cause’ is one of them.”
“So you’re reducing my entire career down to a romance-novel trope?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at her. The trail has steepened considerably, but she seems to be taking it in stride while preoccupied with our conversation.
“Isit your career still? I thought you’d given it up to be with your dad.”
The question hits like a cannonball to the gut and sets off about a hundred others I’ve been asking myself every day for the past six months. Have I really turned my back on all my research and education to be my father’s caretaker? And since, yes, I obviously have, will I ever have the opportunity to return to my old life? Especially when my father’s condition shows no quantifiable improvement, and he’s at constant risk of medical complications? The unfortunate answer is: not likely. Deep down, I know that even if I were deluded enough to think I could make a difference for him medically, it’s not the real reason I’m here. What ultimately made me turn my back on my entire life and what keeps me here today is guilt. During the last year of my mother’s life, I let her and my dad convince me she was okay. I stayed away until it was too late, and that’s simply not going to happen again. It’s why I’m about as stuck here as the stone slabs beneath my feet.
