Page 81 of 72 Hours of You

JULES:Did you know that ppl over the age of 70 bone almost exclusively outdoors

“Done,” I say, slipping my phone back into my pocket. And then I follow Peter through the creepy fucking bushes to god knows where.

“FUCK. SERIOUSLY?!” Another bush scrapes my ankle. “This hike is bullshit, Peter,” I say, narrowly avoiding being smacked in the face with a branch.

“Aw, come on,” he says, adjusting his backpack straps. “You’re a runner. This should be easy for you.”

“I don’t usually run face-first into trees.”

“Just the sidewalk.”

“Oh my god. You’re really on one today, huh?”

“Sorry.” Peter laughs. “It must be all the fresh air.”

“I liked it better when you stayed inside and read,” I say, ducking under another branch.

“We’re almost there. I promise.”

“You’ve been saying that for like an hour,” I groan. Like, I’m all for nature (sort of) but this is excessive.

Peter stops. “Listen. You hear that?”

“The sound of my growing dislike for you?” I say, picking a burr off my sock. “Loud and clear.”

“No. Listen.”

There’s this kind of roaring sound in the distance. “Is that thunder?”

Peter grins. “No. Come on.”

And then he’s pulling my hand, dragging me over half-rotting logs, brambles, and jagged rocks, the sound getting louder and louder. We push through one more dense patch of trees and then— Holy shit.

A waterfall.

There’s a clearing with enormous, jagged rocks towering over this blue-green pool of water, trees growing up around the sides and in the cracks of the rocks. It looks like some shit out of a fairy tale. “Jesus, Peter … what is this?”

“This,” he says, “is Bash Bish.”

“Sorry, do you smell toast?”

Peter laughs. “Hey, I’m not in charge of naming things.”

I look back at the waterfall. The water streams out in this heavy rush, churning into white foam in the little pool below. It’s so loud and also so quiet at the same time. It’s like we’re totally alone in this weird, secluded world. “How is no one else here?”

“That would be because it’s technically closed right now,” Peter says, brushing some dirt off his hands.

“I didn’t even know places like this existed so close to the city.”

“My parents and I used to go at least once a summer. Sometimes two or three times.” Peter sits down on one of the rocks near the base of the pond. “My mom has a thing about waterfalls. And lighthouses.”

“I don’t blame her,” I say. “This place is sort of magical?”

“Right? It makes you feel like … like maybe all the rest of the stuff is just bullshit.”

I sit down next to him on the rock, our shoulders touching. “The rest of the stuff is bullshit,” I say. “Pretty much everything is.”

Peter turns to face me. “Not everything.”