Page 39 of 10 Signs You Need to Grovel

“Sadie.” I stop walking. “Did you take advantage of me when I was in a horrendously vulnerable state and take a picture?” I had cow shit in my hair, down my back. Every-fucking-where.

Forget muffled. She’s full-on cackling now. “Oh my God.” She tips forward, bracing her hands on her knees, tears leaking from her eyes. “You were covered in shit. How could I not?”

I force my amusement into a fake scowl. “You deleted them, right?”

“Um.” More laughing and eye wiping. “Yes?”

She was always a horrendous liar. I’m laughing with her, though. It’s impossible to keep a straight face when she’s this unabashed, her wide grin infectious. As much as I hate having that mortifying moment immortalized in a picture, I’d bathe in cow shit again if it meant having a front row seat to Sadie’s joy. I also have my own set of embarrassing photos.

“Guess it’s a good thing I still have those pictures from the night you drank your weight in boxed wine and decided it would be fun to drag me through a sex shop.”

She stands abruptly, eyes wide. “You do not.”

“Oh, I do.” The one where she’s miming giving a dildo head. The one where she’s tangled in bondage straps. The one where she mistook anal beads for a necklace.

She momentarily appears shell shocked, then she laughs again, the two of us losing it, trying to walk on the trail, practically doubled over . . . and I smack into a tree.

We laugh harder, making sounds that no doubt terrify the birds and wildlife. The kids are stopped up ahead, staring at us with confused what’s-wrong-with-them looks. I make a shooing motion with my hand, gathering my composure. “Treasure awaits. Move along.”

They turn. Except Max and Olivia, who both stare at us an extra beat. While those long perusals make me edgy for different reasons, I don’t remember the last time I’ve felt this good.

Just over the halfway point, we stop for snacks and leisure time. Sadie steps away, visiting each kid to chat about their nature booklets and treasures. I grab a crushed beer can from the ground, annoyed with people for being people. Littering in nature is reprehensible.

As I shove the can in my backpack, a small shadow slashes the ground. “Did you have to wear a disguise in witness protection? Is that why you have those tattoos and had the bad hair?”

Honest to God. I look at the ground for one minute, and there’s Olivia, cornering me while I’m distracted. “Nope. Those bad choices were all mine.”

I should buy a T-shirt: I Survived WITSEC and All I Got Were These God-Awful Tattoos.

“Okay, but—”

“Nope,” I repeat and bare my teeth in a saccharine smile. “One question per day.”

She makes a grumbly sound. “Fine. I’ll do better next time.” Her threatening tone doesn’t bode well, and she’s lingering. “Also, just so you know, this hike doesn’t suck.”

There’s that strange warmth again, pushing at my ribs.

Feeling on top of my game, I decide to search out Max. He’s not with Jasmine and Zoey this time. He’s on a lone tree stump, hunched over his sketchbook. So much like his uncle E, always with a pencil in his hand, imagination running amok. Also like his uncle, he might not appreciate being interrupted, but my time with him is limited.

I approach slowly and smile at the glow stick protruding out of his backpack. Beside it is the corner of a book. Now that has promise. Sadie mentioned he reads tons, that some of his chosen novels are more adult in nature, beyond his age range. While I only read school-assigned books growing up, my book club with Mom pushed me to explore literature, delve into character motivation the way Sadie pushed me to examine art—the women in my life always making me a better person. Maybe my efforts with Mom could be my in with Max.

“Reading something good?” I ask.

Pencil stilling, he frowns. “What?”

I nudge his bag with my foot and get a better glimpse of the upper part of the cover: Simon vs. the—

Max tugs his bag closed and shoves everything deeper inside. “Don’t go through my stuff.”

His cheeks flush, his thick eyelashes lowering as his shoulders curve forward, like he’s both embarrassed and mad. Remorse winds me. A whole walloping of guilt that makes me want to hit rewind and get a do-over. Honestly. How do parents do it? I wasn’t even reprimanding or disciplining him, and it feels like someone’s stepping on my lungs. But I’m done running scared. If I want to get to know Max better, I have to roll with these punches.

I crouch beside him. “You mentioned showing me more sketches last hike. Can I check out your work?”

He pauses, grips his pencil tighter. Eventually, he says a tentative, “Sure.”

He holds out his sketchbook hesitantly. I’m not hesitant. I take it and flip through the pages, examining his work intently. Some of his sketches are quick and rough, others more detailed. In one a boy stands by himself with a crudely drawn crowd on the other side of the page. No other details, just a desperate sense of apartness. In another a boy is on the ground in pieces. It’s not a gruesome sketch with blood and guts. The boy looks toylike—a wooden boy who’s broken apart, unable to put himself back together. A third is filled with a number of smaller sketches, each with two hands clasped. Some hands are only outlines, others have warped proportions—studies of what makes a hand a hand, maybe? There are also pages of birds and rockets and planes. Flying is obviously a thing with Max.

“Am I sitting next to a future pilot?” I ask.