Page 18 of Off the Trail

Blaze nods. “We’ve got plenty of light for the hike back, though we’ll need to be reasonably careful about where we step.” He crouches down and opens his pack. Like a magician extracting an endless stream of colored scarves, he begins producing item after item from the relatively small bag. First, he brings out two foam disks that I figure out are supposed to cushion us from the hard rock. This seems like an unnecessary luxury, but maybe my ass will be grateful for them after a while.

Then there’s foil-wrapped sandwiches, real cloth napkins, plates and forks. The sandwiches go on the reusable plates, along with pasta salad, the pungent vinegary scent of which hits my nose and goes straight to my rumbling belly. Blaze pulls out a small battery-powered lantern but doesn’t switch it on. Next comes a large glass bottle of beer and two small plastic tumblers.

“This is no ordinary picnic,” I say, diving into the sandwich with zeal.

“It’s pretty nice,” Blaze agrees. He’s eating with as much enthusiasm as I am, though he takes a break to pour some kibble into a dish for Misty. “Want some beer?”

“Sure.” The brew tastes pleasantly bitter and surprisingly cold against my tongue. “Do you have a refrigerator in there?”

He laughs. “There’s an insulated compartment, yeah.”

“Fancy.”

It’s gone full-on dark, and I become aware of the big moon in the sky right above Blaze’s head. “Wow.”

He twists to look where I’m looking and nods. “Seems bigger up here.”

“I’ll say.”

Stars pop out of the inky dark blue sky by the dozens. The longer I watch—it’s honestly overwhelming. It’s so beautiful, and it’s happening because it’s simply what happens. Blaze and I didn’t do anything to make it happen. We’re just here taking in the show.

God, I’m a spoiled brat. All of my dreams came true, and I thought my life would always be a certain way. But it’s hitting me now—that’s over. The dream of playing baseball on a big-league field? It’s never happening again.

Do I feel like…crying? Is that what this thick sensation in my throat, the prickle behind my eyes, is? I didn’t cry when I got cut from the team. I didn’t cry when they told me I’d have to have surgery. I didn’t cry when Dr. Russell told me it could take months or years of therapy to work through this sudden change.

But now, under this blanket of stars, I feel like crying. It’s like being closer to the sky has thinned the walls around my emotions. Out here I can’t hide from anyone, including myself.

But I’m not going to cry right now. That would really put the cherry on top of my embarrassment around Blaze.

I mean, Blaze is, like, a real Maine mountain man. He’s not going to want to see me break down and cry.

Fuck. I’m not sure I can stop it.

I set my sandwich down and stand up. “Um.” The sob in my gullet is going to come out if I try to say anything else. I turn and walk away, away from the edge, away from the view, away from the guy who’s accepted me without question, without judgement, from the minute I arrived.

I get a few feet away—is it far enough?—before I let out the breath and the sob, and it sounds way too loud to my ears. But once it’s out, I’m crying for real—actual tears welling up and popping out of my tear ducts, drops of water plopping from my face down to the stone floor below.

The tears feel like punishment for being in denial for so long. Callie tried to tell me. Dr. Russell tried to get me to see it for myself. I thought I understood, but now I finally get it—my career is really and truly over.

Who am I now?

God, this is humiliating. There’s no way Blaze can’t hear me breaking down like…like, I don’t know. Whatever’s the opposite of a stoic athlete who doesn’t show when he’s hurting.

I’m sniffling and wishing I had something besides the hem of my hoodie to wipe away the tears and snot when I sense Blaze behind me.

“Fuck.” My voice cracks on the word.

Something touches my arm, and I look down to see one of our dinner napkins. I take it and scrub my face, blowing my nose into the makeshift handkerchief.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, voice as soft as the darkness around us.

I don’t look at him, don’t see if he’s gone back to our picnic spot, but finally I get my breathing under control, wipe my face one more time with the now disgusting napkin.

I stare into the semicircle of trees that ring the boulder outcropping, a dense blackness that a person could disappear inside.

For a second, I think about it. What if I just went into the woods and never came out again? Is that why I lost control of the Lamborghini? Because I wanted to crash?