Page 58 of Stuck With the Smokejumper

“I care that you care.”

She studies me like she's deciding whether that's a real answer or a diplomatic dodge, then goes back to the serviceberry.

I've seen a lot of versions of Ivy since I landed on the crew-house floor back in June. Sleepy Ivy. Competent-crew-member Ivy. Competitive-at-everything Ivy. Dancing Ivy. Worried-sick-about-me Ivy. This is a new one. Scientist Ivy, completely absorbed, forgetting to be self-conscious about how much she's talking or how excited she sounds about a shrub. I like this Ivy a lot. Not because I suddenly find plant ecology fascinating. Because she does, and watching someone be genuinely, uncomplicatedly happy about something is its own kind of good time.

The trail steepens in a couple of places, loose rock underfoot. I reach for her hand the way I did at Silver Bell weeks ago. This time there's no tension in it, no discovery, just her fingers closing around mine like it's the easiest thing in the world, which it now is. We keep holding hands a while after the rough section ends, until one of us needs a free hand for something.

Somewhere along a flatter stretch I say, “I think I like watching you get excited about shrubs.”

“I'm going to pretend that was a compliment.”

“It was. Mostly.”

“I'll take it.” She glances over.

We reach the overlook a little before noon, a rocky outcrop above the burn that gives us the whole patchwork laid out below, old blackened trunks standing among new growth, the pattern of recovery more obvious from up here than it was down in the middle of it. Beyond that, ridgelines roll out toward the rest of the district, mountains stacked up blue and hazy in the distance.

We drop our packs and sit, boots stretched out. Ivy digs out the lunch she packed. Sandwiches, chips, fruit, and a bag of trail mix she starts picking through for the chocolate.

I steal one of her grapes, which earns me a look of genuine betrayal.

“That's not how this works,” she says.

“How does it work?”

“I steal from you. You don't get to steal from me.”

“That seems like a rule you invented twenty seconds ago.”

“Doesn't make it wrong.”

I let her take my chips, mostly because arguing about it is more fun than winning.

“How's the thesis going?” I ask, once we've settled into the easy quiet that comes after food.

“Good.” She sounds surprised by her own answer. “I got a lot done while you were gone. Turns out having something to throw yourself into is useful when your boyfriend's not around for almost two weeks.”

“Glad I could motivate you through sheer absence.”

“Don't get used to it as a strategy.”

She tells me where things stand, most of the writing done, revisions still ahead, then the defense once her committee's ready for her. It's close enough now I can hear it in her voice, a mix of relief and nerves that comes with almost finishing something that's mattered for years.

“What happens after?” I ask. “Once it's done?”

“Honestly, I don't fully know yet.” She picks at a piece of trail mix, thinking about it. “There are a few kinds of positions I'd be a good fit for. Some in Montana. Some not. I've been watching a few openings, but nothing's solid enough to plan around yet.”

I hadn't quite expected that. Somewhere along the way I'd started thinking of Ivy as the rooted one, the person who belongs somewhere, while I'm the one whose life gets decided by wherever the next assignment happens to be. Turns out her future's as unsettled as mine, just for different reasons.

“That's a big unknown,” I say.

“It is. I try not to think about it too hard on my days off.”

“Fair enough.”

“What about you?” she asks. “Any idea yet on where you might be for ski patrol?”

“Looking like Colorado.”