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“Yeah, this guy I went out with a few times recently. I initially dismissed the idea, but now I’m beginning to wonder about him. When I told him I wasn’t interested in pursuing things, he called me thecword.”
“What a dick.”
“Yeah. There’s a big difference, though, between saying that and breaking and entering. Would he really go that far because I didn’t want to go on a fourth date?”
Mikoto takes a sip of her cappuccino and licks the foam off her top lip. “Have you checked out his Instagram?” she says, setting the cup back down.
“You think he’spostingstuff about me?”
“No, no. But I’ve always found you can tell a lot about a person from their posts, if you look beneath all the bullshit.”
Because so many emerging artists are discovered on Instagram—I mean, that’s how Josh first saw me—I had almost no choice but to set up an account, where recently I’ve posted updates on my work, details about the Meyer Gallery opening, and the occasional selfie of myself in the studio. The only time I scroll through on the app, though, is to check out and “like” something by either another artist or photos Nicky posts of her two rescue dogs.
“Good point,” I say. “But I’m not sure that he even has an account.”
“What’s his name again?”
“Deacon Starr. Starr with twor’s.”
She digs into her coat pocket and pulls out an oversize smartphone and, after a couple of taps, starts scrolling. “There are a few people with that name. Red hair?”
“No, brown.”
She keeps scrolling. “Young kids?”
“Not that he ever admitted to.”
“Big hiker?”
“Yes, major.”
“This might be him,” she says, turning the phone around so the screen is facing me.
Yup, it is. I nod and use my pointer finger to scroll through his posts, almost all of which feature scenic photos of hiking trails, sometimes with him in the shot, sometimes not. There are no pictures with other people.
“Based on this,” I say, returning the phone to Mikoto, “his only obsession seems to be with hiking trails.”
She trains her gaze back on the screen, and because of the way her eyes flick back and forth, I can tell she’s reading. Her expression suddenly clouds.
“What is it?” I ask her, feeling nervous.
“I’m looking at a post from late August. In between the hashtags #hikeNewHampshire and #hikemoreworryless, there’s one that says #whinywomenshouldstayoffmountains.”
I sigh. “He’s obviouslyproudto be a dick.”
She flicks her thumb down the screen a few times. “And god, hiscaptions. ‘Treadmills are for amateurs.’ ‘Don’t tell me you can bushwhack. SHOW me.’ ‘If you haven’t got the guts to scramble, don’t hike with me.’”
“It’s pretty clear he considers himself on a higher plane than people who don’t hike,” I say.
“But it’s more than that,” Mikoto says. “There’s something vaguely hostile about the tone even if it’s a caption about climbing Bear Mountain.”
She passes me back the phone, which is open to one of the older posts, and it doesn’t take long to see what she means. I end up backat the top, staring at the most recent photo, posted a week ago. The image features a trail almost overrun by tangled brush, with dark woods looming ahead. As I read the caption, my breath catches in my chest.
When the trail resists, refuse to take no for an answer.
17
Now
