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“No, I’ll stay here, thanks.”
His face falls. I think I read his mind:I drove hell’s highway for you and you’re staying in the truck?
“Kidding, kidding. Of course I’m getting out!” I throw off my seatbelt.
“You might want your tennis shoes for this.”
He laces my new shoes while I tug on the new socks, then he waits while I gear up.
The moment the doors open, cool, crisp air rushes in.Heaven. We meet at the front of the truck, me ignoring my stiffness.
“Speak up if this is too much.”
I shake my head. “I love it here. I need this.”
His eyes are quietly on me. He knows too much about my frailties.
Inside the park, we could be anywhere. It’s fenced by trees that give a deceptive impression of not being near the top of a mountain. The picnic area contains a playground with a swing set, a slide, and a jungle gym. I make a beeline for the swings and kick off to start, but instantly my physical limitations wag their finger at me.
Excepting one quiet tent set up near the back of the campground, we have the place to ourselves. Marco surprises me by wedging himself into an adjacent swing. Naturally, he grasps the chains and pumps the rubber slat as high as it will go. After a minute, totally predictably, he launches through the air. In spite of myself, in spite of the fact he deserves to bust his teeth out for showing off, I hold my breath until he sticks the landing like a cat.
Gag. “Show-off.”
He preens. “Your turn.”
“Now that’s just low. You know good and well I can’t do that.”
His smile is lopsided. “I wouldn’t have done it if you could.”
I tilt my head.
“I like to win.” He grins. “Ineedto win.”
As I laugh, he settles back onto the swing next to mine, knees at his elbows, while I dangle my feet, digging my toes in the sand once in a while.
“Mom and Dad liked to do daytrips here when I was a kid. Sometimes Dad and I would hike the trails.” As he talks, he points to several trailheads leading off into the forest.
“I think I’d like hiking.”
“Tough to do in the winter, though?”
I had forgotten our conversation about mountains in the summer. Aw. This whole excursion is about me.
“Definitely. We went skiing a lot when I was a kid and spent several Christmas vacations in Aspen. Plus, my church youth group took ski trips every spring break since the beach was nothing special for us.”
He squints at me, trying to figure something—or me—out. I’m guessing it’s either the church thing or the poor-little-rich-girl trope that has piqued his attention.
“Are there ski slopes around here?”
“No, but there are some about an hour away. It’s nothing like Aspen, I’m sure.”
“Do you ski?” He must, living this close.
“Dad took me for my thirteenth birthday because he knew how bad I wanted to give it a try. But it’s kind of a rich man’s sport, you know.”
I think of my parents’ house, my stateside and European vacations, my Jeep. I think of his mother’s old singlewide: the scarred linoleum, the leaky AC, the tired wooden deck that’s trying to stand strong against the New Mexico elements but is close to losing the fight. I sigh. “That could have been me.”
Marco angles his head. “What could have?”
