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My lips tug into a genuine smile at his comment. A smile I hope looks more real than it feels. I shake my head. Even the effort to do that seems too much.
“I’ve got you.” Troy weaves his fingers with mine, startling me, but I can’t find the will to pull my hand away. He gives them a squeeze. “But if this is too much, let me know.”
I’m unsure if he’s referring to him holding my hand or the hike to the top of the mountain, and I don’t bother to ask him to clarify.
His skin is rough and calloused from his job, much like mine is from working in the prison kitchen. The touch feels intimate, foreign. But at the same time, it feels like he’s sharing his strength, sharing his drive to keep going.
Holding Troy’s hand gives me the boost of energy I need. That might also be because he’s half pulling me up the mountain.
We step beyond the tree line into an open area that’s mostly rocks and wild grass. A strong wind nudges me sideward.
I let go of his hand. I don’t want to give his friends the wrong idea. And they don’t need to know I was struggling near the end.
We walk to a group of boulders that provide shelter from the wind and sit on the ground. Troy sits next to me, and Butterscotch lies by our feet. My back still aches, but less so than it did when we were hiking. I look out at the stunning view of the lake, the surface painted with various shades of green and blue reflecting the trees and the sky. This…the view. It’s perfect.
Perfect and worth every ache and pain I’ll feel tomorrow.
A different ache fills me, a longing, and my fingers twitch for the weight of a camera in my hand again. I mentally compose the various photos I’d shoot if I had my camera. If my husband hadn’t smashed it.
I would try taking photos with my phone, but what if they aren’t any good? I used to win awards with my photojournalistic pictures. Nothing major. Mostly college-level awards. But…but that was with fancy equipment and lenses. It wasn’t with a phone camera.
I bury the urge to try to capture the scene in front of me.
Photography was my past. Savannah’s past. It’s not part of Jessica’s future.
Zara unloads Garrett’s backpack and passes out white paper bags with her café’s logo on the front. “Yesterday’s leftovers,” she says by way of explanation.
Simone hands two to me. I pass Troy the bag with his name on it and open mine. My stomach rumbles at the spicy, sweet scent.
The group starts talking and eating. I don’t say anything. I just savor the delicious food and listen to their conversations. Answer the occasional questions I’m comfortable answering.
And enjoy the taste of normalcy I’ve been denied for so long.
* * *
The return hikeis challenging but for a different reason compared to going up. Gravity wants me to run down the steep slope and risk tripping over the rocks and the roots. But even if I had tripped, it wouldn’t have changed my opinion about today. I loved everything about it: the hike, the scenery, hanging out with Troy and his friends.
Troy drops Garrett and Zara off at her apartment and drives to his house to shower.
As soon as we step inside, he pulls out his phone, asks what I’d like on the pizza, and calls the restaurant. He places the order, and we go into the kitchen. He fills two glasses with water and hands one to me.
“Thanks.” I take a sip and scan the room. Everything is placed in straight lines, not a single item deviating by so much as a fraction of an inch. And that includes the tea towels hanging from the oven door, their edges even with each other.
I don’t have to check the rest of the house to know I’ll find the same terrifying rigidity in all the rooms.
A tremor takes over my body, and the hand holding the glass jerks. Water sloshes over the rim. I place the glass on the counter and hug myself, hiding the effect Troy’s kitchen has on me.
“You okay?”
I startle, my mind spiraling back to a kitchen that was once in a similarly kept order. “I’m good.” My voice trembles, my own control fraying.
Now it’s Troy’s gaze that studies the kitchen, a confused frown pinching his brow.
“Why don’t you have your shower now?” I try to make the words sound carefree. My mouth is dry, and the words come out scratchy.
“Can you tell me what happened to you? Why are you suddenly so jumpy?” Concern and tenderness fill Troy’s eyes, but it’s not enough to soothe the fear churning inside me.
“Nothing has happened.” My words still come out scratchy and hoarse. I cough, hoping he’ll think I have something stuck in my throat.
