Page 13 of When There Was You
I hum out a chuckle.
“Have I steered you wrong yet?” His breath tickles…and so much more.
“No,” I breathe, trying and failing to concentrate on cooking.
He kisses my cheek.
God, this man.
I finish our scramble as Mick butters thick slices of fresh sourdough toast, and we sit down to eat, trading smiles.
We dress in shorts, T-shirts, and sneakers, and I corral my hair into a ponytail. Mick grabs a backpack, stuffing in snacks, a canteen (of course he has one), and a first aid kit. Fucking Boy Scout.
And all mine.
The Mustang engine rumbles its familiar cadence as we drive north up the highway to San Francisco before crossing the majestic Golden Gate Bridge. Barges and boats large and small speckle the deep blue water surrounding us.
My excitement mounts as we enter Mt. Tamalpais State Park, with signs for Muir Woods, Muir Beach, and Stinson Beach. Mick parks in the campground lot and leads the way to the trailhead. It’s a gorgeous day, a breezy sixty-eight degrees and climbing.
As I follow in Mick’s footsteps, I’m hit with a sudden pang. Does he regret staying? His dream was moving to Florida, getting away from the Bay Area. Yet he’s still here.Because of me. I question whether I’m worth it. Heisliving his dream of working on the water—and he’s made it clear I’m wanted and cherished. Maybe I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop because of our early days, our back and forth, him so easily…leaving. Now he’s worried about Remy, another tether. Are we holding him back?
Mick jars me from my thoughts, glancing back as we make our way up the trail. “Do you know why Mount Tam is called the sleeping lady?”
“Nope.”
“It’s the shape, the contour of the mountain.” He illustrates with his hand. “It looks like the profile of woman lying down. It’s based on an old legend, one where a heartbroken Native American woman was abandoned by her lover, laid down, and died.”
“That’s sad.”Let’s hope it’s not foreshadowing.
Why am I on this negative wave? As if the universe is trying to intervene, my shoe snags on a tree root and I lurch ungracefully.
As we climb, Mick points out medicinal plants, helps me avoid poison oak, and describes places he wants to take me camping. I’m happy to let him do most of the talking as I labor behind him, wondering how much smoking has impacted my lungs.
We near the summit and the trail broadens, revealing a breathtaking vista of the Pacific. Grasses flank our dirt path, big rocks jut from the ground, and it only gets better as we continue.
Pausing when we reach a good viewing spot, we crawl out onto a rock cluster. My entire body sighs contentedly when I sit and stretch my legs, especially my feet.
Mick opens the backpack. “Hungry?”
“Starving.”
He pulls out the snacks and offers me the canteen. I slug down a few gulps.
“This is incredible,” I marvel.
“Mm-hmm,” he answers, biting into an apple.
We’re silent as the stunning panorama washes over us. It’s peaceful up here, basking in the sunlight while cooled by the breeze swirling on the mountaintop.
I gasp and nudge Mick, whispering,“Bald eagle.”I so rarely see one, and never the condors anymore.
“Those are the bad motherfuckers of the bird world.”
It flies by, a badass indeed, scrutinizing us.
After resting a spell, we continue exploring the various sides of the summit—every perspective worth the effort. Experiencing this with Mick—more of his reverence for the great outdoors—it’s clear I love it too. It’s easy to visualize a lifetime of hiking, camping, canoeing, surfing, sailing…together. And when we pause to gaze toward San Francisco, his arms wrapped around me, the thought cements itself deep:I want to marry this man.
I don’t know whether he feels the same. And I can’t answer the other thought attempting to wiggle its way in: What. About. Remy?
