Page 82 of Two-Step
“But—But—what does that evenmean?”
Now he’s beaming.
“It means,” he says, stepping closer and framing my shoulders in his hands, “Hiking is where you know how to be in your body.”
And it hits me. He’s absolutely right.
“I love hiking. I have loved it as long as I can remember,” I say, tingles of recognition running down my arms. “My dad used to take me.”
We didn’t have a lot of money, but walking in the woods is free. The memories wash over me, and I need to move. Keep moving. So we set off again. And it’s a good thing too. Mica’s far ahead of us on the trail.
“Here, boy,” I call. He jerks his head up from the clump of grass he’s sniffing and then bounds back toward us.
“Where did your dad take you?” Beau asks, his question both gentle and casual. It’s as if he knows that this butts up against painful territory, and he’s hinting we don’t have to go there if I don’t want to.
But, right now, I do. It feels safe.
“We lived just a few miles south of Beavers Bend State Park,” I explain. “Basically in the foothills of the Ouachita Mountains. I’ve been to Malibu. I’ve been to the Redwoods. I’ve hiked from Katadin to Hanover, New Hampshire. Beavers Bend is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”
I hear the tightness in my voice and swallow hard.
“Tell me about it,” he coaxes.
I glance up at Beau for just an instant because an instant is all I can manage, and his eyes are as gentle as his voice. And I still feel safe—even if my throat’s gone tight.
I clear it. “There’s Broken Bow Lake, which is like twenty miles long. It’s man-made from when they dammed the Mountain Fork River. There’s places where the water is as clear as the ocean. People even scuba dive.” I chuckle. “We never did, but I swam in it every chance I got. Do you ever go swimming in the river by your house.”
My question surprises him. “In the Vermilion? God, no.”
“Why not? What’s wrong with it? Are there alligators?” A thrill of terror goes through me.
“Yes, but that’s not why I don’t swim in it,” he says, making a sour face. “It’s muddy and dirty.”
“Muddyanddirty?” I tease.
“Dirty as in polluted.” His nostrils flare in apparent disgust. “Everything on our streets drains to the bayou. So every cigarette butt, plastic cup lid, and dirty diaper somecouillontosses out of his car window winds up in The Vermilion.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Oh, gross. And people still litter? Even knowing it washes into the river?”
Beau rolls his eyes. “Like they’re being paid to do it.” And before I can comment, he says, “But you were talking about hiking with your dad. I want to hear about that.”
Tingles trail down my back and shoulders. I almost never talk about my dad—except for with Sally. And Ramon knows a little, of course, but he’s not one for going deep. Beau’s invitation is as rare as a solar eclipse.
And I feel like the moon. All that sunlight just for me.
I soak it in for a minute, and then tell him. “Moira used to work in a beauty parlor—anywhere else, you’d call it a salon, but in Broken Bow, it’s a beauty parlor,” I say in my Okie drawl.
“You’re so funny.” Beau chuckles under his breath. “That says it all.”
I’m gratified. “Anyway, she did hair and nails and worked every other Saturday, so when she wasn’t home, my dad would take me to Beavers Bend.” I wrinkle my nose. “Moira hates outdoor stuff, so we never went as a family.”
Beau nods as if this tidbit doesn’t surprise him. I don’t think anyone who knows Moira would be surprised, but Beau’s never even met her.
“We’d usually pack a lunch and hit Skyline Trail.” Just thinking of it has me smelling pine resin and Velveeta sandwiches. “We didn’t have a lot, but my dad’s most prized possession was his old Nikon. He’d sling that thing around his neck, hook a backpack over his shoulder, and off we’d go.”
I smile so big it hurts.
God, it hurts.
