Page 93 of Good at Being Alive
His mouth curves gently to one side. “I didn’t bring it for myself,” he says.
I don’t even know why I’m surprised. Has there been a single trip where he hasn’t taken care of me in some way, whether itwas cutting up donuts in Iceland or beating the shit out of Caden in Paris?
It’s going to be hard to give that up, once filming is done.
At a small café atop Fløyen, we eat open-faced sandwiches—with enough veg we’d just call them salad at home—and then head to the base of Ulriken, the highest of the area’s seven mountains, so that we can run to its peak up thirteen hundred stone steps. I’d hoped we might at least get some privacy during the run but no, they’ve hired someone to film us bydrone.
“When are these fucking cameras going to be off us?” I whisper while the crew setsup.
“Not until Geiranger,” he replies with a quiet groan. “We’reglampingat the base of a waterfall. Sharing a small RV.”
Jon shouts at us to turn on our mics. Reluctantly, we doso.
“So how small is the RV?” I ask.
“Incredibly tight,” he says, glancing at my mouth. “So fucking tight. I’m definitely too big for it.”
My thighs clench. I can’t wait. I also can’t believe we’ve only got three nights together and we’re spending two of them apart.
We start our run, which should only take thirty minutes, but there’s a problem with the drone, so they make us wait halfway up until it’s fixed.
When I know they can’t see us, I lean against Theo as we take in the view—lakes and the city below, mountains in the distance. I don’t know who it is I’m becoming, this girl who enjoys running up the side of a mountain and only wants to rest her head against Theo’s now sweaty chest, but maybe this is the person I was meant to be: someone who doesn’t have to hide what she loves and what she’s good at, someone who’s allowed to be the best version of herself.
In spite of the year I’ve had…in this moment, I’m happier than I ever remember being. Because of something I stole fromBronwyn. Because of something I might not be able to keep. The realization terrifiesme.
“What’s the first thing you’ll do when we get divorced?” I ask.
“That isn’t funny anymore,” he says, looking away.
I was trying to remind him that I’m in on the joke. That it’s okay if I’m not his first choice. I suspect, however, that I’ve hurt him instead. And, the truth is…it wouldn’t be okay if I wasn’t his first choice. It wouldn’t be okay at all.
Bex
The day of our drivefrom Bergen to Geiranger by RV kicks off with a fifteen-mile run through downtown Bergen and into the surrounding hills. My legs are somewhat leaden from yesterday’s jog up the steps at Ulriken, but when I try to persuade Theo and Lars that we should cut it short or stop to check out the old wood-framed merchant homes that line the harbor, neither of them bites.
“You’ve got this, Bex,” Theo says, his smile warm, and in the end, he’s right. Eventually my legs get a second wind, and though I’m never going to become someone who refers to a fifteen-mile run as “easy” or “pleasant,” after long runs in sweltering Paris and New Jersey, the cooler temps make italmostokay.
I have just enough time to shower and throw my stuff in a bag before the RV is idling in front of the house, with Theo grinning at me from behind the wheel. For a single blinding second—even as Jon is descending from the RV with the camera on his shoulder—I allow myself to imagine that it’s just the two of us here, setting off in an RV to marvel at mountains and fjords and endure long, painful runs.
I want that. I want it so badly that it’s as if the desire has hollowed me out, replacing every other thing I’d hoped for.
How can I care about him this much in such a short period of time?
Why do I care this much when I have no idea if he feels the same way?
“How are the legs?” Theo asks as I climb into the passenger seat. His gaze drifts over my face for a half second too long. I’d give up donut holes for a year at least to get fifteen minutes alone with him right now.
My mouth curls up at the corner. “They’ll be just fine by the time we get to Geiranger,” I reply, glancing back at the space behind me. “As long as I’m able to stretch, that is. This is, as you mentioned, incrediblytight.Barely any room for you.”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows—for the next eight hours of driving and filming, smiles and swallows and sighs will be the only forms of genuine communication we’ll have. “I’ll make it work,” he says, his mouth lifting to match mine. “I’m surprisingly good at fitting into small spaces.”
I’m not letting him get awinkof sleep tonight.
Soon we’ve left the city behind and are inching around curving roads up into the mountains, with a new waterfall around every turn. Unfortunately, all this natural beauty forces us to stop again and again to grab footage, and every second we spend while Jon films a fjord from forty angles is a second we’re not alone.
Damn you, Nature.
Despite the midnight sun, the light is low by the time we get to Geiranger, which is like every majestic photo you’ve ever seen of Norway condensed into the tiniest town imaginable. Cliffs jut high on either side of the fjord, and you can’t throw a stone without hitting a waterfall.
