Page 34 of Someone To Claim
“Like your hit song.”
“You’ve heard it?”
“Everyone has heard ‘Lucky Me’.” I scoff, then start moving again.
We’ve reached a fork in the trail, so I stop and pull out the paper map I bought at the motel’s front desk when I decided to leave my phone behind.
“I guess,” he agrees, coming up beside me. There’s aflicker of something beneath his easy tone that tells me he has bigger feelings about his ubiquitous hit song than just cashing royalty checks. “It was a long time ago.”
“Twenty years,” I supply.
“Yep.”
He points toward the trail that snakes into a thick copse of trees. “That way?”
I turn the map, trying to match the contour lines to the landscape I can barely see through the mist. The other trail heads out into an open field, and I’m mostly sure that’s our route. But Jensen pointed toward the trees with such casual confidence, and I’m not known for my sense of direction, metaphorically or geographically.
Still, this is my adventure, so I ignore his suggestion and point toward the field. “We go this way.” I think. Probably.
“Okay,” he agrees and starts moving. Then stops when he realizes I’m still staring at the map. “What’s wrong?”
“What made you pick that trail?” I hate the uncertainty in my voice, the second-guessing that lives in me like a virus I can’t shake. Sort of like cancer. “Do you have service? Should we check your phone?”
“I doubt I have service, but I don’t need to check.” One broad shoulder lifts and lowers. “You’re the leader of our pack. I trust you.”
Huh. I take my time folding the map along its creases. I need something to do with my hands that isn’t standing here staring at him while his words slide past my defenses and rewrite the story I’ve always told about who I am.
I trust you.
When was the last time someone put that kind of faith in me? Not my parents, who were too busy cataloging ruins in Europe to notice whether I was making good decisions or terrible ones. Not Jeremy, who spent the first five years of my adult life pretending I didn’t exist and the last year writing checks to make sure I stayedalive. It’s his version of love, and I appreciate him more than I can say, but it isn’t the same as trust.
Not even me, if I’m being honest. I bought Cover to Cover with my grandmother’s trust fund and built it into something good, but I still poll my employees, customers, and friends before making every decision. What should I stock? Which authors should I book for in-person events? What genre gets the window display this month? I tell myself it’s good customer service, but the truth is I don’t trust my own judgment enough to move without consensus.
And here’s a man I ran from (twice, if you’re counting), standing at a fork in the trail and going along with my choice, like…duh…of course I made the right one. I’m guessing it isn’t because he doesn’t have opinions. It’s because he believes in mine.
Cue the sappy music.
“I trust me, too,” I tell him and head toward the open field. Maybe I don’t sound as sure as he did, but I mean it more than I expected to.
As he falls into step behind me, the clouds part enough to allow a thin band of sunlight through, turning the droplets of water clinging to the pine needles into sparkling diamonds. Hard to tell if that’s a sign or just nature doing its thing, but it feels like I’m going in the right direction. And I like that I’m not doing it alone.
13
SLOANE
The trioof women we run into right after lunch latch onto us like we’re about to become trail besties. Or maybe they’re sick of having only each other to talk to. I’d guess they’re in their early thirties, and they look like they’d be more at ease in a hot yoga studio than on the trail, which is relatable, tbh. The tall blonde with skin so smooth and creamy it looks filtered tells us her husband left her for the new hygienist in his dental practice. Jensen and I share a grimace behind her back.
“He said it was about her ‘energy,’” she says, making aggressive air quotes. “Seems to me it was more about her being twenty-two and willing to blow him in the supply closet.”
I swallow back a snort as Jensen nearly trips on his own feet.
“That’s why we’re on this forced march,” her redheaded friend explains. “I suggested a girls’ getaway to Miami, but Veronica wanted to commune with nature.”
“I wanted to do something that cheating asshole wouldn’t think I’m capable of, you know?” Veronica asks over her shoulder, hazel eyes imploring me to understand.
“I get it,” I assure her and decide that I like Veronica. We’remutual fans of the character-building power of voluntary suffering.
After the overshare icebreaker, we make first-name introductions. The third woman, who has glossy curls and is named Emma, loses her entire mind when she recognizes Jensen.
