Chapter 4: Back to Reality

4

In the days that followed, our group crossed one mountain forest after another, climbed nameless peaks, sang and played games, but never camped outdoors again.

Evenings were spent in creaky little motels with faded wallpaper and neon signs buzzing outside the windows. The air conditioner rattled, and the faded bedspread smelled faintly of bleach and old cigarettes. We ate at roadside diners, swapping stories over greasy eggs and bottomless coffee. A waitress in a Dolly Parton tee kept refilling our mugs with burnt coffee. In recent years, the mountain economy had developed well—small towns appeared one after another, all with good conditions. There was no need to camp in the wild.

I didn’t know why, but I became especially sensitive about where we stayed; whenever I heard which town we’d spend the night in, I felt an inexplicable sense of loss.

It was as if the wildness had been left behind with that night on the summit. Other than learning her name was Natalie when we checked in, I had no further interaction with her.

I caught her name as she spelled it for the clerk—Natalie. Four days later, we reached the final stop of our trip—a county seat in an old Civil War region.

The leader organized a farewell meal at a local farmhouse restaurant. After this meal, the trek was officially over; whether to stay or leave was up to each person.

Everyone was excited, sharing their feelings after six days of hiking, but I was absent-minded.

I picked at my food, half-listening to jokes about blisters and bear scares. She didn’t come.

I hurriedly finished eating and left, wandering around the restaurant, until I finally found her on the rooftop, leaning against the railing.

She was wearing headphones, mouthing lyrics, her legs swinging back and forth in the air.

She looked lost in her own world. After some hesitation, I walked over.

She saw me, took off her headphones, and smiled. “Thank you for feeding me these days.”

I replied calmly, “It was nothing. I should.”

“Should?” She looked at me in disbelief. “You should do that for your wife, not for me.”

She actually knew I had a wife. I immediately felt ashamed.

I tried to come up with some excuse, but she cut me off. “When you paid, I saw a woman’s photo in your wallet. She’s pretty,” she said. “And you have a ring mark on your finger.”

I smiled awkwardly.

“What’s wrong? Feeling guilty? Toward her, or toward me?”

“Don’t ask.” I sat on the railing beside her, no longer hiding. “I only see her once every four months, and each time for less than 48 hours. It’s been like this for five years. I might as well not be married.”

The words came out before I could stop them. She watched me, eyes narrowed, like she was measuring the weight of my confession.

“I see…” She moved closer. “Then… wanna fool around again?”

My heart leapt into my throat.

“Keep dreaming, ha…” She covered her mouth and laughed like a teenager. “Can you do me another favor?”

She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly all business.

“What?”

“Buy me a phone, or I can’t even go home.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and said, “Of course. There’s a mall in town—whatever you want, I’ll get it for you.”

“Honestly, you’re not bad.” She squinted and looked me up and down. “Don’t misunderstand, it’s not because you bought me a phone, but because you play guitar well, sing well, and… are pretty good in other ways too.”

Her voice lingered on that last bit, and I felt my face heat up, despite myself.