The Hike

Summer was over, and so were we.

My sunscreen and I had enjoyed a good run, but the bottle was all but empty, just a few clumpy drips clinging to the bottom of the teal plastic. I’d used most of it on an ill-advised last weekend. Just a quick jaunt around a mountain, Jake had assured me. We’d be back by lunchtime. No, of course we wouldn’t need bug spray.

My ankles still itched. Did you know there are flies that bite your skin? I didn’t. I also didn’t know that sandals aren’t advisable for a trek through the woods, even strappy Birkenstocks purchased at a camping shop. Turns out sandals don't protect you from biting flies or poison ivy or pointy twigs or someone's sticky can of seltzer hiding behind some loose gravel.

I was on my third full application of sunscreen by the time we reached the lookout at the halfway point, because despite the ever-present tree cover, the sun still found a way to burn every square inch of my flesh, except of course for my feet, which the flies were taking care of. We stepped onto a large flat rock and gazed at nature’s splendor before us. Well, Jake did. I dug through my backpack for my inhaler. But then I gazed. Lots of treetops and a winding river and a bucolic town in the distance, the kind of place where you just know someone is selling wooden cutting boards with flowers carved into them. I took a picture with my phone and, satisfied I’d fulfilled my participating-in-this quota, took a seat beneath a blessedly shady maple.

“Wow,” Jake said, hand over his eyes as he tracked a hawk’s glide beneath a cloud.

“Yeah.”

He wiped his brow with the bottom of his shirt, his mouth caught somewhere between dorky smile and pained grimace. Then he plopped down next to me, more sweat than man. “I will admit, this trail might be more advanced than I thought.”

I knew that. There was a color-coded map in the parking lot. The pink trail—for novices, for people like me who preferred to observe nature from a distance, ideally seated and with a drink in hand—was called Angel’s Caress, and had we taken it, we’d have been done by now.

But there was no point bringing that up. This was our final full weekend before he returned to school, and I wanted our remaining time together to be happy and effortless. It was bad enough that I couldn’t stop anticipating his departure, grieving his absence while he was still here. He wouldn’t even be that far away, just 45 minutes up the Turnpike, but the small geographic distance belied the way our lives would diverge come autumn. He’d be back with his friends and intramural leagues and parties and homework; I’d be apprenticing with my uncle again while taking night classes at community college.

“You’re turning red,” I muttered as I rubbed SPF 50 into his neck.

“Mmm.”

“No, not mmm. More like…owww, when you feel the burn later in the shower.”

“Well I’ll be feeling you in the shower too, so it won’t be so bad.”

Now I was the one turning red. He took the bottle from me and replaced it with his hand.

“Thanks for coming with me,” he said, rubbing my knuckles. “I know this isn’t exactly your favorite thing.”

“Of course. You love these hikes. I’m glad to be doing one with you.”

“You’ve cursed more in these two hours than in all the time we’ve been together.”

There was that word again, time. Which we were running out of. We barely made it through freshman year, and I wasn’t confident the next semesters would be any different. I hated feeling like I was holding him back, like he couldn’t get the full college experience because his stupid boyfriend was stuck at home, learning a trade and getting his degree the unglamorous way.

“Sorry,” I said, relieved to be wearing sunglasses so that he couldn’t see the tears forming in my stupid eyes. If only sadness could be as easily packed away as hiking gear, something you could shove in your bag until you really needed it. But no, here it was, on this beautiful mountain, on this beautiful day, with my beautiful Jake who was probably not going to be mine much longer.

“Don’t be,” he said. “It’s cute. Somehow.”

I should have laughed. His expression turned tender.

“Hey,” he said, knocking our knees together. “What’s up?”

“Just tired. I should grab some water.”

“Lies. I know when you’re tired. Talk to me.”

I didn’t want to talk to him. I wanted to be his cool boyfriend who hiked and maintained a good attitude and had his shit together. A conversation would have been like a raincloud on the horizon: unwelcome, inviting trouble. Gray and stubborn.

I closed my eyes and imagined being that hawk, flying to see him every weekend. I’d skip so much traffic and save money on tolls. I’d arrive at his campus every Friday night with dignity instead of circling until I found a visitor parking space.

“I’m tired, that’s all. Lemme rest up for a little bit, and then we’ll keep going.”

I heard him scooting closer, felt a damp arm around my back.

“You’re thinking about next Sunday,” he said.

“Jake,” I managed. “Please. It’s fine.”

“You know I love you, right?”

I shook my head. “It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

Something lumpy in my throat. I swallowed it away. “This trail is just fine for you, isn’t it? I’m the one who can barely keep up.”

“Can you look at me for a sec?”

“I am looking at you.”

“No, your eyes are closed. I can tell.”

Damn, he was good. I opened my eyes to a sepia sky, a sepia Jake.

“I love you,” he repeated. “And we’re gonna be okay. We’ll have our FaceTime schedule like always. And I’m not doing ultimate frisbee, which will free up some time on Monday nights.”

“Free up some time for what, staying in your dorm room and talking to me?”

“Obviously.”

“Jake, I don’t want you to have to—”

“But I do.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Let me guess: Jake, I don’t want you to have to pull yourself from your amazing, fun-filled college life to talk to your boyfriend. Go out and play beer pong or something. Study in that new library. Live your life.” His impression was slow to dissipate, heavy as it was with the many conversations we’d had along just these lines.

I leaned my head on his shoulder. He smelled like musk and salt and leaves. He smelled like home.

“I’m sorry,” I said, aware this was the second apology I’d made in as many minutes.

“Why?” he whispered, kissing my hair.

If I were a hawk I could live on his windowsill, fetch provisions from the dining hall. I wouldn’t need to take night classes because hawks don’t need degrees, they have talons and majesty. “For being so predictable.”

“Hey, you’re out here with me. Which I did not expect you to say yes to, by the way.”

“What else was I supposed to say?”

“I dunno, maybe no thanks, call me when you’re back?”

“We’ll be doing enough calling soon enough.”

His frown was audible. I sniffled and sat up. “Let’s get a move on,” I said. “We’re supposed to pass by a river on our way down. Might be fun to dip our feet in.”

Which we did. We dipped our feet in and kicked splashes at each other. We tried to count the salmon and guess which ones were secretly gay. Well, I did. Jake insisted all salmon were bisexual. We agreed to disagree. On our way home, we stopped in that town. No wooden cutting boards, but we found a place that sold homemade ice cream. I took a picture of him licking his spoon and made it his new contact poster.

Ice cream Jake was staring at me now. He texted me: Made it in one piece, most moving boxes intact. Parents’ fighting minimal and hilariously obvious. Miss you already. See you in two weeks. I fucking love you.

I picked up the bottle of sunscreen, studying the front logo: a setting sun, a lonely palm tree. No hawks in sight. After a vigorous shake, a few drops splattered onto my hand. I rubbed them into my face. It may have been September, but nothing wrong with smelling like August for a little longer.

I picked up my phone, pressed the text box.

Miss you too. Have an amazing first day tomorrow. Call me when you’re done with classes, if you’re not too tired.

Twenty seconds later: I won’t be too tired.

And I assured myself then, with a full moon peeking in through my childhood bedroom window, with my class schedule loaded on my laptop, with the countdown until fall break already running on my phone, that I wouldn’t be too tired either. Sad, yes, but not tired. Not if he wasn’t.

Something funny happened towards the end of our hike. We’d been walking in silence for a while when we somehow attracted the attention of a bee. A big fuzzy one, a real bee’s bee. Jake must not have noticed until it gave a loud buzz, the bee equivalent of a throat clearing.

“Jesus fuck,” he muttered, quickening his pace. The bee made chase. It was a delicate dance: Jake trying to get away, but not move so fast as to cause the bee to attack in panic; the bee following close enough to remain in striking distance but not so close as to be easily swatted by the giant fleshy monsters who had walked by its hive.

I stepped between Jake and the bee.

“What are you doing?” he asked me through gritted teeth.

“Mediating,” I said, telepathically asking the bee to kindly shoo.

“Dude, that thing’s gonna sting you. Aren’t you scared?”

I smiled. The bee telepathically explained to me that it wasn’t interested in hurting us; it just wanted to make sure we left its honey alone.

“Nah,” I said. “It looks worse than it is.”

After a little more telepathic conversation, during which it complained about the restrictive aesthetics of the honeycomb structure, the bee flew back into the bushes.

Jake exhaled and we pressed on through the woods, as silent as we had been before our apian encounter, the only difference being his hand reaching behind him, gripping mine tight.