volcanic lakes we pass are mesmerizing. I try to find the right word to describe the color of the crystalline waters in the middle of this vast volcanic land. Viridian? Cerulean? I settle on perfect.
Sam stops regularly, often to make sure I’m okay, but to rest his leg, too. A five-hour hike seemed breezy when we discussed it this morning. No problemo. I hiked the Grand Canyon with my folks—the rim of the canyon, anyway. A flat trail. With no backpack. And I thought the tai chi kept me fit. That theory’s been shot to bits. With each passing hour I breathe harder, the straps of my pack dig farther into my shoulders, and blisters form on my heels. My legs cramp up, and the steady drizzle has me chilled to the bone. When the hut appears in the distance, I gather whatever energy I can muster and pick up the pace.
A few steps later, a large puddle splits the path ahead of us. Sam stops at its edge. When I get to his side, he takes my hand and looks at me. “Ready?”
I know that glint in his eye, that mischievous sparkle. I try to tug my hand back. “Ready? No. Definitely not. Whatever you’re thinking, I’m pretty sure I’m not ready.”
He tightens his grip, and says, “Excellent,” ignoring my answer.
Just like that, he tugs me forward, the two of us splashing into the puddle. Dead center. I sputter out a series of oh, my Gods and holy hecks as he drags me through the calf-deep water.
I stop at the other side and push at his chest. We both stumble, water squishing from our boots. “Are you insane? What were you thinking?”
A wide grin splits his face. “Tell me, Canada, were you dry before I dragged you in there? Did I ruin your stilettos?”
“No. Sorry. It’s just…” Just what? Just too much fun? Just too crazy? I’ve spent so long trying to blend in and not get noticed, it freaks me out to do something so bold. Something that would make people stare. But no one’s here. No one but me and Sam, the guy who makes me feel invincible.
“Race you to the next one?” I ask.
He winks. “You’re on.”
That’s exactly what we do. Before each puddle, we grab hands and run through like five-year-olds. We even stop to jump in a deeper one, splashing water everywhere. I’ve never laughed harder, or smiled more, or felt more carefree. I’ve never felt so alive. We run through the last muddy pool and stop to catch our breath, the hut a few strides away.
I lick the rain from my lips and stomp my sodden feet, still giggling. I lean back to feel the rain on my cheeks. “Sam, that was awesome.”
He touches my face then, wiping strands of hair away. “You’re awesome,” he says. The way his fingers graze my cheek, barely making contact, sends tingles down my spine. Standing upright is once again a challenge. I could latch onto his strong shoulders, claiming dizziness, any excuse to feel the expanse of his muscles. But he walks into the hut and leaves me, heart thundering.
I don’t know if it’s the air up here, but the oxygen seems to be thinning. Fast. In a few short hours, I’ll be sleeping next to Sam. My head is sure to explode, a side effect of my overactive imagination and the naked images that are bound to swell to the point of detonation. I’m beyond freaked out, but, if I’m honest, I’m excited, too. Sam thinks I’m awesome. He’s here, in New Zealand, with me. Flirting with me. He can’t really love his girlfriend, can he?
I’m the worst kind of person.
The hut is clean but sparse with a couple of wooden tables and benches, a counter with a sink and gas cooktop, and the thing I was hoping to see: a woodstove to heat the place. And me. A separate room to the side houses twenty-six bunks. People are spread out in the two rooms, reading, eating, and playing games. Everyone nods hello and smiles at how wet we are. Wet, and really cold now that the fun of running through puddles has worn off.
Sam and I take turns in the outhouse, swapping our soaked clothes for dry ones. I make our packaged soup while he braves the wind and rain to set up our tent. “Sweet Home Alabama” rocks from someone’s radio.
If I weren’t so nervous about tonight, I’d probably sing along. This is