“Okay. Several times.”
“Exactly. Several times, and we haven’t know each other all that long.”
“Okay, then, what’s different about today?” And now I can hear the teacher in his voice. He sounds like he already has the answer.
I hop over a muddy patch on the trail. “I don’t know. No one else is watching?”
“I’m watching.”
I bite my lips to keep from smiling like a loon. For some reason, I like the sound of that way too much.
“And does that mean you never trip or stumble when you’re alone?”
“That’s a big no.” Even if Mica’s the only one who witnesses, I trip in my slippers. I bump doorways. I stumble over area rugs. All the time.
“So scratch that hypothesis.” He sounds so smug.
I summon all the snark. “Okay, professor, tell me what you think.”
“I’m not a professor,” he chuckles.
“Well, you’re a teacher, and you’re about to school me, so…”
Beau shrugs. “I could be wrong, but I think it has to do with hiking.”
I frown. “I’ve tripped and fallen on hikes before.”
“So have I,” he says. “It kind of comes with the territory, especially the more challenging the trail.”
“Well, then, what do you mean?”
“Ask yourself this. Do you trip or stumble on hikes as often as you do—” he sweeps his hand, gesturing at the wide world, “anywhere else?”
I stop cold.
Because the answer is no. I don’t. Yeah, I skid on loose rocks and step in holes when I’m hiking, but Beau is right. Everyone does. Sally does—no more or less than I do.
And it is less than when I’m anywhere else.
I stare at Beau, my mouth hanging open. “What the hell?!”
He’s grinning at me as if I’m his star pupil.
“But—But—what does that even mean?”
Now he’s beaming.
“It means,” he says, stepping closer and framing my shoulders in his hands, “Hiking is where you know how to be in your body.”
And it hits me. He’s absolutely right.
“I love hiking. I have loved it as long as I can remember,” I say, tingles of recognition running down my arms. “My dad used to take me.”
We didn’t have a lot of money, but walking in the woods is free. The memories wash over me, and I need to move. Keep moving. So we set off again. And it’s a good thing too. Mica’s far ahead of us on the trail.
“Here, boy,” I call. He jerks his head up from the clump of grass he’s sniffing and then bounds back toward us.
“Where did your dad take you?” Beau asks, his question both gentle and casual. It’s as if he knows that this butts up against painful territory, and he’s hinting we don’t have to go there if I don’t want to.
But, right now, I do. It feels safe.
“We lived just a few miles south of Beavers Bend State Park,” I explain. “Basically in the foothills of the Ouachita Mountains. I’ve been to Malibu. I’ve been to the Redwoods. I’ve hiked from Katadin to Hanover, New Hampshire. Beavers Bend is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”
I hear the tightness in my voice and swallow hard.
“Tell me about it,” he coaxes.
I glance up at Beau for just an instant because an instant is all I can manage, and his eyes are as gentle as his voice. And I still feel safe—even if my throat’s gone tight.
I clear it. “There’s Broken Bow Lake, which is like twenty miles long. It’s man-made from when they dammed the Mountain Fork River. There’s places where the water is as clear as the ocean. People even scuba dive.” I chuckle. “We never did, but I swam in it every chance I got. Do you ever go swimming in the river by your house.”
My question surprises him. “In the Vermilion? God, no.”
“Why not? What’s wrong with it? Are there alligators?” A thrill of terror goes through me.
“Yes, but that’s not why I don’t swim in it,” he says, making a sour face. “It’s muddy and dirty.”
“Muddy and dirty?” I tease.
“Dirty as in polluted.” His nostrils flare in apparent disgust. “Everything on our streets drains to the bayou. So every cigarette butt, plastic cup lid, and dirty diaper some couillon tosses out of his car window winds up in The Vermilion.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Oh, gross. And people still litter? Even knowing it washes into the river?”
Beau rolls his eyes. “Like they’re being paid to do it.” And before I can comment, he says, “But you were talking about hiking with your dad. I want to hear about that.”
Tingles trail down my back and shoulders.