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He raises his eyebrows.

“You were all cryptic and I didn’t know what I’d need. I have grass-fed beef sticks if I need a snack, nontoxic bug spray, mysandals with a copper grounding plug if I want different shoes—oh!” I lift the large straw hat. “I didn’t know if we would be in the sun...”

His eyes widen. “Not really, but a little. The hat seems a bit…large.” His teeth work over his bottom lip as though he’s physically fighting a smile from showing. “I have sunscreen.”

I scoff. “Do you know what they put in that stuff?”

At the question, he puffs out a laugh but doesn’t respond.

I take in the Jeep as he starts to drive—it’s very him. Casual. Fun. In the cup holder, there are toothpicks wrapped individually in clear plastic sleeves, a couple Lincoln Logs, butterfly clips, and three princess Band-Aids.

I pick one up; he notices. “For boo-boos,” he says with a small smile.

I nod, putting it back into the cup holder along with the rest of his Bo paraphernalia. Relics of life. Pieces of him.

Then, as if we’ve said all we need to say, we ride in silence as he drives us out of town and toward the mountains, the warm wind from all directions blowing our hair around.

When he parks at a trailhead, I wait for aGotcha!that never comes.

“A trail?” I ask, unbuckling.

“Mhm.” He grabs a backpack from the back seat and two water bottles. “I hike to church; didn’t I mention that?” he asks with mock confusion.

I climb out of my doorless seat and look around. “Like Machu Picchu?”

He laughs, says, “Something like that,” then tilts his head toward the trail, already walking.

I assess the situation. There are trees, but I can see on the trail there’s light shining through. Before leaving the Jeep—and my bag of stuff that can’t be locked in so I’m sure will be stolen—I grab my hat, securing it with the strings beneath my chin.

We’re quiet as we start. Finding a rhythm both with each other and the roots and rocks of the trail beneath the soles of our shoes. Big trees and boulders line the path on both sides. The smell is fresh, but also distinct. The color green if it had a scent. A nuanced combination of soil, leaves, and elevated air.

When we stop for water, Bo watches me with an uncomfortable intensity as I drink from one of the bottles, cicadas loudly buzzing in the summer air.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, self-conscious.

“What?” I demand, dropping my water bottle into the backpack.

“That hat is ridiculous,” he says.

“So is skin cancer,” I deadpan.

He makes a sound that’s softer than a laugh as we start to walk again.

After a bird sings a song for so long in the distance I wonder how its lungs have the capacity for such work, he says, “Why did you come into Libby’s the way you did?”

My mouth clamps shut, eyes glued to the ground.

“This is called sharing, Birdie. It’s whatfriendsdo.”

I pin him with a look but relent when I realize there’s nowhere for me to go to avoid this conversation.

“Fine.” I sigh heavily, looking anywhere but at him as I walk. “My thirty-seventh birthday has been a looming date on the calendar since my mom died. I know myself well enough to know that no matter what I’ve done to prepare for it, I’ll never stop believing it’s the year I’ll get cancer. The year I’ll die. So I told myself, fuck it, if this is the beginning of the end, for just once, I’m doing something that I never do.”

He huffs a laugh. “A one-night stand?”

“Sex.” The word pops out of my mouth like a jack-in-the-box and his step falters on the trail next to me.

“You don’t havesex?” If he’s trying to mask his shock, he fails. “Ever?”